The cyber-steed ridden by Parson was fast—unnervingly fast. Kian sat behind the rebel, his teeth rattling and his "grox-marbles" feeling like they were being pulverized by the bio-chanical gait of the beast.
By the ti they covered the forty kiloters and skidded into the rebel warren, Kian was shivering from the wind and the vibration. The camp had grown since his last visit; it now resembled a sprawling frontier shanty-town.
"Quickly, take to Silas," Kian commanded, sliding off the mount with a groan. "I have news that won't wait for the moon to rise."
Parson nodded and led him toward the central shack. Kian's full combat load—the heavy sniper rifle, the PDF autogun, and the reinforced flak plate—made the surrounding rebels extrely nervous. Four guards with rusted stubbers fell in behind him, their eyes tracking his hands like hawks.
Kian ignored the shadows and pushed into Silas's wooden command center.
Silas looked up, opening his mouth for a polite greeting, but Kian cut him off instantly.
"Save the pleasantries, Silas. I'm here to tell you that at first light tomorrow, the PDF is coming to burn this place to the ground."
Silas froze. The color drained from his weathered face. "That... that is impossible. We have had a silent truce with the Hive for months. Why would they break the cycle now?"
In the current state of the planet, a stalemate had ford. A twenty-kiloter No-Man's Land acted as a buffer. The rebels didn't have the heavy armor to breach the Hive, and the PDF didn't have the morale to clear the surface. Everyone was content to wait for the heat-death of the universe—or the arrival of the Tithe-fleet.
Kian let out a sharp snort. "Logic doesn't apply to Spire-born brats. Lieutenant Winchester needs pips on his shoulders. He wants a promotion to Major, and the only way to get it is to bring back a 'Glorious Victory.' He's chosen your camp to be the sacrifice on his resu."
Silas's expression turned bitter. "Why us? There are dozens of cells along the periter."
"Because you're the closest," Kian said bluntly. "He looked at a map, drew a straight line from his barracks, and your na was at the end of it. It's that simple."
Silas's face went through a spectrum of colors—red with rage, blue with shock, and finally, a pale, sickly white as he calculated their odds.
"What is your plan, Scavenger?" Silas asked, eyeing Kian's weaponry. "Are you here to run, or are you here to fight? And why warn us at all? Just to protect your grain supply?"
Kian shrugged. "Partially. I like our trade route; it's stable, and I don't feel like training a new Cell Leader. But more importantly? PDF gear is worth a fortune. If you fight, I'll help you. Every Imperial soldier I drop is a ten-thousand scrip payday for ."
He patted the heavy sniper rifle. "But let's be clear: my kills are my property. You don't touch the loot from the bodies I drop."
Silas stared into Kian's eyes, searching for a lie and finding only cold, rcenary truth. "And if we choose to retreat into the deep woods?"
"Then I'll still ambush them," Kian said. "But I'll be doing it alone. And I'll warn you—if you run, tell the neighboring cells to run too. If Winchester finds your camp empty, he won't go ho; he'll just pivot to the next nearest target. He's not leaving without a headcount."
Silas deliberated for several minutes before sending Parson to summon the leaders of the surrounding cells.
An hour later, seven rebel commanders arrived on cyber-steeds. They huddled inside the shack, locking the door. Kian, as an outsider, was kicked out to wait in the dirt.
He didn't mind. He sat on a stump, pulled out a rag soaked in Sanctified Oil, and began to thodically clean the bore of his sniper rifle, whispering to the Machine Spirit.
Thirty minutes later, the door creaked open. Kian was called back inside. He was t by several pairs of narrowed, suspicious eyes. These were n who had built hos, planted crops, and raised families in this "liberated" dirt. If they ran, the PDF would incinerate everything they had worked for.
"Well?" Kian asked. "Retreat or Resistance?"
One of the commanders—a hulking man with a scarred neck and a hair-trigger temper—slamd his fist onto the heavy timber table. He pointed a finger at Kian's nose.
"Tell us, Imperial dog! Why should we believe a word you say? You walk between the lines like a ghost! You carry Spire-steel and talk of PDF movents! How do we know this isn't a trap? How do we know you aren't leading us into a crossfire so your masters can wipe us out in one stroke?!"
Kian blinked, montarily stunned by the man's stupidity. Then, the "Tarkov-rage" bubbled up.
He didn't argue. He didn't explain. He grabbed the edge of the solid oak table with both hands.
Hrrngh!
With a violent surge of his 17 Strength, Kian flipped the massive table end-over-end.
The heavy wood crashed into the gathered rebel leaders, pinning the loudmouth and two others against the wall with a chorus of startled yelps and groans.
Kian lood over them, his eyes glowing with a dark, predatory light.
"THRONE'S BLOOD!!" Kian roared. "Are you looking for a grave?! I just spent two days sabotaging a Chira and bribing Enforcers to give you a fighting chance, and you want to call a spy?! I'll beat the teeth out of your head and feed them to you before I let a two-bit peasant talk down to !"
The commander, a man used to being the biggest bully in the woods, scrambled to his feet, his face red with fury. "YOU TRAITOROUS SCUM! GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!"
Two guards lunged from the corners, reaching for Kian.
Kian didn't reach for his gun. He stepped into the first guard's space and delivered a heavy-booted kick to the man's stomach. The guard was launched backward, hitting the wooden wall with a sickening crack before sliding to the floor in a heap.
Kian whirled and drove a fist into the second guard's face. He heard the man's nose shatter.
In seconds, the room was a ss of groaning bodies and splintered furniture. Kian stalked over to the loudmouth commander, grabbed him by the throat, and delivered a backhanded slap that sent two teeth flying across the room.
He threw the man to the floor, pinned his arms with his knees, and began raining controlled, heavy blows into the commander's face.
"I am Kian Voss!" Kian snarled between punches. "I don't serve the Governor! I don't serve the Rebels! I serve the Profit! And if you can't learn to speak to a business partner with respect, I'll personally deliver your head to Winchester as a peace offering!"
PUNCH. PUNCH. PUNCH.
"AAAAAGH! STOP! RCY!!"
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