The wind tore at them as the Valkyrie dropped into the canyon, its engines shrieking against the tight walls. Dust and gravel whipped into the air, reducing the world to a swirling maelstrom outside the armoured glass of the troop compartment. Kasnyk stood, swaying with the turbulence, one gloved hand gripping a restraint overhead as he stared through the side viewport.

The canyon was exactly as it had been described in the geological surveys — a deep scar in the desert, sheer cliffs of wind-scoured stone, peppered with outcroppings and the occasional stubborn succulent clinging to life. At its base, mostly swallowed by the rock, sat the bunker, hunched against the cliff face like some ancient fossil.

 

The hatch clanged open the moment the skids touched down. Kasnyk descended first, boots crunching on the gravel-strewn floor. The air was dry, still, and carried the faint smell of scorched metal and explosive residue. The valley’s towering walls threw long shadows despite the midday sun.

 

Behind him, Aleksy Klimek and four other members of the investigation team followed. The two Valkyrie crewmen remained aboard, engines hot and ready. Kasnyk liked the pilots well enough — competent, quiet — but he had no intention of taking their opinions on what he was about to find.

 

Kasnyk advanced towards the battered bunker entrance. The blast had left a wide, irregular gap, jagged metal edges curling outward. As he crossed the threshold, his monocle flickered to life without prompting, overlaying faint data across his vision.

 

STATUS: Breach Confirmed Explosive Residue: Detected Material Composition: Standard Siege Charge Timestamp Estimate: <48 hours>

 

Kasnyk nodded to himself. His boots kicked up a layer of dust as he entered. Within, the bunker felt cavernous and oppressive, its empty corridors swallowing sound. The only noises were those of his team spreading out, the creak of gear, and the rasp of their breathing.

 

Rows of vehicles flanked their path — tarpaulin-covered shapes, lined like silent sentinels in the gloom. The faint beams of the team’s shoulder-mounted lamps revealed what the dust and silence had hidden. Chimera-pattern hulls, Leman Russ frames, skeletal artillery pieces, and stubby transporters sat dormant beneath layers of grime and canvas. Each machine was perfectly aligned, unmoved for decades, perhaps even centuries.

 

“There's so many,” muttered one of the investigators. The sheer number of them was staggering.

 

Kasnyk didn’t respond. He was busy drinking it all in — not with wonder, but with analysis. His monocle scanned and catalogued automatically, lines of data crawling along the edges of his vision.

 

As they continued, the air felt thick, almost expectant. Their lights flickered against the oppressive stillness. The deeper they ventured, the more obvious it became — no vermin, no signs of recent life. Just untouched silence.

 

Klimek edged too close to a barely visible pressure plate near a service hatch. Kasnyk’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar.

 

“Hold.”

 

Everyone froze. Kasnyk knelt and brushed away the dust. A recessed mechanism lay exposed — rudimentary, but deadly. A fragmentation charge.

 

“Traps,” Kasnyk said, standing. “Old. But still willing to work.”

 

Klimek nodded, slightly pale, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.”

 

Kasnyk gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. His heart beat faster, but not from the near-miss. He could feel it. He wasn’t wading through another dull supply theft. Something meaningful was waiting at the end of this trail.

 

A light sensation built in his stomach — a familiar, welcome thrill. The same he’d felt long ago, when cases still mattered, when he was still certain he could make a difference.

His eyes slid sideways to Klimek as they resumed their march. The young officer recovered quickly, carefully marking the trap for later removal. Kasnyk allowed himself a flicker of quiet satisfaction. Klimek was shaping up well — sharp, cautious, and just naïve enough to still care about the work.

 

They pressed onward, weaving through the graveyard of machines until the hall finally widened into a more open chamber.

 

Kasnyk’s monocle flickered.

 

ERR[042] : Object classification failed. Possible: LV / Chimera Variant / Unknown – processing…

 

He stepped forward, boots crunching into the fresh scuff marks left behind by heavy treads. Dust patterns and disturbance told the story plain enough: something massive had been here — and recently. And unlike the other machines, this one was no longer resting.

 

They swept their lights across the chamber, and there it was — the Iron Duke's vault. The great sealed door stood ajar, its mechanisms scarred by the breach. Inside, the floor bore the unmistakable pattern of heavy tread marks leading out, and a large, dustless imprint where something colossal had once sat beneath a discarded tarpaulin. The blast shield's silhouette was faintly outlined in dust residue on the floor.

 

Kasnyk entered the vault slowly. His team followed, fanning out, quietly cataloguing the scene — markings, disturbed dust, maintenance terminals, and the damage to the door. Every detail mattered now. Kasnyk’s attention turned to the side of the vault. Scorch marks spidered out from an old control terminal. He crouched, monocle feeding him flickering data.

 

“Explosion?” suggested one of the investigators.

 

“Possible,” Kasnyk mused, running a finger along the floor. “Or power feedback.”

 

Klimek moved closer, examining the pattern. “Sir. Not radial — linear. As if they caught a discharge, not a detonation.”

 

Kasnyk raised a brow. The young officer wasn’t wrong.

 

“Well observed.” He stood, dusting off his gloves. “Someone knew the risks and still went through with it.”

 

In the silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of boots and equipment, Kasnyk felt the old thrill rising again — the sense of standing on the precipice of something deeper than a petty theft. There was a thread here. And he fully intended to pull it.

 

-----

 

The wind outside the outpost’s main hall blew softly against the old hab-blocks and ferrocrete structures, but Marek hardly noticed. Leaning against a weathered pillar, he took a slow drag from his lho-stick, watching the station’s central yard through narrowed eyes. The sun was fading behind the ridgeline, painting the canyon’s jagged edges with long, creeping shadows. Below, the returning 280th were unloading. Their movements weren’t hurried, but they were… tight. Controlled. Soldiers always carried tension after a patrol, but Marek knew the patterns well enough. This was different. They weren't just tired — they were guarded. Even from each other.

 

Krystan, the Chimera driver, cursed as he tried to coax the vehicle into one of the motor pool bays, its tracks screeching in protest. Laska laughed, making some quip Marek couldn’t catch from this distance, and the others gave her a weary chuckle. The usual theatre. But something was off.

 

He took another pull on the lho-stick and exhaled slowly. No orders. No patrol logs posted. Just their quiet return. He flicked the spent stick into the dust and turned, heading toward the mess hall.

 

The mess was crowded but muted. Soldiers ate mechanically, trading only the occasional word. The usual clatter of cutlery and quiet murmurs filled the room. Marek slipped into the corner, grabbed a tin cup of recaf, and settled against the wall, watching.

 

The 280th were gathered at their usual table. No boasting, no exaggerated tales of minor glories — not like after a normal patrol. Instead, low voices and darting glances. He spotted the sergeant — their newly appointed leader, after Rakoczy’s demise — holding it together well enough. But it was in the little things. How the squad avoided meeting each other's eyes. The way Czajka picked at his food instead of eating. How Laska's usual brashness seemed slightly forced.

 

The table froze for half a breath. Just long enough. Marek saw it. A glance from the sergeant. A suppressed smirk from Krystan. A tight flicker of tension across Czajka’s brow. Then they moved on, laughing it off, Laska throwing in an exaggerated wink to defuse it.

 

But Marek wasn’t laughing. His mind already worked through the implications. He quietly sipped the bitter recaf, lowering his gaze just enough to seem disinterested.

 

Across the room, unnoticed by Marek, The Fennec sat alone at a battered table, idly stirring the slop on her tray. She watched with the detachment of a ghost, catching every glance, every nervous shuffle. To anyone else, she was just another tired soldier nursing a bland meal. To her, this was the job.

 

-----

 

In the armoury, Laska moved alone. The low hum of the power systems and the occasional groan of settling metal were the only company left to her. She removed her flak jacket with a soft grunt, the weight sliding from her shoulders and leaving behind the familiar ache of another long day. Shoulder plates followed, then webbing, gloves, and gear. Each piece was placed carefully into her assigned locker, not from fear of punishment, but habit. Order calmed her. Loose straps were tightened, buckles checked, latches secured.

 

Her eyes lingered on her grenade launcher resting across the workbench. It wasn’t a brutal thing to her. It was solid, dependable. She had called it a few names in frustration before, sure, but it never failed when it mattered. She traced a finger along the barrel, noting where the paint had scuffed and worn. If she needed it to sing again, it would. She’d make sure of it. Satisfied, she exhaled softly and headed for the barracks.

 

Inside, a handful of soldiers were already asleep, sprawled or curled beneath rough-issue blankets. Gentle, uneven snores filled the dimly lit space. The room smelled of worn leather, faint sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the station’s recycled air. Laska moved between the bunks quietly, stepping over scattered boots and stray bits of kit.

 

At her bunk, she shrugged out of her fatigues, down to just a tank top and shorts. The metal-framed bed creaked softly as she sat and pulled the thin blanket over herself.

Above, the cracked window admitted a shaft of silver moonlight that stretched across the room and caught her face. She lay still, eyes open, watching the dust motes drift lazily in the pale glow.

Her thoughts wandered, unbidden. Home. Not the one spoken of in stories, but the real one — cramped, bureaucratic, stale. Yet, even so, the faces there mattered. Parents, a younger sibling or two, each trapped just as surely as the miners and the outcasts. Different cages, same bars. She was here for them. For all of them.

 

The tension in her limbs eased, bit by bit, as the day’s weight gave way to quiet. The muffled sounds of the outpost settling into night — the groan of a shifting bulkhead, the faint ticking of a cooling vent, the soft snores of comrades — became a kind of lullaby.

 

And then, barely audible, the desert wind outside sighed against the walls. The old scirocco. Laska smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. Its voice carried a strange comfort. Distant, patient, eternal.

 

As sleep crept in, she caught herself thinking — not of battle, nor of duty — but simply that it might have been nice to have someone beside her. Just for warmth. Just for company.

The thought softened her expression, and soon, sleep took her.

 

-----

 

The mess hall had long since emptied. The overhead lumens buzzed quietly, casting a dull, institutional glow over half-eaten trays and upturned ration tins. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tap of Marek’s boot heel against the bench leg, his dataslate balanced on one knee. He sat alone now, the last of the 280th having turned in. Somewhere, the low whine of a generator pulsed in the distance. He tapped a few last notes into the slate. Supply discrepancies, personnel manifests, unassigned engineering units. His thumb hesitated over the transmit rune. A report, yes. But it lacked certainty. Something was missing.

 

That was when he noticed it. A narrow door in the corner of the hall — flush with the wall and featureless. He had eaten in this room a dozen times and never seen it before. A storeroom, maybe. But something about it tugged at him.

 

He stood, slinging the dataslate under one arm, and tried the handle. Unlocked. The hinges groaned faintly as he pulled it open, revealing a narrow passage descending into gloom.

He hesitated — then stepped inside. The corridor descended deeper than expected, walls pressed close, lit intermittently by flickering strips of lumen tape. It smelled of dust, dry rust, and something older. Faint ventilation hummed overhead. A forgotten tunnel.

 

Marek pressed on, bootfalls muffled by layers of grime. “Entry Point Theta... unmarked. Passage appears pre-Compliance era,” he murmured into the slate, recording everything. “Possibly related to recent recovery operations.” At last, the corridor widened into a chamber. His breath caught. Vehicles. Dozens. Rows of ancient machines slumbered beneath tarpaulins. Chimera transports. A few half-track variants. An old Malcador, matte desert yellow paint peeled and blistered from decades of disuse. And at the centre — a shape that dominated the room.

 

No markings. No designation. No turret. Just bulk. A blast shield hunched over the prow like a crouched animal, the whole thing draped in tarp and shadow. The scale of it made Marek falter.

“I don’t know what I’m looking at,” he whispered into the slate. “Command might. Serial tags missing. No visible identifier. This...this wasn’t logged.”

 

He moved around it slowly, panning his slate’s lens across the frame. “Design unknown. Not Imperial standard issue. Mechanicus, perhaps? Power lines routed oddly. Could be a relic from the Crusade era? Will request cross-check. Bunker appears to have been accessed recently. Tracks in the dust. At least one body removed... no signs of blood.” His voice grew quieter.

 

“Locals — the 280th? Did they do this?” He turned, biting his lip. The battery icon flashed red. Less than five percent. “Damn.” He broke into a jog, heading back through the tunnel, slate clutched tight.

 

Outside, the desert night had cooled the air. A warm desert breeze washed over him, gentle now, but gathering. Marek dashed across the sand to a waiting runner — a squat, four-wheeled desert vehicle painted light grey, with thick, knobbled tyres and a number stencil in black along its side. The roof was little more than a sheet of polymer fixed over a flimsy frame. A cart meant for supplies, not escapes.

 

He slid behind the wheel, tossed the dataslate onto the passenger bench, and fumbled with the ignition. The engine coughed, sputtered, then caught. He plugged the slate into the vehicle’s charging port and watched as the charge icon blinked orange. He wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Come on, come on...”

 

A low curse escaped his lips. He checked the signal strength. Weak. But maybe enough. The slate came to life. He loaded the report, jammed his thumb against the transmit rune—

 

From half a kilometre away, The Fennec watched him through the scope.

 

She lay prone on the ridgeline, rifle cradled in her hands, her body perfectly still. The long-barrelled weapon rested on its bi-pod, its optic hooded against the moonlight.

The wind was cool against her cheek. Her breath slow. Even. Measured.

 

The runner’s headlights cast long shadows across the sand as Marek wrestled with the slate. Through her scope, she could see the sweat on his temple, the way his lips moved as he muttered curses.

 

Her thumb adjusted the zoom. The crosshairs hovered over his chest. She exhaled.

 

A moment’s pause. Then she tapped her vox-bead. “Visual confirmed,” she whispered. “He’s sending it.”

 

A beat.

 

“...Understood.”

 

She realigned the shot. Marek’s finger was just lifting from the rune. The slate’s light glowed green — transmission active.

 

She squeezed. The report was sent. So was the round.

 

His body spasmed sideways, head lolling. The slate dropped to the floor of the runner. Blood and viscera dripped through the hole blown through his torso and the back of his seat by the high-calibre round.

 

The Fennec watched for five full seconds. Then she moved. Quick. Precise. The rifle disassembled in practised motions, piece by piece into her carry harness. She slid back into the darkness, feet finding each step in silence.

 

The desert swallowed her. The sound of the scirocco rose. And the night was whole again