### — Part 1: The Last Days of Peace
Kael woke before dawn. The chill of early morning seeped through his thin shirt as he stepped barefoot onto the rough wooden floor of the farmhouse. Outside, the horizon was still a soft blur, a promise of light yet to come.
He moved quietly, careful not to wake his parents or younger sister. In the kitchen, the faint scent of brewing coffee mingled with the lingering aroma of freshly baked bread from the night before. Kael poured himself a small cup, savoring the bitter warmth as his mind flicked to the long day ahead.
The farm was a patchwork of fields and barns, stretching wide under the pale sky. Today's work was simple but unforgiving: repairing the irrigation system damaged during last week's storm.
Kael pulled on his worn leather gloves and stepped outside. The earth smelled rich and damp, the mud clinging to his boots as he crossed the yard. The rhythmic chirping of crickets faded as the rooster's crow announced the dawn, and the distant hum of a tractor stirred to life.
The sun began its slow climb, casting golden rays over the furrows. Sweat soon beaded on Kael's forehead as he knelt beside a broken pipe, his fingers nimble from years of fixing farm equipment. With practiced care, he replaced the cracked seal, ensuring the flow would return to thirsty crops.
Between tasks, Kael paused to wipe dirt from his brow, eyes tracing the horizon beyond the fields — where mountains met sky, hazy and distant. He thought about the life ahead, about dreams he barely dared voice. Would he ever leave this place? Could he imagine a future beyond soil and seasons?
The hours slipped by in steady labor, broken only by the occasional call from his mother to remind him to drink water. By midday, the sun burned hot, and Kael sought shade beneath the barn's eaves. He watched as a hawk circled above, wings spread wide, effortless.
For a moment, Kael envied that freedom before heading back to work.
---
### — Part 2: Piloting the Steel Giant
The barn doors creaked open, revealing the hulking frame of the GM unit resting in the shadows. Unlike the bulky war machines of legend, this GM had been stripped down and modified for civilian use — but it was still a mobile suit, and still required a pilot's touch.
Kael climbed the rusty ladder to the cockpit hatch, the familiar hiss of hydraulic servos greeting him as he settled into the cramped seat. The worn controls gleamed under the dim light, their tactile switches and joysticks a far cry from the sleek consoles of modern battle units — but to Kael, they felt like home.
With practiced ease, he powered the GM online. The cockpit hummed with life as the HUD flickered to life, overlaying vital information on the cracked viewport. The bulky mech rumbled as its servos whined, and Kael guided it forward into the open farmyard.
---
The GM's movements were deliberate but cumbersome — designed originally for battle, its heavy armor and weapon mounts replaced by farming attachments: a powerful plow arm, a hydraulic loader, and a water hose for irrigation.
Piloting the mobile suit was a delicate dance. Too fast, and the fragile attachments could be damaged; too slow, and the day's work would drag on forever. Kael's hands danced over the controls, expertly balancing throttle and hydraulics as the GM trundled across the field.
---
Sweat trickled down Kael's temple as he guided the mobile suit to a patch of stubborn earth, lowering the plow arm. The heavy steel blade bit into the soil with a deep rumble, breaking the ground for the seeds that would soon follow.
As the GM labored, Kael's mind wandered to the distant rumble of war machines in training grounds miles away. His hands tightened around the joysticks — this was practice, yes, but the battlefield would demand even more precision, speed, and instinct.
---
He finished his work for the morning, powering down the GM with a satisfying clunk. But beneath the surface, Kael knew this peaceful farm life was about to be shattered.
---
Perfect! Let's incorporate that line into the scene with the exact phrasing you've given, anchoring the draft with a sense of immediacy and realism. Here's the updated portion of **Part 3**, including your specified draft sentence, and still staying well over 500 words:
---
### — Part 3: The Letter of Summons**
The afternoon air had finally started to cool as Kael sat on the front porch, his sleeves rolled up and forearms dusted in black grease. The last light of the day washed across the endless rows of Dustpine wheat, their golden stalks dancing under the soft hum of a distant windmill. Behind him, the old GM unit sat idle in its field dock, its once-military armor faded to a civilian tan, now repurposed for farming tasks.
Kael sipped lukewarm water from a metal flask, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. The day's repairs had gone longer than expected, mostly due to a stubborn hip actuator on the GM that kept locking during turns. He had finally jury-rigged it using a repurposed coolant coil and some creative soldering. It wasn't elegant, but it worked.
Inside the farmhouse, his mother was prepping dinner — stewed carrots and marrow potatoes — the smell wafting through the cracked window. The old place smelled like oil, clay, and cornmeal — like home.
He had just leaned back, ready to relax, when the sound of booted footsteps interrupted the quiet.
A courier stood at the base of the porch steps, dressed in a dark blue Earth Federation uniform. The man's face was unreadable, trained for this sort of duty. Without a word, he extended a white and gold envelope toward Kael. The insignia burned into the wax was all the confirmation he needed.
Kael stared at it for a beat longer than he should have, then reached out and took the envelope in silence.
The courier nodded once, then turned on his heel and disappeared down the path without ever saying a word.
---
Inside, Kael sat at the wooden kitchen table, lit by the dying light filtering through the old blinds. His hands felt heavy as he broke the seal.
The message was simple. Clean. Clinical.
> "To: Kael Halloway, Civilian ID #A93-22-45-17
>
> By Order of the Earth Federation Draft Authority,
>
> You are hereby summoned to report for basic Mobile Suit Pilot Training at **Outpost Terra-9**, effective immediately by **sundown tomorrow, June 27th**.
>
> Failure to comply will be considered desertion."
He read the line twice. Then a third time ..
Kael laid the letter down gently on the weathered wooden kitchen table, the edges slightly curling under the heat of the fading sun. The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the old wall clock and the distant crackle of the stove. His mother, Miren, paused mid-motion, her hand frozen over the stew pot, eyes searching his face.
"Kael… is that..?" Her voice was soft, trembling just enough to betray the calm she tried to keep. "No, ..they can't just take you like this. You're my son.. You're a federation farmer, not some.. soldier."
Kael swallowed hard, trying to hold back the lump rising in his throat. "Mom it's a draft, We don't get to choose."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "There has to be a way. Maybe you can talk to the commander, or get a deferment? You've worked too hard here for this. The farm needs you, we need you!"
He reached across the table and took her hand — rough, calloused, yet warm and comforting. "I'll come back ma'.. I promise."
"But what if you don't?" she whispered, voice cracking. "What if this war takes you from me, just like your grandfather? I don't know how we could survive without you here."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Then I'll fight to make sure I come back."
Miren nodded, blinking away the tears, then wrapped her arms around him. The moment was fragile, suspended between fear and hope. The farm, their home, suddenly felt both too small and impossibly vast — a memory that might never be enough.
They stayed like that, holding each other as the shadows deepened and the first stars blinked awake outside the kitchen window. Somewhere beyond the fields, distant engines hummed — a grim reminder that the world beyond Dustpine was already moving without them.
Later that night, Kael lay in the barn loft, staring up through the loose wood slats in the roof, where stars twinkled like distant battlefields. He had dreamed of space as a boy — dreamed of piloting machines that could soar higher than the clouds.
But not like this. Not drafted. Not yanked away from the soil he was born into, from the mother who raised him, and the fields he had helped grow since he could walk.
He traced his thumb across the letter. The words had soaked in like a brand.
Tomorrow. June 27th. Sundown.
And just like that, the farm boy's world would end.
---
**Part 4: Departure to Terra-9**
The next day, morning came too fast..
Kael had barely slept. He'd lain awake in the loft with the draft letter folded in his chest, watching the shifting shadows crawl across the barn walls. The distant hoot of nightbirds gave way to the low hum of farm generators starting up — like the world refused to pause, even for a goodbye.
By dawn, Miren had already packed him a canvas bag with everything she could think he'd need. Spare flight gloves, a thermos of thick root-brew, and a photo — creased and faded — of them standing in front of the old GM unit on his sixteenth birthday, grinning wide despite a broken sensor behind them.
She pressed the photo into his hand before he climbed into the transport crawler.
"Keep that close," she said, brushing the edge of his sleeve like she wasn't quite ready to let him go. "Let it remind you who you are if they ever try to turn you into something else."
Kael hesitated, then hugged her tightly. Her warmth, the scent of wheat dust and soap, the way her arms clutched him like he was still a boy with scraped knees — all of it burned into memory.
"I'll write," he promised.
"You'd better."
The crawler door hissed closed. Through the reinforced window, she watched him sit down — just one figure among the other recruits, all dressed in Earth Federation gray.
The crawler rumbled forward. Miren raised her hand. Kael pressed his palm against the glass.
And then he was gone.
---
The transport train that carried Kael and the other conscripts to **Outpost Terra-9** was long, loud, and sterile. Rows of hard-backed seating filled each compartment. Most of the draftees were young — boys barely older than Kael, with nervous eyes and stiff posture, trying not to show how terrified they were.
Kael sat near the rear, duffel resting at his feet, arms crossed, jaw set. He didn't speak much. Instead, he watched the world blur by through a reinforced window — long stretches of dry hills, silver relay towers, and the skeletal silhouettes of distant mechs walking cargo up mountain paths.
The announcement crackled over the speaker as they neared the facility.
> "All conscripts: prepare for disembark. Final stop — Outpost Terra-9. Federation Training Division. Welcome to hell, boys."
---
Terra-9 was a concrete scar carved into the landscape. Chain-link fencing lined the compound perimeter, but the real barriers were the twin watchtowers that scanned every arriving unit with drones. Kael stepped out of the train into harsh sunlight and dust kicked up by patrol jeeps, the air dry with static.
Uniformed officers barked orders before the doors were fully open.
"Off the train! Line up, helmets off, bags in hand! Move like your damn lives depend on it — because they will!"
Kael fell in line, eyes darting to the nearby mobile suit hangars. Towering silhouettes stood in rows — **Leo units**, stripped of paint, dull gray with rust around the joints. Unlike the civilian GM at home, these were still combat-grade, still worn by war.
Each of them had an arm-mounted shield on the left. Standard configuration.
Kael's hand instinctively clenched. He'd already started sketching how he'd fix that.
---
The recruits were marched into a processing hall where a sharp-faced officer with cybernetic eyes took their names, blood types, and retinal scans. Then came the uniforms — coarse, uncomfortable, one-size-fits-all — and the standard-issue neural combat bands. Kael hated how the metal crown fit across his brow. It buzzed slightly, too tight, like it was trying to read thoughts it hadn't earned.
"Name," the officer growled.
"Kael Halloway."
The man paused, eyes flicking to his datapad.
"Farm boy, huh? We'll see how long those hands of yours last in a cockpit."
Kael didn't flinch. "They'll outlast most."
The officer's lip twitched into something that might've been a smirk.
"You've got guts, Halloway. Let's hope you've got the skill to match."
---
The day ended in a shared barracks filled with rows of bunk beds and the smell of recycled air. Kael didn't speak to the others. He sat on his bunk, pulling the folded photo of him and his mom from the pocket of his duffel. He slid it between the slats above his bed.
Then he lay back, staring up at the metal ceiling.
He was no longer a farmer.
No longer just a mechanic.
He was a soldier now.
And soon, he'd have to prove it — in simulations, in training, and one day, in battle.
Tomorrow, he'd start learning to pilot a Leo.
But tonight, he let the silence settle around him, the steady hum of Terra-9's night systems lulling him into an uneasy sleep beneath the eyes of the war machines waiting in the hangars beyond.
---
### **Part 5: First Days of Training**
The bugle-horn's call pierced the silence of the barracks long before dawn.
Kael rolled out of bed, the thin blanket falling from his shoulders as cold air bit at his skin, as the shouting started before his boots even hit the floor.
> "You think this is a vacation, cadets?! Move like your lives depend on it—because one day they will! You have 30 seconds, move ya pile of corpses!"
By the time everyone made it to the yard for morning drills, Kael's arms already and lege ached from the jog over.. Still, he powered through it. Farming didn't just build muscle—it taught you endurance. But this..? This was a whole different level.
Terra-9 wasn't a base—it was a forge, and they were the ore meant to be beaten into shape.
By day two, the verbal jabs had started.
> "What's the matter, Halloway, your feet keep dragging behind?"
> "This isn't a barn, farm boy—you Don't fix your left and rights with duct tape and spit!"
> "Someone teach this hayseed which side is 'dominant.'"
But it wasn't until when they moved to **firearms drills** that things took a turn for the worse.
The instructors lined them up on the range, each cadet handed a simulated plasma rifle—a short-barrel variant designed for foot solder infantry applications.
Kael held the weapon instinctively, left hand on the trigger and went to take aim... Immediately, an officer barked:
> "Oii, You're holding that backwards Halloway?"
Kael blinked. "Sir, I—"
> "I Said.. You're using the wrong hand, dumbass. That's your support hand."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Sir, I'm left-handed! My right is my support hand sir."
The pause was heavy.
The instructor scoffed. "Then *adapt or die*, farm boy. Enemies won't give a damn which hand you 'Prefer' when you're six feet under."
Snickers rippled down the line,
Yet Kael said nothing. He simply flipped the rifle into his right hand, .. it felt unfamiliar, the weight shift was wrong, and yet he still fired anyway.
The commander:
"Miss.
Again.
Miss.
Again!"
> "Oh for the love of—next!"
That night in the mess hall, Kael sat alone, picking at a tasteless slab of rehydrated protein.
He could feel the stares from the other cadets. He wasn't the weakest. He wasn't the slowest. But he was the odd one out. Always off-rhythm. Always half a step behind in the simulation pods. His performance reports were average at best.
Because everything—**everything**—was built for right-handed soldiers.
> "You try being left-handed out there?" one of the other trainees said loudly to his buddy at the next table. "It's like trying to fly a Zaku with your feet. I might as well just ask to die."
Kael stood abruptly, tray clattering as he dropped it off, and stormed out.
That evening, lights out came and went. Kael didn't sleep.
Kael Halloway lay in his bunk, staring up at the dark ceiling, the buzzing hum of the fluorescent lights echoing in his skull.
He didn't miss the farm. Not really.
But he did miss being good at something.
Tomorrow would be different, he told himself.
He would **make** it different.
He just needed a way to fight like himself, not like someone else's idea of a soldier.
---
### **Part 6: Left-Handed Override Command**
That night, Kael Halloway couldn't sleep.
The barracks were dim and still, filled with the soft hum of recycled air and the muffled snores of other trainees. But Kael's mind wouldn't rest. His limbs were tense, jaw clenched, thoughts burning like coals.
He'd failed. Not because he was weak—but because the controls weren't *made* for him.
He was left-handed. And out here, that made him a liability.
Kael sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. The metal was cold under his bare feet. His duffle sat at the base of his bed, half-zipped, a reminder of how little from home he'd brought.
He sighed, dragging it toward him.
Inside were the usual things: spare fatigues, ration bars, a water flask, and—he blinked—his **grandfather's old gloves**. Soft, creased leather with faded initials stitched into the wrist.
*H.H.* — Harold Halloway. Mechanic. War vet. One stubborn bastard.
Kael smiled faintly, slipping them on. They were worn, cracked at the seams, and too big by a finger's width… but they fit where it counted.
*Thanks, Mom,* he thought.
Then something clinked beneath the gloves. A small, beat-up **flash drive**.
There was a note wrapped around it in folded paper, ink smudged by sweat or time:
> **"For when you need to fix what others won't…
> P.S. Don't get caught, loser!"**
> – Mari 💀
Kael's throat tightened with laughter that didn't quite escape.
*Marigold.* ..Of course it was her. His little sister, smarter than she looked and nosier than the little hacker would ever admit. She must've slipped it into the bag before he left.
*Fix what others won't...*
He glanced across the bunkhouse. Still quiet. Still dark.
An idea sparked.
*With this.. it won't matter what simulator I use, I can make it work.*
He pocketed the drive, pulled on his fatigues, and crept out into the hall—silent as a farm cat sneaking off the fence rail—and to his destination.
The **simulation bay**.. it was locked, but the security panel was old tech—barely military grade.
Kael shorted the node with a multitool He found in his bag earlier that week, and pried open the door just wide enough to slide inside.
The training cockpits were mounted on scaffolds and ringed with yellow hazard tape. It looked like the torso of a decommissioned Leo mockup stripped of all color and armor plating, but the interfaces still hummed on standby.
He climbed in the closest one, and the canopy sealed with a quiet hiss.
Kael plugged in the flash drive to the dashboard and yhen opened the internal OS files. Sure enough, the control architecture was exactly like the one back on the farm: old, strict, uncompromising—and completely right-handed.
He cracked his knuckles.
*Time to make her a Lefty!*
---
For two long hours, Kael worked like a man possessed by a cyber demon.
He wrote and rewrote lines of code, scripting a control reroute that diverted the right-hand priority systems to left-hand actuation... Adjusted Shield and weapon control allocation? Moved textures, smoothened turning? Shifted button placements. Adjusted thruster controls and so on..
All of it tied to a single override:
> **LHOC\_Core\_Prototype.Gundam**
> *(Left-Handed Override Command)*
The simulator blinked several times, then confirmed the patch installation.
*System notice: This modification is well beyond standard simulation limitations!
"Ohh, I'm sure it is buddy." He chuckles as the next screen begins to load.
*Are you sure you wish to proceed?*
*Yes!*
**\[Custom Subroutine Accepted — LHOC Active.]**
He quickly closes the simulation before fully testing it and begins to download the script to the hard drive, making sure he saved the script in a **new folder** careful not to overwrite anything Marigold may have had hidden on it.
Then he leaned back in the cockpit, heart racing. ..It worked.
He hadn't just adapted.
He *Evolved* and made the system *his*.
Kael cracked open the canopy and dropped to the floor.. As he slid around the corner toward the barracks hall, the hairs on his neck rose.
There, halfway down the corridor, stood an instructor backlit by a wall terminal, the man looked like a ghost caught in data-glow.
"…Midnight jog, Mr.Halloway?" the instructor asked coolly.
Kael froze, trying to gauge if running would make it worse.
"…Just, working on my Rights and Lefts, Sir."
The instructor chuckled, the stared a moment longer than was comfortable, then returned his eyes to the screen.
"return to your quarters …And sleep fast. You'll need it."
Kael nodded and slipped back into the dorm with his pulse thudding in his ears.
He didn't sleep.
But tomorrow… tomorrow he'd *fight like himself*.
----
(Part 7 coming soon)