The outpost changed hands with almost no one the wiser. Traders still bustled through Salvager’s Row, lugging crates of scrap and half-broken machinery. The ancient water pump hissed and groaned in its battered station, supplying the lifeblood of a thousand residents. Even the toll booth, perched by the outpost’s main thoroughfare, continued to collect the Emperor’s tithe—or so the clerks believed.

In truth, the coin now lined the coffers of a new master.

Far from the prying eyes of Imperial command, small changes took root. A ragged banner disappeared here, replaced by a fresh cloth whose stitching carried a subtle, alien motif. A storeroom was cleared out and repurposed as a hidden armoury, masked by rows of empty barrels. Over the span of a few short days, a network of quiet alliances formed. Whispers replaced open declarations, and men and women who had once known only fear found hope in the Resistance's promise.

From a corner overlooking Salvager’s Row, a newly opened mechanic’s workshop stood as one more unassuming shack in a row of rusted outbuildings. Its proprietor, a soft-spoken older man, greeted passersby with a friendly wave and talked shop with visiting crews. In private, he jotted down the details of each visitor—names, affiliations, rumours. Slowly, knowledge flowed into the Resistance's web.

Two streets away, on the far side of the water well, the old wayside chapel continued to hold its daily devotions. Its caretaker, a dour priest loyal to the Imperium, took little notice of the new faces in the crowd. Men and women now congregated by night, hearing words that resembled the Emperor’s truth but carried an undercurrent of something else—something far older, far more insidious. Flyers appeared discreetly, pinned to the bulletin board or slipped under chapel doors at twilight. At first, the caretaker dismissed them, believing them to be harmless devotions from another sect. Over time, subtle changes in sermon and scripture took shape, weaving the Resistance's message into the outpost’s faith.

Meanwhile, the toll booth remained under nominal Imperial oversight. The uniformed attendants still saluted any passing PDF patrol and dutifully recorded each traveller’s tithe. Yet every coin, every promissory note, eventually found its way to Resistance-led accounts, bypassing official channels. The clerks manning the booth, none the wiser, chalked up any irregularities to the usual bureaucratic chaos.

Tension lingered in the air long after the final shots that first secured the outpost. Rumours spread in hushed tones: one of the Prawa PDF might have triggered a distress call during the brief firefight before he fell. No one could say for certain. For days, conversations dropped to whispers whenever an unexpected speeder rolled through, and families double-checked their door locks at night, bracing for an Imperial crackdown.

Yet nothing happened. No squads of grim-faced troopers locked down the streets. No Valkyries thundered overhead. The toll booth continued its unremarkable routine. Gradually, the outpost’s restlessness gave way to weary acceptance. Life resumed its ordinary patterns beneath the desert sun, while the Resistance's tendrils slid deeper into the settlement’s workings.

Mona moved among the people with calm assurance, a soft word here, a knowing smile there. Each day without Imperial intervention validated her assurances that all was well. The proprietor of the outpost, who had once gazed upon the aftermath with fear, felt himself relax. If an alarm had been raised, it had fallen on deaf ears—or was lost in the endless tangle of Imperial bureaucracy.

And so, the outpost carried on. The Resistance operatives laboured quietly, subverting critical functions, entrenching themselves further. Travellers who passed through noticed little amiss beyond a subtle shift in the local atmosphere—more hushed conversations, an odd camaraderie among the working folk. Now and then, someone mentioned the missing PDF, but there was no proof of foul play.

Eventually, talk of a distress signal faded into campfire tales traded by nomads late at night. If help had ever been summoned, no one answered. Unseen and largely unopposed, the Resistance turned this forgotten watering hole into a hidden stronghold, sinking unseen roots into every corridor and corner that mattered.