Fueled by Fury Book 1: Callsign: Talon

It’s not only brawn that makes a good soldier.

I step through the colossal doors of the Wolverines Recruitment Center, and it feels as though every last decibel of the bustling Avalon Prime streets falls away behind me. Suddenly, I’m in a shadowy tunnel, steel walls soaring overhead like a fortress swallowing the day. 

My stomach twists at the sight of the Federation’s most infamous insignia: the snarling wolverine head, teeth bared, stamped across the wall in raised metal. The emblem has haunted me since I was eleven years old when I first heard stories of unstoppable mech battalions storming entire moons. Now I’m here, trying to join them. A flicker of nerves dampens the back of my neck.

Tabitha’s softly modulated voice, only audible through the small earpiece tucked under my collar, breaks the tension.

“Relax,” she insists, the faint whir of digital static underscoring her tone. “Don’t let them spook you. I’d bet a case of coolant rods you’ve got the highest simulator scores in this whole building.”

She’s right. My aptitude scores on advanced mech sims blew everyone else’s out of the water. Still, the Wolverines are rumored to weigh brute strength as heavily as mental acuity. That’s a problem for me, considering my lanky arms and barely acceptable push-up count. I blow out a breath and force a confident grin, refusing to look at my reflection on the polished steel floor.

I keep walking, my boots echoing. The corridor widens until it spills into the main lobby, where even more recruits huddle by wide holo displays that cycle through propaganda. Heroic Wolverines in towering mechs stomping out pirates and mad warlords, saving entire planets.

A murmur of low chatter rises and falls beneath the hum of the ventilation systems. People trade rumors about who has soared through the screening process and who’s been kicked out on their butts.

I do my best to look calm, but tension curls around my spine. If I pass muster today, I’ll advance as a prospective pilot in the Wolverines’ ranks. I can almost taste the vindication of proving my brainy approach to mechs is worth something.

“Hey, watch your step,” Tabitha teases as I nearly collide with a scowling, muscle-bound recruit lugging a gear bag. I swerve aside at the last second.

He scowls. “Eyes forward, twig.” Then, he stomps off, joining a squad of similarly built recruits who shoot me unimpressed looks.

I swallow an embarrassed retort, but my cheeks burn. I’m probably the skinniest guy in this center. If I let it get to me, I’ll unravel before I meet Staff Sergeant Korr. And that meeting is all that matters. Korr, I’ve heard, can override any test scores if he finds the candidate unworthy. The rumor is he’s as mean as they come.

A female staffer in a crisp uniform stops me at a podium, scanning my data chip. The following beep sets my teeth on edge until she finally waves me past. My heart thunders. This is it.

I push open the next set of doors and enter a cavernous evaluation hall with a polished floor gleaming beneath an overhead panel of strobing lights. A line of recruits waits to be called up one by one. I glance around, trying to find someone who looks friendlier than the stoic guards posted on either side of the hall.

I spot her near the back. A young woman wearing a hooded jacket, a single patch on the sleeve suggesting she’s a tech whiz. She cups her datapad closely as she watches new arrivals. Another staffer calls a name, and the next recruit hustles into a smaller chamber. Each time a name is called, the entire hall hushes. It’s like a factory line, churning out tryouts one after another.

“Excuse me,” I mumble as I step behind the next recruit and take my place in line.

Tabitha’s voice crackles in my ear again, protective and confident. “Remember, you beat half these muscle-lumps by an absurd margin on the advanced targeting sims. You’ve got the brains. Don’t let the biceps around here fool you into thinking that’s all they want.”

I inhale slowly, letting the smell of disinfectant and hot plasma coils, the trademark odor of military buildings, anchor me. My pulse steadies. She’s right. I belong here as much as anyone. In fact, I might belong here more if the rumors that the Wolverines prioritize cunning are true.

The line moves, and I shuffle forward until I reach a metal bench. My calves press to the cool edge as I try not to fidget, passing the time by scanning the overhead readout listing test results for each new pilot. I see strings of mid-level reaction times and mechanical aptitudes. I know from my acceptance letter that my sim stats are far above average, but they remain hidden until the final exam ends.

Finally, my name booms from an unseen speaker. “David Wayne.”

A door slides open, revealing a short corridor leading to a bare briefing room. My heart rattles as I step through. Sweat itches along my temples despite the building’s crisp air conditioning.

“Begin final review with Staff Sergeant Korr,” an automated voice instructs.

Staff Sergeant Korr. The legend, or the terror, depending on who’s telling the story.

I ease into the room. It’s vacant except for a wide durasteel desk, a single overhead light, and rows of towering shelves stuffed with munitions manuals and metal tubes that might be spare rifle barrels. There’s a hush so profound my own breath sounds absurdly loud. Faintly, I can feel my pulse in my neck.

“Step forward,” someone barks from behind the desk.

Suddenly, I spot him. Korr, a broad-shouldered man in a pressed uniform, hair shaved close, rivulets of old scars marking one temple. He barely looks up from the datapad in his hands.

I force my posture straight. My boots squeak on the floor, and I present the identification card for final verification. Korr takes it with a flick of disdain.

He meets my eyes, then sweeps his gaze down from my scrawny arms to the slight slump in my shoulders. My gut twists. It’s like he’s waiting for me to break.

His lip curls back in a sneer. “This is a joke, right?” He ignored the formal greeting I was about to give.

Tabitha shifts in my ear, voice low. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

Korr tosses my ID onto the desk. “You look like a ten-year-old trying to enlist on a dare.” He grunts, stowing the datapad aside. “You want to drive a mech? My granny’s got more muscle on her than you.”

Hot, embarrassing anger pools in my chest. It’s everything I feared. Everyone else in line is built like a soldier. Me, I own a hundred simulator trophies and a brain stuffed with custom AI code, but my biceps look like twigs.

Tabitha mutters darkly, “He’s a real charmer. You sure you don’t want me to splice his training sim to meltdown levels? I can make him dance a jig.”

I swallow, willing my voice not to tremble. “Staff Sergeant, my simulator records are top-tier. My mechanical aptitude is in the ninety-ninth percentile. If you’ll check—”

He cuts me off with a derisive snort. “Sure, you can fiddle with circuits and push simulator buttons. But out there?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, probably meaning the battlefield. “We need men and women who can handle themselves under real fire. Not some scrawny whelp who can’t even do a single pull-up.”

I bristle. “I passed the minimum fitness threshold.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, sure, you squeaked by, but that threshold’s an afterthought for the Wolverines. We need warriors, boy. Not nerds with illusions of grandeur.”

My anger flares inside my skull. My fists clamp tight at my sides. I can almost feel Tabitha’s tension as if the AI’s code bristles in unison with me.

Korr waves a dismissive hand. “Come back when you’ve grown a mustache,” he adds. “Heck, eat something. Bulk up. Move out of your mama’s basement. You can’t handle the recoil of a standard Wolverine mech, let alone the real beasts. Next.”

He’s done with me. He’s actually done with me in seconds. My sim scores, my mechanical genius, every bit of effort I’ve poured into this dream, discarded because I don’t look the part.

Tabitha’s voice morphs into a hiss. “I’ve got at least twelve ways to make him regret everything he said,” she threatens. “Just say the word. I’ll scramble his personal training logs so it looks like he’s never done more than moderate yoga.”

A strangled laugh almost escapes me, but I swallow it bitterly. I want to punch the desk or at least fling a scathing remark. But an older part of me, the part that’s used to being underestimated, merely stands there, humiliated.

I’m rooted to the spot, face burning. Staff Sergeant Korr shifts forward, fists on the desk, leaning in like he’s only half an inch from spitting in my face. “We’re done here, twig boy. If you’re not out of this building in one minute, I’ll have security drag you out.”

My first impulse is to argue, to defend my worth, but words jam in my throat. Tabitha feels like she’s buzzing in my ear, as though she can’t fathom me letting the insult go.

I straighten, forcing my stiff legs to carry me away from the desk. Each step feels like I weigh a thousand pounds. It’s not only the disappointment. It’s the sense of betrayal. The Wolverines hold themselves up as the pinnacle of skill, claiming only the best and brightest can join. But the best and brightest apparently need bulging muscles and a scowl.

As I exit, I spot a faint figure drifting behind me, the same young woman in line from earlier. She has a calm, attentive look, though there’s tension in the way she fiddles with the patch on her jacket. We briefly lock eyes, and she tries a small, encouraging smile.

When I step from the evaluation chamber, my breath feels ragged. The air out here is cooler, but my cheeks are still on fire. I slow down, pressing a hand against the corridor wall to keep from doubling over.

Behind me, the door slides open, and I hear the faint rustle of someone else approaching.

“Hey,” a soft voice states.

I turn, shocked to see the same young woman. The patch on her jacket sports a stylized wrench or circuit design, maybe a tech specialist emblem. She glances around to make sure no staffers are eavesdropping. Her features are earnest.

“Sorry,” she adds quickly, “I don’t mean to intrude, but I heard how he spoke to you. That was…uncalled for.”

She looks about my age, maybe a little older, with steady eyes that tell me she’s used to reading complicated schematics or lines of code. “I wanted to say,” she continues, pausing as if searching for the right words. “I saw your simulator stats. They’re impressive. Really impressive. Don’t let him get to you.”

It’s a simple kindness, but it slides between my ribs like a gentle balm over a fresh wound. My shoulders sag. I release a trembling breath. “Thanks,” I manage. “I appreciate that.”

The weight of humiliation still clings to me, but something about her sincerity stirs an embarrassed warmth in my chest. I want to ask her name or at least how she found out about my sim performance. Yet before I can muster the nerve, she nods, giving me a look of plain solidarity. She briefly squeezes my arm, then steps forward as a staffer calls her name.

I stand there, listening to the automated halls beep and hiss, the clang of boots echoing, recruits passing by. Beyond the final exit doors, daylight glimmers, my escape route from this fiasco.

Tabitha breaks the silence, her digital voice subdued now. “You good?”

I swallow thickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

The scorn, the laughter, the sting of rejection, it all cycles through my head. Yet beneath it swells an unexpected heat—anger. Anger at being dismissed. Anger at a system that equates big with better. Anger that these people would mock me without acknowledging a lifetime’s worth of mechanical brilliance.

I slip out into the open sunlight, the blazing gold of Avalon Prime’s midday sky stinging my eyes. The capital city’s spires loom overhead, reflecting polished windows that flash with starbursts of brilliance. Hover transports zip by on the busy lanes, and the staccato hiss of pneumatic brakes crackles across the plaza. People jostle in crowds around the building’s courtyard. A few recruits in pristine workout clothes lounge near the steps, glancing at me as I pass.

I make an effort to stride steadily, chin high, ignoring their curious looks.

Tabitha’s voice is gentler than before. “I’m sorry, David. You could always—”

I cut her off with a murmur. “No. I’m done slinking away with my tail between my legs.”

Something tells me that David isn’t going to take no for an answer. Find out if he makes his dreams a reality on February 10th, when Fueled by Fury: Callsign: Talon is released. Head over to Amazon and pre-order it today.