(The burning blockade.)
The first sign was the smoke.
A single column, thick and oily, rising straight into the gray sky—too heavy to be a campfire. Too steady to be an accident.
> Draven (flat): “Stop the truck.”
Brakes hissed. Tires bit gravel. The engine idled, grumbling against the sudden silence. Draven stepped out before the vehicle had fully settled, already motioning to his men.
> “Shields up. Sweep the perimeter. Watch the ridgelines.”
The soldiers fanned out, resonance shields flickering to life, blue arcs humming in the damp air. Draven slung his rifle forward, checking the charge with a practiced flick.
> “Alright... Looks like the day won’t be so boring after all.”
> His eyes didn’t leave the smoke.
> “You three. Stay put. Wait here. You only come if called. Clear?”
Vell crossed his arms.
> “Crystal.”
Gaius just nodded, shotgun across his chest. Lyra shifted, fingers brushing her datapad like it might somehow shield her from what was coming.
Draven didn’t wait for complaints. He trudged forward, boots crunching the broken dirt road, vanishing around the bend with half his squad trailing behind.
A moment passed. Then the wind shifted—and the smell hit.
Burnt oil. Melted augments. Charred flesh.
>
Vell (grimacing): “That’s not a campfire...”
Another breath heavier than the last. The tension coiled tight.
Silence—then gunfire.