The resistance outpost bustled with quiet activity. Low voices traded logistical updates, ration tallies, vehicle status reports. Jagiełło stood at the centre of it, near a long table littered with half-folded maps and dataslates. But when the coded chime of his personal vox-bead crackled in his ear, he stepped away without a word, moving toward a corner where the shadows gathered near the storage crates.

He pressed a finger to the side of his jaw. "Fennec. Report." Silence for a heartbeat. Then the faintest murmur buzzed in his ear. Jagiełło listened, unmoving, his face unreadable. "Continue tracking," he said quietly. "No interference unless the conditions we discussed are met."

More soft static.

His eyes narrowed, though his tone remained level. "I understand. Do not lose him." He tapped the channel closed, then remained still for a few seconds longer, considering.

Behind him, the soft hum of the outpost resumed — muted conversations, the clatter of ration tins, the grinding whine of an engine being coaxed back to life.

Jagiełło returned to the table, eyes flicking once to the maps, then further — westward, where the desert stretched toward the coordinates that still glimmered in his thoughts. He said nothing to the others, but the wheels had begun to turn.

-----

The mess hall was its usual haze of low voices and worn familiarity — the scent of the last meal still lingering, mingling with the faint aroma of old leather and the sharp tang of cheap detergent. My squad clustered around a battered metal table, sharing plates of ration stew and whatever passed for bread in this corner of the desert. I poked at mine, appetite hollow.

The vox operator’s headset crackled, pulling me from my thoughts. He leaned toward me. “Sir—it's Jagiełło.”

The words stiffened my spine. I took the handset without hesitation. “This is the 280th.”

The line buzzed faintly, but Jagiełło’s voice came through, low and controlled.

I kept my replies clipped. “Understood. This evening. Two Chimeras, 312 and 376.” I flicked a glance at the squad, catching Laska’s smirk as she toyed with her meal. “Yes, sir,” I continued. “Engineers and demo specialists attached. Proceeding to the coordinates.”

More static. I nodded out of habit. “We’ll be ready.”

The line went dead.

I set the handset down, standing to address the squad. “Change of plans. We’re moving out tonight.”

A few groans, but no surprise. They’d seen worse.

“Armoury. Now. We’re kitting up for a long haul.”

Laska leaned back, grinning. “Guess I won’t get to spend the evening with my first love after all.”

A few chuckles circled the table, and a groan from Krystan. “Laska, no one wants to hear about you and that spanner.”

I allowed a tight smile. I wasn’t about to ruin what little levity we could muster.

In the armoury, the squad moved with purpose. They might have joked, but every one of them checked weapons, recharged power packs, and inspected their armour. Flamethrowers, grenade launchers, and extra charge packs were distributed. The engineers huddled near the far wall, fussing over tool kits and breaching charges. I double-checked the requisition sheets, making sure everything matched up. It wasn’t perfect — but it was done right. As we stepped out into the chill of the evening, the desert sky beginning to turn the colour of bruised steel, the Chimeras idled at the loading ramp. Their hulls were dulled and pitted, but ready.

“Mount up!” I barked, louder than I needed to.

The squad shuffled toward the vehicles.

I muttered under my breath, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”