They moved like wolves with leashes — Major Sergei barking orders into the smoke, boots slamming against ruined concrete as squads fanned out to hunt the Tartarusios crew. "Get any ground troops we have left. Catch the crew — and I want them alive," he snapped, voice brittle with the mixture of greed and fear that had driven him this far.
Oscar's search turned up nothing; the hangars were hollow, the shadowed corners empty. "Have you found Youri?" he demanded into the comms. Static answered. The panic in the base smelled of burned wiring and oil. Then, suddenly, hands were on him: bright weapons, a command shouted, and the world compressed into one cold, direct moment. "Put your hands up." Confusion, then metallic certainty. "You are under arrest." "For what?" He reply's, clipped and bureaucratic: "Higher up's orders."
Stefan's absence thinned the air. Where had he gone? The answer came like a knife—Stefan was dead, an "unpredictable shootout" with the captain of the Tartarusios, Sergei lied, eyes flicking anywhere but straight at Oscar. Betrayal smelled of money and friction. The exchange that followed was all barter and poison: Sergei had sold them out, traded friends for a purse and a promise of survival. "I give you up to the Empire, I get to live — and get paid." The words slid out like venom.
Even as Sergei preened, a new voice cut through the static — cold, imperious. The Marquis himself. Major Sergei straightened like a puppet whose strings had been tugged. "You have done a good job," the Marquis purred over the feed. "Your fee has been paid." Sergei blinked greedily and dared to ask for one last mercy: a small ship, a quiet exit. "You will leave unharmed," the Marquis promised. The hand that promised mercy also prepared the hammer: "Now then, elevate this battle. This time it's Raven's turn to play."
Up in the empire ship, orders came down like thunder. "Make sure that guy is cared for. I don't want any loose ends." Ravens — units bred for precision ruin — readied themselves. "Raven 1 through 7, copy." Payloads armed, coordinates set, the command was blunt and absolute: burn the base. Pilots quipped about paint, cracked jokes that tasted like ash; somewhere between bravado and fear they strapped in because the machine of war demanded ritual before slaughter. "Fire at will. Crack those havens."
On the ground Sergei played the part he had chosen: smug, petty, small-crowned. He gathered the crew like trophies and told stories of how he'd learned to live by selling secrets. "I live for it," he confessed, soft and awful, as if the confession were an art form. Around him the crew were herded and counted, wrists rough from rope, eyes hard with betrayal. The base smelled of diesel, fear, and something darker — the iron tang of compromise.
Then the earth answered. A low, rolling tremor crawled through the concrete and the corrugated roofs bowed with the first strike. "What is this?!" Sergei said, but the answer was in the sky: orbitons cleaving through cloud's, Ravens diving like falling knives. The base convulsed as ordinance landed and everything useful turned to ruin. "Hey, Captain — couldn't you have told us this was more like a suicide mission?" a voice spat, half-hopeful and half-accusatory. The joke broke as another explosion took a chunk of the wall.
Through the smoke and ringing ears came a voice from the bridge — a tired, iron voice that somehow carried life. "Finally — you made it." Said Oscar. It was not relief so much as recognition, a shard of human sound lodged in the chaos. The survivors – those who could move and run and think through the panic – turned toward that sound like sailors toward a light in a storm. Above them, the Ravens arced for another pass. Below them, bargains and betrayals lay like corpses waiting to be counted. The world narrowed to one urgent truth: survive, or let the sky decide.