The Fennec lay low beneath the dune’s crest, body pressed into the soft slope, the sand shifting slightly beneath her weight. Through the scope, the desert station played out its quiet, predictable routine. Marek’s Chimera lumbered toward the toll booth, weathered but functional, waved through without question. There it was — the familiar pattern. The complacency.

A flicker of satisfaction stirred within her. The hunt had always held its quiet thrill, but her breathing remained steady, her finger never twitched on the trigger. Discipline.

Below, the Chimera parked itself among the scattering of low, sun-bleached buildings. Marek’s squad spilled out, stretching their limbs, shaking dust from their collars. Marek moved like a man who had done this countless times. A stationed PDF soldier approached him, and Marek greeted him with the easy familiarity of an old acquaintance — a handshake, a pat on the shoulder. They exchanged a few relaxed words, body language loose and confident, as if they were sharing news rather than orders. Marek then gestured towards his squad, dispatching them casually into the surrounding streets. They moved without urgency, like men and women convinced of their security.

The Fennec’s lips curled into a sneer. Almost. They trusted routine, trusted the Imperial colours, the supposed safety of their numbers. But here, in the sands, trust was always a mistake.

Without hurry, she reached into a pouch and produced a small metal dragonfly. Its gossamer wings, folded tight, shimmered faintly in the desert sun. She whispered a simple command, and the device whirred softly to life. The wings unfurled, delicate yet purposeful, and it flitted downward like a living thing, alighting gently on the cracked stucco of a nearby building.

Her scope followed it until it vanished against the stucco wall. A perfect perch.

With practised ease, she fitted the earbud into her ear. Static hissed briefly, then cleared. Marek's voice rose through the wind, carried cleanly by the tiny machine.

The Fennec adjusted slightly, settling deeper into the warm sand. She belonged to this place — not the cities with their walls and spires — but the open desert. The silence, the dust, the scent of sun-baked stone.

She watched. She listened.

-----

The Fennec listened in silence, eyes fixed through the scope as Marek leaned casually against the wall beside the stationed PDF soldier. The conversation had been mundane at first — routine, harmless. Then came the words.

“It’s time to remind these desert rats who holds the leash. I’ve got enough to make someone listen.”

The effect was immediate. Her heartbeat slowed, not quickened. A cold calm settled over her like a desert night. No excitement, no panic. Just focus. With deliberate precision, she shifted slightly, adjusting her rifle without a sound. Her bare fingers worked smoothly, feeling the cool, worn metal of every part. The tripod dug into the sand. The bolt cycled with practised familiarity. The faint, mechanical clack of the rifle cocking marked the moment she was ready.

Her breathing slowed — in, hold, out — steady as the desert itself.

Through the scope, Marek stood unaware, gesturing faintly as he continued speaking. The crosshairs found his head naturally. He was perfectly framed against the weathered stucco of the station wall. The Fennec did not smile. There was no thrill, only the familiar weight of responsibility. She could end it now. Yet, she hesitated.

Marek shifted his stance, adjusting the strap of his webbing, and the wind tugged at something beneath it — a faded scrap of cloth. Orange. Subtle. Easily missed.

Her breath caught. The colour was old, sun-bleached, fraying at the edges, tied with no great ceremony. But it was there. Her finger, poised on the trigger, relaxed. She exhaled slowly and, after a measured pause, gently engaged the safety. The crosshair remained on Marek, but now not as the immediate target — but as a puzzle.

The wind whispered softly across the dunes. She would watch. And when the time came, she would know.