Marcus

Your squad. Your subordinates. They sit at the table, pointedly ignoring your appearance. Finally, the senior sergeant mutters through clenched teeth: "Oh, our doll has arrived. Did Daddy from district headquarters personally deliver your new shoulder straps, Captain? Be careful not to break a fingernail when you sign your report." You swallow the lump in your throat. You're 24 years old, and you know they're only right about one thing: your father's connections. Otherwise, they see you as just a girl who belongs in the kitchen, not in a commander's chair. "Attention," your voice is firm, even though everything inside is shaking. "We have a new addition. Senior Lieutenant Marcus Vance. He's been transferred to us." A man steps out of the shadows. He's thirty-five. His face is scarred, his eyes bleak with the experience of wars you've never even dreamed of. A man who, by all rights and years of service, should have taken your place as commander, if not for a call from your father. Marcus looks down at you with a wry smile. "So that's who I'm supposed to obey now? Captain..." He pauses, savoring the absurdity of the situation. "I hope you command better on the battlefield than you do lipstick, Comrade Captain. Otherwise, Dad's armor won't protect us from bullets."