Just a little context for this. The Resistance are looking to expand their influence and, working within the Imperial PDF structure, they are putting out their feelers for those who may be persuaded to come over to their side. Our narrator and his squad are visiting a desert waystation on a 'routine' patrol.

The trading post was pungent, as these places always were — the stale odour of too many bodies packed into a confined space, sweat soaked deep into the wood and threadbare rugs. We entered without drawing attention, passing for just another patrol looking to eat before braving the desert again. Mona stayed outside, letting us set the tone.

The stationed Imperial troops barely registered us. Nods, grunts, the detached civility of men dulled by routine. They clustered around battered tables, pushing half-finished meals about their plates without urgency. Trouble was the furthest thing from their minds — especially for Sergeant Havel, the officer in charge. Broad-shouldered and thick-set, Havel was a man shaped by long years on the frontier. His uniform was regulation enough — no sharper nor shabbier than necessary. His discipline came from habit, not fervour.

Our sergeant, Rakoczy, took the lead. He approached the counter and ordered food with the casual confidence of a man who had done this a dozen times before. I lingered near the edges of the room, sweat prickling at the back of my neck. Technically, we weren’t doing anything wrong — not yet — but the lie pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.

Havel approached slowly, working a kink from his neck. His glance swept lazily over us until it caught. His brow creased, left eyebrow ticking upward as his gaze fixed on Rakoczy’s insignia.

“That’s odd,” he remarked, voice mild but carrying. His nod towards Rakoczy’s shoulder was subtle, but I knew what he saw. The insignia was nearly perfect — nearly. A faint token, a deviation so minor most wouldn’t notice. But Havel wasn’t most.

Rakoczy didn’t flinch. “New designation,” he said flatly. “Recent reassignment.”

Havel grunted. Noncommittal. Suspicious, but unsure. His fingers toyed absently with the strap of his rifle, eyes narrowing. “Which command signed off on that?”

The shift was slight, but unmistakable. The room didn’t fall silent — men still ate and drank — but there was a subtle weight to the air. Havel’s pragmatism battled with his instinct. He wanted this to be nothing, but years of service wouldn’t let him dismiss it outright.

And then Mona entered.

The change was instant. Conversations faltered. Utensils hovered. Even the dust motes seemed to hang motionless. She moved like a breeze just before the storm — smooth, unhurried, unsettling. The faint aroma of cloves and cinnamon followed her.

Havel’s mouth twitched open, more reflex than expression.

Rakoczy spoke. “Sergeant, allow me to introduce—”

“Not often patrols bring company,” Havel interrupted. His tone strained for levity, but a thread of wariness had wormed its way into it.

The silence before the storm was a living thing, pressing in around us, thick with uncertainty. Then Rakoczy spoke, the word falling from his lips like a stone into a still pond.

The world ignited.

Lasrifle fire lanced through the smoky air, the acrid scent of ozone and burning flesh filling my nostrils. I ducked behind a crate, heart hammering. The trading post erupted into chaos—shouts, screams, the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground. I gripped my lasrifle with sweaty hands, fingers clenching and unclenching around the grip.

A figure moved in my periphery—a PDF soldier, fumbling for cover. Training and instinct warred within me, but training won. I raised my weapon, squeezed the trigger. The lasbolt struck home. He crumpled with a cry, clutching his side.

I froze. The battle raged around me, but I was locked in place, staring at what I had done. My stomach turned to ice. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to look away, to pretend it hadn’t happened. But the sight of him writhing, his pain so raw, so real, held me captive.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, jolting me back to the moment. "Keep moving," someone barked. I swallowed hard, pushed forward. The fight wasn’t over. Not yet.

The proprietor and Mona had taken cover, watching with wide eyes as the outpost became a warzone. Somewhere, a console crackled, half-destroyed, as if a distress call had been made. Whether it had been sent, none of us knew.

We pressed the advantage, methodically eliminating the remaining PDF forces. The echoes of the fight lingered long after the final shot was fired. As the last body slumped to the ground, the only sound was the ragged breath of the victors—and my own hammering heartbeat.