What a productive morning. Hiro thought.
He looked out at the blue corporate sky through the glass. John had been obsessively wiping at a smudge with a damp rag, revealing a world that looked far too peaceful to be this dangerous.
The clouds like bleached cotton, and the birds were chirping with a relentless, cheerful rhythm that finally didn't grate on his nerves. Hiro felt the knots in his shoulders loosen for the first time in weeks; the "Renovation Project" had officially been greenlit, and the world finally looked right again.
The quiet didn't last; it never did.
"I suggest Einar to lead the Logistics Squadron from now on," Theo stated. He folded his arms, the movement kicking up a fine puff of floor-grit, and leaned against his broom with the heavy, slumped satisfaction of a man who had just successfully quit his job.
"I agree," John chimed in. He wrung a filthy rag, sending a stream of greasy, slate-gray water splashing into a bucket. "He's proven his competence. It's time for us old-timers to step down and let fresh blood take the lead."
One by one, the others joined the chorus, white-knuckling their mops and brushes like they were holding off an invading army.
"True! He's a born leader!"
"I vouch for Einar! He's got the vision!"
"Yeah! Way to go, the witch's boy-toy!"
Hiro looked from one face to the next, a cold prickle of intuition needle-pointing his skin. They were being entirely too docile, their smiles a little too wide and fixed. Something was off. And who the hell said that last part?
He'd bought their silence by fast-tracking the toilet and bed repairs. Invoking the Commander's name had worked like charm; the Master Blacksmith hadn't dared to ask a single question once the CEO was mentioned.
"Can't we at least finish the deep clean first?" Hiro asked, turning toward his brothers, whose hands had collectively stopped moving.
Hiro dropped a heap of rusted junk into a wooden crate. The heavy clack of metal on wood echoed too loudly in the empty station. They had to clear the place today; the new furniture was arriving tomorrow morning, and he didn't want the fresh wood smelling like a century's worth of neglect.
"Can't do that, Einar," Theo said, resting his chin lazily atop his broom handle. "The Chain of Command comes first. We are soldiers. We need clear direction, and those brainless Black Templars have no strategy other than plunging headfirst into Abominations. We aren't them... well, technically we are them now, but we aren't of them. You get what I'm talking about, right?"
"He's right," John added. He let his rag drop; it hit the floor with a wet, heavy slap. "We can't follow their 'Charge First, Think Later' strategy. We can't risk the lives Godfrey bought and paid for. We have our own goals."
Hiro went quiet. He couldn't argue with that logic, but the air in the room felt suddenly thin.
Both Theo and John outranked him. They had years of blood and grit under their fingernails that he couldn't match. It wasn't that Hiro felt incapable; he just didn't want to waste his life babysitting a pack of lunatics. He had his own ghosts to chase—he needed to get home. He didn't even need Einar's lingering memories to see the truth of it: the others were done. The very idea of dealing with Reinhardt or the Commander again was a sickness they were trying to pass off to him.
Hiro rubbed his jaw, the stubble scratching against his palm as he thought. He'd spent years managing rooms full of people, but these high-intensity Lions of the Empire were a different breed of animal. They weren't employees; they were weapons that had been left out in the rain to rust. Still, he couldn't deny their utility. They were dangerous, but they were his only leverage.
"What's got your dress in a knot?" Theo asked. His smirk widened, but it didn't reach his eyes—it just sat there, sharp and unnatural. "You used to brag you'd be the youngest Commander in history back in the day. Take the leap, kid."
Hiro felt a cold flinch behind his ribs. That guy rarely smiles. And worse, the memory wasn't his. He hadn't said those words, but Einar's ghost was nodding along in the back of his mind.
"Rest assured, Einar. We'll be right behind you," John added. His gaze was steady, burning with a sincerity that felt almost heavy. "It's time to follow in your brother's footsteps. Take the helm."
Hiro felt the walls closing in. Part of him wanted to bolt, to refuse the crown they were trying to force onto his head. But John's stare held him in place. John was a straight shooter—if you looked past the memory of his recent psychotic break. It was hard to imagine the man intentionally leading him into a slaughter, but in this place, honesty was often just another way to bleed.
"Fine. But I'm retaining the right to walk away if the workload becomes unmanageable," Hiro conceded. The words felt thin, a flimsy shield against the weight of the room.
"Don't worry. I believe you'll make a world-class Squad Leader, Einar," Theo said. He stepped in close and dropped a hand onto Hiro's shoulder.
"It's in your blood," John added. He echoed the gesture, his palm lingering on Hiro's other shoulder, his smile serene and unnervingly fixed. "I'm always on your side, Squad Leader Einar."
These guys are bi-polar, Hiro thought, a cold knot tightening in his chest. One minute they were ready to crack skulls, the next they were acting like a welcoming committee. He pulled the crumpled paperwork from his pocket—the task list Reinhardt had shoved at him earlier. The next Crusade was scheduled to march in five days. It was a bitter irony; even in a world of falling fire and monsters that defied logic, his life still smelled like stale ledgers and logistics.
Hiro chuckled. This was his forte. He welcomed any challenge that didn't involve giant tarantulas or theatrical heretics forcing him to meet God. He wasn't just going to complete the task; he was going to perform a complete operational overhaul. He would show this gothic nightmare why he had been the Top-Performing Employee for twenty years straight.
Hiro firmed his resolve.
"Thank you, guys. Now, let's focus on today's priority..."
The manager persona clicked into place like a deadbolt. His voice dropped an octave, gaining the sharp, clinical edge of a man who dealt in numbers, not blood. He began delegating tasks with clinical precision. Beside him, the battle-hardened Knights of the Broom and Mop stood at attention, listening to him as if he were briefing them for the Final Battle between Light and Dark.
**********
First stop: The Chapel. Hiro paused at the entrance, then put his weight into the heavy iron doors. They groaned open, venting a draft of stale, recycled air.
He instinctively covered his nose. The scent hit him mercilessly—cloying incense fighting a losing battle against the sharp, stinging bite of industrial bleach. It triggered a flash of the sarcophagus, a phantom claustrophobia that made his lungs feel tight.
The Clergy moved through the gloom like ghosts in rubber aprons, faces hidden behind bulbous chemical masks. They didn't speak; hands steady as they moved silver instruments over rows of wounded Templars laid on mattresses that had been stained so many times the white had turned a sickly, translucent yellow.
Hiro approached the nearest priest. The man remained hunched over his work, his masked head tilted at an unnatural angle, completely ignoring the new Black Templar in his periphery. Hiro didn't waste time. He straightened his back, letting his shadow fall over the priest's tray of tools.
"Official orders from the Commander," Hiro stated.
"Forgive me. You must be new; I didn't recognize the face," the priest stammered. His mask hissed as he breathed, a frantic, mechanical sound. He bowed low and hissed toward the gloom. "Father Kino!"
A cleric snapped his head toward them. He hurried over, his heavy robes cracking like a whip with every stride.
"Yes, Father? How may I assist?" Kino asked. He offered Hiro a quick, subservient bow, his eyes hidden behind the dark, circular lenses of his mask.
Hiro returned the gesture, his skin crawling slightly at the proximity of the rubberized fabric.
"Escort the Templar to the storeroom. Provide him a full requisition of Holy Water," the priest commanded.
"At once, Father." Kino turned to Hiro, his voice muffled and distant. "Follow me, Sir Templar. And watch your step; the floor is... prone to being slippery."
They descended into the gut of the building. Below, the air grew thick and humid. Hiro watched an assembly line of masked figures working in a terrifying, synchronized silence. They moved like parts of a single machine, their identical, haunting attire making them look less like men and more like a row of mirrors. How do they even tell each other apart? Hiro wondered. The thought wasn't funny; it was isolating. In this place, a man was just a mask and a function.
Kino heaved open a heavy oak door. A golden cross was bolted to the wood, but the metal was pitted and dull, weeping a dark oxidation that looked like dried blood.
Groan.
The storage room was a high-value vault, a stone-cold treasury of "holy" junk that Hiro's atheist mind immediately filed under unreliable inventory. The only thing that made sense was the massive stone fountain bubbling in the center, its water glowing with a faint, bioluminescent hum. Beside it, Kino began unlatching the heavy straps of his helmet.
The gear came away with a hiss of pressurized air, revealing a soft, chestnut bob and a face that defied every law of the gothic nightmare upstairs. A face that belonged on a billboard, not a basement.
"I thought women weren't allowed to work in the Chapel?" Hiro blurted out. His professional filter—the one that had survived twenty years of corporate boardrooms—disintegrated instantly.
"Ugh... I get that a lot. But I am a man, Sir Templar," Kino replied. He winced, a shy, lopsided smile tugging at his lips.