Eventually, the council dispersed. One by one, the squad leaders filed out—quiet nods, exchanged glances, brief murmurs as they returned to the surface. Jagiełło left without ceremony, as he had entered. I remained behind for a few moments, alone in the cellar, the dataslate still warm in my hands.

 

"You spoke with conviction," came a voice behind me—soft, familiar, and unsettling in how near it was without warning.

 

I turned. Mona stood at the foot of the stairs, her posture casual, her arms now resting loosely at her sides.

 

"Do you believe every word you said?" she asked.

 

There was no malice in it. No accusation. But her eyes searched mine with a precision that made lying feel impossible. I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know the answer—but because I knew she’d measure how I gave it.

 

-----

 

The cellar was still, emptied of its earlier tension, save for the soft sound of a single kerosene lamp guttering against the draft. Jagiełło remained at the head of the table, arms folded behind his back as he stared at the dataslate resting where the miner had left it.

 

Mona stood where she had lingered throughout the meeting, watching him. The silence was companionable, but Jagiełło broke it without turning.

 

"Your thoughts?" he asked, his voice carrying just enough weight to be heard.

 

Mona pushed off from the wall with measured grace, stepping slowly around the table. "There is value in uncertainty," she said softly. "Marek wavered. I saw it. I could press. A quiet conversation, a whisper in the dark, and we may know his heart without raising a single lasgun."

 

Jagiełło shifted only slightly, eyes still fixed on the slate. "You would draw it out of him with words alone?"

 

Mona offered a faint, knowing smile. "Words have carried us this far."

 

He did not disagree immediately. He gave the notion its due consideration, staring into the lamplight, weighing it. "Tempting," he admitted. "But not this time." He turned to her then, fully. "I would not risk him suspecting we have seen his falter. Not yet. Better he believe himself unnoticed. Quiet surveillance. Nothing more."

 

Mona did not argue. She tilted her head, accepting the decision, though the flicker of her eyes hinted at a thousand unspoken thoughts. "As you wish," she said, her voice neither wounded nor displeased.

 

Jagiełło’s gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer. "Your counsel is always valued, Mona. But for now, we watch. It is time to involve the Fennec."

 

The lamplight flickered again as if in approval.

 

-----

 

Salvager's Row hummed faintly under the desert sun, the air heavy with the scent of hot metal, dust, and old oils. In one of its quieter corners, tucked between workshops and scavenged habs, was The Fennec’s domain — a place of function, not comfort.

 

Jagiełło ducked beneath the low doorway and stepped inside. The thick workshop air mingled motor oil, grease, and solvent fumes with the omnipresent desert dust, forming a smell so familiar it barely registered.

 

The Fennec sat at her workbench, stripped of ceremony. Perched on a low stool beside her desert-adapted motorcycle, one boot rested on a scattered pile of parts. She ran a wire brush through the barrel of a long rifle — a precision instrument, sand-coloured, designed for patience and lethality. A large, worn scope with flip-up caps sat atop its receiver, and a collapsible tripod was mounted beneath the barrel. Every detail spoke of careful calibration and craftsmanship, not brute force. Scattered across the table were tools, cleaning rods, and brushes blackened from years of service.

 

Her appearance matched her workspace — practical and hardened. A flak jacket with visible plates, cargo trousers scarred by oil stains, and heavy boots caked with grit gave her a rugged silhouette. Webbing and pouches hung loosely yet purposefully across her frame. Beneath the grime and dust, she was lean and sharp, every motion deliberate and assured.

 

Jagiełło remained silent until she glanced up, dark eyes locking with his. Faint ridges along her brow marked her, though they were barely visible in the muted glow of the workshop.

 

She stood without hesitation, setting the rifle aside with deliberate care. “Primus,” she said simply. No bow, no salute — only recognition.

 

“Fennec,” Jagiełło replied, his tone level. “You have someone to follow. Sergeant Marek. Observe. Nothing more.”

 

She nodded. “Understood.”

 

Jagiełło’s eyes narrowed slightly. “There are conditions. If they are met, you will act. Otherwise, you remain unseen.”

 

The Fennec accepted this without question, as she did every task. “Understood,” she repeated.

 

Without another word, she resumed her work, calmly cleaning the rifle with practiced, steady movements as though the conversation had never happened.

 

Jagiełło lingered for a heartbeat longer, watching the slow, precise strokes of the wire brush before turning away and stepping back into the harsh desert light, leaving the workshop to its silence and the quiet hum of preparation.

 

-----

 

The Fennec worked late into the evening, long after Jagiełło’s footsteps had faded from Salvager’s Row. The familiar hum of the workshop remained her only company, broken only by the soft clicking of tools and the metallic rasp of fabric brushing against gear.

 

She moved with quiet purpose. From a battered locker, she retrieved a canvas-wrapped bundle. Inside lay spare parts, ammunition, and lengths of camouflage netting, sun-bleached and patched. Each piece was checked and packed without hurry, yet with absolute certainty. Nothing extra. Nothing missing.

 

Her rifle received a final inspection. With delicate reverence, she laid each component out on the workbench — the long, desert-camouflaged barrel, the padded stock, the heavy scope with its flip-up caps, and the collapsible tripod. Fixed to the end of the barrel was a prominent, multi-baffled muzzle brake, designed to tame the weapon's immense recoil. One by one, she reassembled them with the practised precision of someone who had done so a hundred times.

 

When the rifle was whole once more, she brought it to her shoulder and sighted down the length of it, the cool metal pressing gently against her cheek. She cocked it smoothly and pulled the trigger. The dry click echoed faintly, sharp against the quiet hum of the workshop. Only then did she nod to herself, satisfied, and secured the weapon inside a padded sleeve.

At the corner of the workshop, her desert bike leaned against the wall, chain oiled and tyres thick with the dust of past patrols. She ran a bare hand over its frame, feeling for hairline cracks or faults. Satisfied, she attached small saddlebags, filling them with ration packs, water, and field tools.

 

Pausing for a moment, she glanced around the workshop. The bare lightbulb overhead buzzed faintly. Shadows clung to the walls, broken only by streaks of lamplight from the narrow window.

The Fennec rolled her shoulders, adjusted her flak jacket, and slung the padded rifle bag across her back. The last thing she grabbed was a small, well-worn scrap of cloth from a shelf — desert orange — and tied it around her wrist.

 

Without ceremony, she pushed open the workshop door, stepping into the cool air, the soft crunch of sand under her boots. She wheeled her bike out alongside her, the machine’s weight familiar beneath her hands.

 

The hunt had begun.