Chapter 85: The Scavenger's "Kind" Advice
Kian's sudden explosion of violence caught everyone off guard. The loud-mouthed rebel leader—a man named Arum—was now pinned to the floor, his legs twitching as Kian's fists turned his face into a topographical map of bruises.
The other cell commanders drew their various stubbers and pipe-guns, aiming them at Kian's back.
"Halt! Cease this madness!!"
"Release him, or we'll open you up like a ration-can!!"
"Guards! Where are the damn guards?!"
The room was a chorus of frantic shouting. Some of the leaders already had their fingers tightening on their triggers.
Elder Silas, seeing the situation spiraling toward a fratricidal bloodbath, lunged forward and positioned himself between Kian and the guns.
"Lower your weapons! Everyone! Whoever fires a shot in my hall is an enemy of Silas until the day the Warp takes me!!"
The rebels paused. Despite their shared cause, they were not a unified army; their structure was closer to a collection of neo-feudal warlords. Aside from the high-command, these local cell leaders were peers. To kill a guest in Silas's home was an unforgivable breach of the "Scavenger's Code."
Silas's reputation would be liquidated. If a man died under his protection, regardless of the reason, it meant Silas was weak or incompetent. He'd never have a seat at the table again.
Seeing the guns lower, Silas turned to Kian, grabbing him from behind and trying to haul him off the unconscious Arum.
"Enough, Voss! Stop! You're going to kill him! Talk sense, damn you! Talk sense!"
Kian, whose ears had been pinned for the sound of a safety clicking off, realized Silas had regained control. He stopped punching and hopped back to his feet with a fluid, stimm-boosted grace.
He wiped a smear of blood onto his rags and spat on the dazed Arum. Then, he turned a burning gaze on the rest of the commanders.
"You absolute grox-brains!" Kian snarled, his voice a rasping blade. "Use those walnut-sized lumps of grey matter you call brains for five seconds. What do I gain by working with the PDF to trap you? Do you think they want your land? Do you think they want your 'talents' for farming?"
Kian leaned forward, his expression purely malevolent. "To the Spire-Lords, your lives aren't even worth the cost of the ammunition it takes to end them. The only reason your pathetic 'Revolution' hasn't been snuffed out is because the PDF is too lazy to do the paperwork. Being killed by a bullet forged by the Cult Mechanicus is the only lucky thing that will ever happen to your miserable bloodlines!!"
The verbal assault was so toxic it made the rebel leaders turn a violent shade of red. Kian, drawing on his legendary experience from the most "fragrant" online forums of the Age of Terra, unleashed a verbal storm that would have made a Chaos Sorcerer blush.
He systematically insulted every man in the room, the dog passing by the door, and every female ancestor in their family trees back to the founding of the colony. In ten seconds, he had effectively adopted two hundred sons and a thousand grandsons.
The atmosphere in the room turned from hostile to explosive. Twenty gun barrels and forty jagged blades were now pointed directly at Kian's throat. If Silas hadn't been standing there like a human shield, Kian would have been diced into servitor-meat in a heartbeat.
Silas screamed for order, begging them to focus on the fact that a PDF company was arriving at dawn. But the two sides were addicted to the exchange of insults, questioning each other's lineage with feverish intensity.
Finally, Silas snapped. He let out a roar of frustration and stepped aside, clearing the path between Kian and the armed rebels.
"Fine! Curse you all!" Silas yelled. "Shout! Fight! Kill each other! I'm out of the way! Go on then, finish it!"
The moment the "fence" was removed, the shouting died. The room, which had been a buzzing hive of obscenities, went so silent you could hear the carbon build-up in the glow-globes.
The rebels stared at Kian. Kian stared back, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the longsword.
It was the classic "Barricaded Curs" phenomenon. As long as Silas was in the middle, everyone felt safe enough to bark. But with the barrier gone and the reality of a fight with a stimm-boosted killer looming, the rebels found their courage suddenly failing them.
Silas trembled with rage, pointing a finger at both groups.
"Nothing to say now? No more fighting? I'm not holding you back! Go for it!"
The commanders looked away, muttering under their breaths.
Silas let out a cold snort. He turned to his guards. "Flip the table back up. Drag the idiot Arum to a med-tent to sleep off his 'education'."
Minutes later, the heavy oak table was upright again. The warlords sat in a grim circle, the previous tension replaced by a heavy, professional gloom.
"I will say this one last time," Silas growled. "It is noon. At first light tomorrow, a PDF strike force will arrive to scour the surface. This concerns our lives and the lives of the thousands we protect. If anyone else wants to play games, get out of my sight. You aren't welcome here."
The tone was set. The question of Kian's loyalty was shelved. Whether he was a spy or not, he had provided intel. If they ignored it and the PDF arrived, they were dead anyway.
They spent the next twenty minutes debating. The options were binary: Stand and Fight, or Burn and Run.
Retreat was a bitter pill. They had built this sector over years. They had dug wells, built schools, and established craft-workshops. To run meant leaving everything to be incinerated by the PDF. They would be refugees in other cells, losing their status and their autonomy. A warlord without a warren is just another beggar.
The decision was unanimous: Fight.
They began a census of their combined strength. Between the eight cells, they could muster a formidable "Militia":
120 Cavalry (Bio-modified Cyber-steeds).
350 "Gunners" (Makeshift autoguns and pipe-rifles).
700 Melee irregulars (Cleavers, clubs, and shields).
It was a large force on paper, but the faces around the table were etched with doubt. They knew the truth. They were a swarm of flies against a plasteel wall. The PDF had standard-issue rifles, flak-armor they couldn't penetrate, and the Chimera—a box of armored death they had no way to crack.
As the silence of uncertainty filled the shack, Elder Silas turned to Kian, who was sitting in the corner, casually puffing on a Lho-stick.
"Master Scavenger, how do we fight this war? Do you have any ideas?"
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