Edit: A huge thank-you to Stonegnome for pointing out the lack of date and planet. Unlike my other BattleTech fics, I had intended to specifically include this information.

Idlewind, Smoke Jaguar OZ

August 13th, 3059

Lukas stood waiting by the gantry idly as the dropship slowly consumed the line of vehicles approaching. His only armament was a laser pistol and a hunting knife. He was a MechWarrior, but right now all the 'Mechs were allocated to the "good" Warriors.

He was a tall man with dark skin and strong features: the kind of man that everyone ought to look up to in both the literal and metaphoric sense. Though he carried himself with pride, always keeping his eyes level and his shoulders squared, he had little reason to be proud. Many of his comrades were giants who towered about him by a third of a meter, thus looking down on him in the literal sense. Almost everyone looked down on him metaphorically. At thirty-six years, he was far from old, but he was moving further and further away from young. He should have been considered to be in his prime, but instead he was branded solahma.

He had lost none of his skill since the day he first became a MechWarrior; he had only gained more experience. However, that seemed to matter little to those doling out the assignments. The "good" MechWarriors were about ten to fifteen years younger than him, and had that much less experience. So, here he was standing guard, (more as a token than anything else), while some wet-behind-the-ears sib brat was off in his 'Mech. It was ironic to think that ten or fifteen years ago, he was the sib brat looking down on some "old" Warrior in derision. Back then, he never would have thought that anyone who lived past thirty was worth much on the battlefield. Back then, he believed only what he was told to believe.

He still believed what he was told to believe; anything else was to be chalcas.

"Lucky!"

The solahma man turned and looked up with half-lidded eyes at an approaching giant. "Stop calling me that, Blake," he grunted. Few MechWarriors dared to tell an Elemental what to do. Even bloodnamed Warriors could fall victim to the ire of a Clan giant in the Circle of Equals. Lukas, on the other hand, did not care enough to worry about getting his head smashed in.

The younger, but significantly larger man stopped about a half a meter away and looked down at him. "But it suits you."

"My name is Lukas, not 'Lucky'. Only wet-nosed children give each other nicknames," he muttered, now watching the convoy intently. He hoped that if he ignored Blake long enough, he would leave.

The Elemental heaved a defeated sigh. He was not about to leave, but he had more important things to do than argue with an old MechWarrior. "Well, to the point," he said. "They are coming for us…"

"Those freebirth fools?" Lukas shook his head dismissively. "They only caused as much damage as they did because we were caught off-guard. This is going to be a short fight."

Blake looked less sure than his older comrade. "Lukas… I… It may be a short fight, but…"

"You dare to suggest we would lose?"

"…Neg."

Lukas rolled his tired shoulders a little and adjusted the holster which held his sidearm.

"But Lukas…"

"What?"

"They have been hurting us."

The older man was about to reply to the doubtful Warrior, when his comm crackled with a most unpleasant static. The tired and somewhat gravelly voice of an older woman added to the altogether grumbley noise. "Lukas!" she barked, "start cleaning up! We are launching early."

"Aff, ovkhan," he replied. "What is the timeframe?"

"Five minutes."

"Ovkhan, I do not believe that is enough time for every--"

"Then we leave them behind!" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "The SLDF is mauling us…" The comm went silent, without so much as the annoying snap of static.

"…Star Captain?" After a few moments passed and he still received no reply, Lukas looked up at his companion. They both knew what this meant. "Help me get everyone moving."

As he predicted, five minutes was hardly enough of a window for a proper launch. There was nothing Lukas could do but sit and wait for two more minutes while everyone and everything was loaded into the ship's bay, and many of the civilians would have to be left behind. That hardly mattered to a Warrior, though; the lower Castes existed only to serve the needs of the Warriors who rules the Clan. Besides, the freebirths attacking them would do nothing to harm civilians, so long as they remained peaceable. A few laborers and technicians were hardly a considerable loss. As the Remembrance said:

Five are our foundation,

one above the rest.

Four are the steppingstones,

the fifth the pinnacle.

The laborer, the technician, the scientist, the merchant,

these are the steppingstones

to the warriors' place.

Lukas mused on this, watching the activity on the ground below. The technicians and laborers swarming around at the base of the dropship likely had no idea that it was going to leave without them. He figured that they would probably panic like a bunch of sheep when it lifted off, and then throw themselves at the mercy of the approaching enemies. Such were the lower Castes. Even trueborns who had washed out of the Warrior Caste into some lower position had little more backbone than the freeborns. Such was he told to believe. Dutifully, he believed it.

All that mattered was that the MechWarriors, Elementals, and Pilots were all on board and the ship's hold was stuffed to the brim with equipment and ammo. That was the most important thing, because like rabbits, there were plenty of civilians.

Still within the lift-off window, a trio of severely bloodied 'Mechs appeared cresting a low hill. In the lead was a Hellbringer flanked on each side by a Mad Dog and a Linebacker, respectively. The Night Gyr which led this star and his own was noticeably absent. The second Linebacker was also missing. This confirmed his suspicions as to why the Star Captain never replied to him. She never had the chance.

He barked some orders down to what laborers and techs were inside the bay, commanding them all to clear for the surviving members. His knuckles turned pale as he gripped the handrail in front of him. The fearsome Hellbringer, which well deserved its namesake, limped up the ramp painfully, almost dragging its mangled right leg. Just as it pulled itself over the crest of the ramp, its left gun took a sudden, severe angle towards the ground as if it would fall. The MechWarrior inside compensated for the weight shift just in time to avoid going belly-down onto the floor. After a moment to collect herself, she turned and slowly limped into the holding racks. While the Mad Dog's slim, distinctive profile made it recognizable from a distance, up close it looked like a junkyard on chicken legs. It's torso was stripped clean of armor and its left missile rack was mashed. Although it did not truly limp, it kept an odd gait that suggested its gyro had been damaged. Every time it took a little jerking, jolting step, bits and pieces of shrapnel and shell casings fell from the hole cleaved in its torso. The Linebacker was the better off of the three-- probably due to its speed--though there was a large scar on its back.

Lukas looked up at the clock, and noted that there were but a few more seconds before lift-off. He relaxed his grip on the handrail, then seized it again and held fast. The magnetic soles on his boots would keep him from helplessly flying around the hangar once in orbit, but the rough ascent could knock him around quite a bit.

The dropship's bay doors groaned in metal agony as they closed. The view outside became increasingly slender, shutting out the scene of the panicking civilians outside. The crowd of those abandoned began to cry out, probably hoping the ship had merely forgotten and did not mean to leave them. Soon, however, the sliver of outside disappeared and the roar of the engines smothered the civilians' cries.