“New Samurai change gimmicks and style at the drop of a hat. I think it’s because they’re still in survival mode. The older ones… the ones with a gimmick or look that hasn’t changed? They’re the ones to look out for. They are more likely to come after you if you try and use their looks for products without their permission. In this course, I will be sharing how to protect yourself and your business from retribution from a vengeful Samurai.”

  ~ Dexter Lume, in his last presentation before receiving retribution from a vengeful Samurai

  “Identify yourself!” A nervous voice rang out from behind the barricade.

  “Um, I’m Ambrosia, your friendly neighborhood baker and part time samurai.” I said, hesitantly.

  “Samurai?” The voice said. “The Captain wants to see you in the command tent right away, ma’am.”

  That took me by surprise. I hadn’t expected anyone was looking for me. Well, other than Clara, maybe.

  “Is the Captain looking for me specifically?” I asked as I moved up to the entrance. Behind it was someone who barely looked like they were out of high school. Way too young for this.

  The guard shook his head as he said, “No ma’am. She left orders to send any Samurai to the command tent.” He moved back to let me through the small opening and into what was essentially a kill box.

  As I cleared the barricade, the FOB stretched out before me. Orderly rows of tents alongside a well-organized motorpool. Opposite that was a row of trailers capped with a mobile command center. The guard pointed to the large central tent. “The Captain is in there, ma’am.”

  That’s twice now he’d called me “ma’am.” I wasn’t old enough to be called that.

  Squads of well disciplined soldiers marched by as I stepped towards the command tent. It was a large and imposing tent in the center of everything. Weaving through the soldiers, I felt very out of place. Sure, I was once a soldier, but that was a long time ago. I was just a baker now. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true anymore, but still.

  As I approached the tent, I noticed the constant flow of traffic in and out. As I attempted to enter, I was stopped by a soldier in a clean and pressed uniform. This had to be an aide of some kind. He didn’t even have anything other than a pistol on his hip. “State your business,” he said briskly.

  “Uh, I was told that the Captain wanted to see any Samurai that showed up?” I looked past him into the open tent. Inside was a gaggle of PMC officers clustered around a large table that I couldn’t quite make out.

  The aide gave me a quick once over. Apparently, he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. “You don’t look like a Samurai.”

  With a sigh, I turned my attention back to him. However, it was my trusty AI that I went to for some help. “Wing, can you help me out here?”

  Hmmmm. I’ve got just the thing for this.

  The soldier looked at me in confusion moments before a small something materialized out of thin air, dropping neatly into my hand. A faint scent of baking spices, cinnamon, nutmeg, maybe even a hint of clove, drifted through the air.

  I blinked. I hadn’t expected Wing to give me an actual challenge coin. “Show-off,” I muttered under my breath. He didn’t even put it in a box so I could open a small little present.

  The coin itself was a gorgeous matte black, the edges pulsing a soft neon pink. One side showed a rolling pin crossed with a chef’s knife, the other an old-school atomic symbol like something out of a retro science textbook.

  I held it out to the soldier and pressed it into his hand. “Hope this is proof enough.”

  He froze, the soft glow reflected in his eyes. “Apologies, Samurai,” he said quickly, voice tightening with something that might’ve been embarrassment. “Didn’t mean to question you.” He tried to return the coin.

  “Keep it,” I said. It was only a point and I’m not sure what I would have done with it otherwise.

  He slipped the coin into his pocket before gesturing. “Please follow me.”

  We moved into the command tent, where a massive holotable was revealed to be what everyone seemed to be paying attention to. On it, a raised map of the city sprawled across its surface in shifting reds, yellows, and greens. Active combat zones and danger markers blinking like open wounds.

  I saw my city laid bare before me, bleeding.

  At the head stood a woman with a commander’s posture and the thousand-yard stare of someone running on caffeine and adrenaline. Her armor was scuffed, hair pinned back in a messy bun, and a voice that was low but sharp enough to cut glass.

  “Report.”

  “Samurai, reporting” my escort said quickly. “As ordered, Ma’am.”

  Her eyes flicked to me, scanning up and down before narrowing slightly. “Name?”

  “Amby.”

  “Designation?”

  “Still breathing? Otherwise, I’ve got nothing.”

  That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t ease the exhaustion that creased her face. A sigh of relief escaped her before she continued. “Good. We’re stretched thin and losing ground faster than we can retake it. You picked a hell of a time to show up, Samurai.”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t like I actually knew where I was going. I’d been winging it so far.

  She gestured to a glowing cluster on the map, an old apartment block highlighted in deep red. “We’ve got a shelter here. It went dark an hour ago, and scans are showing heavy Anthesis movement. No signs of hive activity though.”

  I could hear the relief in her voice at that.

  “I’d like you to assist Bravo Team” she continued. “They’re staging near the east gate. They’ll be clearing the building and confirming if there are any survivors.”

  I nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. Search and rescue with a side of fighting. Today was certainly a day of firsts for me. “Understood. I’ll need to grab some gear first. And a place to change.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She gave a curt nod as if she had expected this. “Armory trailer’s two rows down from the med station. The Suppo will get you squared away. Your squad leaves in twenty.”

  “Understood.” I think I even managed to sound somewhat competent with that.

  As I turned to go, her voice followed, quieter, but not soft. “Samurai.”

  I paused and glanced back.

  “Don’t die. Makes the rest of us look bad.”

  I smiled, more nerves than confidence. “I’ll try, Captain.”

  Then, I stepped through the thrown back flaps of the tent and back into the light of day. My pulse quickened as I spotted the row of supply trailers ahead. Right next to a pair of large white trailers with giant red crosses on the side stood a set of three trailers that had the words “Supply” stenciled on their sides.

  Moving quickly, I located the PMC’s Supply Officer amid the trailers, clipboard in hand as he conducted what looked like an inventory of weapons in marked crates. I explained what’s going on and what I needed. Armor and weapons. He gave me a look that said he didn’t have time for this, but he still directed me to a trailer with instructions to take what I needed.

  If they were offering, who was I to turn down free gear?

  I swung the door open and blinked against the glare. The armory trailer was spotless. The smell of solvent and gun oil hit first, followed by the low hum of the overhead lights. Rows of guns lined one wall, everything from sidearms to heavy machine guns, all strapped in place like they were ready for inspection. Whoever maintained this setup had military in their blood.

  Grenades sat stacked in labeled crates, neat enough to make any quartermaster weep. Beside them, a rack of knives gleamed under the lights. Practical and balanced, but still beautiful in their own way. The other half of the trailer was nothing but gear: vests, helmets, harnesses, and enough tactical fashion to make a mall ninja faint.

  I let out a low whistle. “Guess this is what happens when you give a logistics officer OCD and a budget.”

  Still, the joke didn’t land even with myself. The butterflies in my stomach were giving me a command performance as I scanned the racks. This felt like a point of no return. I wouldn’t be hiding behind an apron or on the other side of a counter. It was just me, the weapons, and whatever the hell was waiting for us in that building.

  “Alright, Amby,” I muttered. “Let’s see if you still remember how to be a soldier.”

  While I was trying to get my nerves under control, Wing seemed to be offended by the mundane offerings found in the trailer.

  While this equipment is suitable for a run-of-the-mill PMC, I can offer you better equipment that can, and will, last longer. Plus mine comes with RGB.

  Wing, as always, was there to tempt me. And to help me survive, but it seemed like temptation was his current instrument of choice. And it was working.

  “You know what, sure,” I said with a shrug. “What did you have in mind?”

  For starters, the Class I Armored Clothing offers comfortable clothes with better protection than this tacti-cool nonsense. For weapons, if you’re still interested in knives, we can look at standard melee weapons or combine that with a cooking implements catalog for a chef’s knife with monomolecular edges. Knives so sharp, they cut themselves.

  A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I said “And did you have a style in mind already?”

  Without any audible response, my augs lit up with an image of me but… I looked badass. A sleek jacket, fresh boots, and hell, even a brace of knives. Honestly, it was enough to inspire confidence, if not competence.

  “You do know how to impress a girl,” I muttered, as I looked at the rotating image. However, it felt like something was missing.

  “Wing, I think I want to keep my identity as Amby the Samurai separate from Amby the Baker. Which might be a bit hard if I’m running around with my rainbow hair on display. Can I add something to cover it up? And maybe a mask as well?”

  Adding a cowl with a built-in mask is not a problem. We can look at additional disguise options later. As he said this, the image shifted to show my signature hair hidden under a loose black cowl with a mask that shielded my face. I looked like what I imagined a Samurai was supposed to.

  I let out a low whistle. “That looks perfect. How much will it cost me?”

  For the catalogs, clothing, and weapons, it’ll be 239 points. 240 if you want RGB threading in the jacket.

  That was a lot more than I’d ever spent in one go. Or in total, I guessed. Granted, I’d mostly been buying ammo and this was a full upgrade with free makeover. “Can we make the belt a bit thicker and add slots to hold some extra magazines?”

  Not a problem. That’ll bump your total to 242 points for everything.

  I chewed on my lip for a moment, indecisive. Fuck it. Might as well spend the points while I’ve got them and can spend them.

  With a nod, I gave Wing the go-ahead. “Let’s do it.”

  I watched my point drop down to 490 as two large boxes appeared next to me. A grin tugged at my lips when I opened them and saw what was waiting for me inside.

  The armory trailer door creaked open, as a line of harsh white light spilled into the camp beyond. The steady hum of generators replaced the soft buzz of the fluorescent lighting. Soldiers moved around the base with practiced rhythm as they checked weapons, swapped jokes, and sipped bitter coffee from metal mugs.

  And then I stepped out.

  My new gear caught the light revealing a vibrant neon pink jacket that faded to black at sleeves that stopped by my elbows and the hem. The under-armor clung beneath it like a second skin. Smooth, dark, and uncomfortably intimate, a reminder of just how exposed protection could make you feel.

  The hexweave jacket shimmered faintly, tiny refractive threads subtly shifting through hints of blue and violet like heat mirages. It stopped at my waist, shorter and sharper than I’d expected, hugging close enough to move with me. Reinforced knee-high combat boots grounded my stance, silent and sure on the metal ramp, boot knives tucked into the sides.

  For a heartbeat, it felt like the entire camp noticed me for the briefest of moments.

  Then everyone drifted back to their work, and the world moved on. The noise of… well, everything filled in around me again. Generators, radio chatter, the steady mechanical heartbeat of a war machine in motion.

  I glanced down at myself. The armor fit perfectly. Snug and light, but somehow I still felt like I was wearing someone else’s skin. I ran my hand along the hexweave. Soft, responsive, and alive with potential. This made me feel powerful, but it didn’t stop the thread of nerves mixed with an undercurrent of fear that was knotted around my gut..

  Statistically, Wing said, his tone maddeningly calm, you are approximately seventy-three percent more likely to survive this encounter now that you are no longer wearing civilian attire.

  “That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”

  Incorrect. It was reassurance. A beat. And an observation: you look competent. Intimidating, even.

  I huffed out a short laugh. “I’ll take intimidating.”

  It pairs well with terrified. Many great warriors begin that way.

  “Comforting, Wing.” I said, my tone dry as I looked around.

  You’re welcome.

  I exhaled slowly, fingers finding the cowl’s edge.

  “Okay… maybe it’s time I finished my glowup.”

  I pulled the cowl up as it swallowed the stray light that caught my hair. The mask was next, as it concealed the lower half of my face before hardening to keep its shape. For a heartbeat, I wasn’t the nervous baker or the wandering newbie anymore. Just the silhouette of something potentially deadlier.

  I adjusted the jacket one last time, squared my shoulders, and whispered, “Alright, Wing. Let’s see if I can actually do this.”

  An admirable hypothesis, he said. Let’s collect some data.

  And with that, I stepped fully into the camp, the living heartbeat of the war. One part baker, one part Samurai, and entirely myself.

  Discord for that!