Al's Rabbit Hole
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Days Gone By Chapter 12
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 06:52:27 +0000 UTC…I still recall the stench of those sewers, the cloying blackness that swallowed us as we moved through the sick underbelly of Western Vasel. The Regulars had abandoned it without a fight, one more sin to add to the pile, and left it to the Militia to pay the blood price to bring it back. Radi was waiting for us, over there, with his guns and his tanks, but what he had prepared for was a different kind of war. An honorable war. We taught him that war was anything but.
-Chapter 3, The End of the Beginning, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front
Chapter Twelve
The rain began to fall just as they pushed the little rowboat into the water. Mist and fog rose from the Vasel River as the cold droplets struck its warm surface, swirling into coils that drifted over the bow. The smell of the river was thick and briny, with the faint acrid tang of cordite carried on the wind, as though the water itself remembered the fire of the battles fought above it. The five of them sat low, two oars pulling in slow rhythm, their cargo of explosives and the Erma stacked between their knees. Above them, the massive silhouette of the Vasel Bridge loomed against the night sky, lit like some brooding giant in the dim glow of lamps and lightning.
Each of their faces were streaked with oily black stripes of paint, meant to break the outline of their skin against any searching lights. Their dark uniforms were already heavy and sodden with rain, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to their bodies, and the air was thick with cold humidity, each breath carrying the damp chill of the storm. The rain grew steadily heavier, drops falling harder with each passing moment. None of them spoke. The only sounds were the creak of the oarlocks, the steady splash of wood through water, and the distant roll of thunder that seemed to chase them downriver.
For now, the river carried them gently, deceptively calm under the storm. The churn had not yet begun, though they knew the moment would come when the current would turn vicious and the boat would lurch as if caught in the hands of some hidden giant. Even now there was the first tug from below, subtle but insistent, the swollen water pressing upward with the weight of fresh rainfall spilling in from every tributary. The smell of the river was stronger here, brine and mud mingling with the faint ghost of gunpowder that clung to the air like an unspoken memory of battle.
Above them the clouds pressed low and heavy, a ceiling of shifting black. Cold humidity clung to their skin, soaking through cloth and paint alike, every breath thick with dampness. Lightning carved through the sky in jagged forks, stark and violent, each flash painting the river in white glare before vanishing back into shadow. Thunder rolled after, long and guttural, shaking their bones and making the oarlocks creak louder in their ears. For an instant with every flash, they saw one another’s faces thrown into relief, grim and set, as the storm seemed to close around them like a shroud.
It was, in a strange way, peaceful. The Imperials seemed content to leave their patrols under cover; their heavy armor didn't care for the rain. The camp lights on the far bank glowed faint through the curtain of mist, but no searching beams cut the river. That suited them well enough. In scarcely more than a minute, the bow of the little boat kissed the stones of the western bank. A grate marked their entry point, its lock rusted and old. Bolt cutters bit through iron with a crunch, the grate swinging wide on hinges that squealed in protest. From the opening came the stench of rot, storm runoff mixed with the filth of the city above.
Juno wrinkled her nose at the stink, covering her mouth with a gloved hand as the foul air rolled out of the grate. The stench was grimy and layered, a rancid brew of rot, brine, and shit, with a sharp tang of mildew rising from the drain. Wendy gagged outright, coughing as she spat into the water, her face twisted with disgust at the brackish reek. Jane only grinned, teeth flashing in the gloom, her tone darkly glib as she quipped, “Smells like biscuits and gravy, huh?”
The joke hung sour in the close air, her voice at odds with the caked-on layers of filth around them. The drain itself was barely large enough to stand in, its walls streaked with muck, rust, and the cloying stench of the city above, but for all the soul looks, Jane seemed almost unbothered. She hauled herself through without hesitation, boots scraping on the slime-slick stone, and shot a hand down to pull Marina after her.
Jerry lingered at the boat’s edge, steadying it with one boot braced hard against the timbers as he passed the bags up one by one. Explosives, satchel charges, tins of ammunition, the long weight of the Erma, all of it shifted heavily as he heaved them from the slick bottom boards. Each load sent the little craft rocking hard, water sloshing close to the gunwale, but his hands were steady, his movements smooth. Dark humor rose unbidden, a half-smile tugging at his mouth as he thought that if the river swallowed them here, it would at least save them the trouble of dying in the fight ahead. To him, this was nothing. The easy part. The real trouble was waiting beyond the grate, and he knew it would come soon enough.
When the last pack was through, he pulled himself up, boots scraping on wet stone, and took a moment to check the line. Everything was in place. The sewers beneath Vasel twisted into a winding labyrinth, their narrow tunnels branching and coiling like veins under the city. Hidden crannies opened up into sudden pockets, half-flooded chambers where stagnant water rippled under their light. They followed the fluorescent markings left behind by resistance fighters, faintly luminous like breadcrumbs in the dark, but the path was never simple. One sweep of the lamp caught the oily paint on a wall, guiding them forward through low arches where water sloshed high against their boots.
At times the pipes narrowed, forcing them to crouch or crawl, shoulders scraping on wet stone, backs hunched beneath dripping beams. Once or twice they had to shimmy sideways, pressing themselves through choking gaps as roaches scuttled along the walls and rats darted away from the light. The smell was overpowering, but to their credit, none of the girls balked, even as the muck caked thick across their boots and clung to their clothes. They endured it in silence, grim determination steadying each step, until the trail led them deeper into the city’s hidden veins.
Navigating the guts of the city took them past midnight, good time all things considered, but it left them foul and filthy. Water lapped around their boots, the stink of mildew and runoff clinging thick as a second skin, and none of them were clean by the time the last turn of the tunnels came into sight. It was a small mercy that they had wrapped their weapons in plastic sacks, otherwise the muck might have ruined them beyond use, but that didn't do much to help the stink.
The important thing was that they had made it. Their route ended at a vertical shaft, capped with a sewer grate, this one opening into a forgotten basement above. From overhead there was only silence, the hush of a building long abandoned. Jane drew her pistol, eyes hard in the dim lamplight, and put her weight into lifting the heavy disk. Muscles taut, she hauled it upward without a sound, and the stale air of the basement washed down over them. The way ahead was clear.
One by one they hauled themselves up, passing the packs after them. The basement was broad, but the roof hung low, its cobbled stone walls slick with age and damp, every seam glistening faintly in the dim glow of their lamps. Old crates and barrels sagged in the corners, forgotten relics left to rot for years, their wood swollen and crumbling with mildew. The smell of stale dust and standing water hung heavy, layered over the faint bite of rust from an iron drain in the far wall. Drips echoed in slow rhythm from the ceiling, tapping into shallow puddles that spread across the floor.
They fanned out with practiced ease, boots crunching across the ground softly, weapons raised to cover the angles of the room. The silence was nearly absolute, a solid weight pressing on their ears, broken only by the shuffle of gear and the soft click of safeties as they prepared themselves. Jerry rose last from the hole, drawing in a breath that tasted of stone and rot, his eyes sweeping across the forgotten space. Then, with the calm weight of command, he gave the order.
“You know where we’re going, and what we're looking for, but the name of this game is quiet. Silenced pistols only. Marina, if you have to shoot, time it with the thunder if you can. We're behind enemy lines here, with... four hours, twenty-eight minutes until Welkin gets here with the welcoming committee.” He glanced around, as the others watched on, their eyes flashing in the dark. "Remember the objectives, remember to stay in cover, and remember, we aren't here to fight fair, so don't. We all go home, or nobody goes home."
"Alright ladies, you heard the Boss." Juno said, patting Marina on the shoulder, and the two began lifting up the Erma and the ammo cans. "Lets get to work."
They glanced at one another, and then at him, before nodding. The door out lead into a deserted alleyway, the ground already soaked from the torrential rain. At his signal, the fireteam split. Jerry, Wendy, and Jane peeled off into the alleys. Juno and Marina ghosted down the opposite path. The city that met them was strangely intact compared to the eastern ruins. The Regulars had abandoned it quickly, without the ruinous shelling that scarred the far side. There was debris, shattered glass, the occasional burned wall, but whole structures still stood, shadows thick and watchful under the curtain of rain.
The first patrol they encountered announced itself long before it came into sight. Even through the steady curtain of rain, Jerry caught the low clank of armor plates rubbing together, the steady rhythm of boots splashing in shallow puddles. The Imperials were speaking freely, voices carrying in the wet night.
“Rations are cold again,” one soldier muttered darkly, his voice carrying in the wet night.
“Always cold, always the same damn stew.” Another spat into the gutter, shaking rain from his shoulders with a curse.
“This rain never ends. Feels like it’s seeping straight into my bones.” The third let out a weary groan, his helmet tilted back slightly as he trudged.
“Night watch in weather like this... every sane man should be under a roof, not slogging through this downpour. Valkyrur-forsaken country. I miss the snow.”
Their words drifted with a relaxed gait, confident that no enemy would be bold enough to come this deep into occupied streets. And who could blame them? They may have lost the east, but they held the bridge, and the bridge held the river. The lazy confidence grated on Jerry’s ears. Complacency was a disease, and he intended to cure it.
He raised one hand, the signal sharp and precise, and the team froze with him in the alley’s mouth. Jane’s eyes flicked to his, a quick nod of understanding, while Wendy shifted her stance, pistol angled but steady. Silent communication passed between them in the span of a breath.
Jerry waited until they drew level, then slid into motion. He seemed to melt out of the shadows themselves, his blade glinting in the dim light of the guttering lamps. He stepped into the lead soldier’s blind spot, his knife flashing once, quick and silent, slipping up under the man's arm with surgical precision. The steel bit deep, fabric and flesh giving way as the blade punctured the lung. The soldier stiffened, eyes wide with shock, breath hissing out in a sharp gasp before Jerry twisted and pulled free. He eased the body down into the mud without a sound.
The second Imp turned, mouth opening to shout, but Wendy’s pistol was already up. The silenced crack split the air and his head snapped back, the round shattering through his visor. A fine spray of blood splattered across the faceplate of the third soldier, who recoiled in shock, stumbling as his rifle slipped from his grasp. For a heartbeat he stood frozen, the red mist clouding his vision. Jane was on him in that instant, driving him back against the alley wall. Her entrenching tool came down in a brutal arc, crunching into the gap beneath his chin and silencing him before a cry could escape, nearly beheading him in the process. The three of them moved in seamless rhythm, the kills landing within breaths of one another. When it was finished, they dragged the corpses into a pile of refuse, tucking them behind shattered planks where shadows pooled.
Jerry gave the hand signal forward, and they advanced once more. The rain poured in cold sheets, carrying the smell of wet stone and ash, the humidity clinging to their skin with every step. Lamps guttered in a few windows, their yellow glow faint and dying, never quite reaching into the street. Most of the buildings loomed dark, their outlines lost in shadow, every doorway and alley mouth deep as a pit. Water sluiced down the cobbles, grit and ash forming rivulets that trickled into the drains, the hiss of runoff muffling the sound of their boots. The shadows seemed to deepen as they moved, heavy and close, the city itself holding its breath as the three figures slid along the walls, pistols raised, eyes scanning each hollow in the dark.
The second patrol fared no better than the first, moving in a line, half blinded by the sheafs of frigid water from above. It was almost too easy, picking off the training man under the rattle of the water as it came down hard, Jane's knife catching him in the throat as she and Wendy gently lowered him to the ground. The other two walked on, oblivious to their friend bleeding out on the ground, his body twitching as the last few neurons fired into an empty mind. The second fell a moment later, Jerry helping drag the limp man into the dark alley beside them, leaving the last moving down an empty street.
He turned, glancing back, and froze. "Rudolph, Viktor? Where are you two?"
He seemed almost surprised when Jerry's arm came around his throat, his weapon falling from his hands as he reached up desperately to grab at the treetrunk arms that had coiled around him, and as the dark started to splash his vision, it was filled with the face of a sneering, vicious woman in a black uniform, streaked in black, oily marks and dripping filth from her hair, like some kind of demented death goddess come to watch as the darkness took him. He tried to fight, tried to scream, but it was useless, as the light faded from his eyes, and he twitched no more, his neck breaking with a sharp snap, his body added to the pile tucked away behind the trash and debris.
No third patrol crossed their path. For Jerry, the absence felt strange, the streets too empty, the silence too deep. The Imperials were no fools; they kept order with professional discipline. Yet here the watch was light, the patrols small and sparse. It made a certain sense, he supposed, after a moment's thought. Most of their forces had been pulled toward the bridgehead, preparing for another Gallian thrust across the bridge. From behind, in the heart of what they had secured weeks ago when the last of the Resistance had been flushed out, they felt untouchable. Safe. That quiet confidence left the alleys thinly patrolled, and Jerry meant to use it. He kept them moving, shadows among shadows, until at last they reached the edge of the camp.
The warehouse loomed against the rain, the building’s flanks dark and silent. Around it, the Imperials had driven a perimeter of chain-link fencing between iron posts, a boundary for their camp rather than any part of the structure itself. Jerry crouched, wirecutters whispering as they bit through the steel. The links rattled softly as he peeled the gap wide enough, and the three of them slipped through into the yard. Rain drummed steadily on tarps and metal roofs, every surface slick with water as the sky barked above them, a flash of lightning cutting through even the heavy wall of rain from above.
Juno’s voice crackled in his earpiece, low and urgent. “Perimeter guard, northwest, heading your way.”
Jerry motioned the others down, pressing behind a pile of shipping crates piled high and covered with a hood of netting. Boots pounded on the gravel path nearby. Five soldiers marched past in neat formation, rifles ready, armor heavier than the outside patrols, and deadly serious as they flashed their lights over the area. Their discipline was sharper, hunting in the beating heart of the occupation camp, but Jerry had picked his spot well, the gap hidden by a mass of barrels. The three Gallians waited in silence until the clank of armor faded into the storm.
“Move,” Jerry whispered, and they ghosted deeper into the depot.
The first fuel stockpile was situated in a squat, sprawling depot, lit brightly by a web of floodlamps fixed to tall poles. The glow left harsh shadows between the stacks of Ragnoline barrels, each pallet covered loosely by tarps that did little to hide the soft blue shimmer leaking out. Watchmen paced along the lanes, boots crunching on gravel, rifles slung but ready as they passed between the rows in pairs. Their voices carried in low murmurs, a grumble here, a clipped order there, the sound of men serious about their duty.
Jerry crouched low and motioned the team into position. He and Jane slid along the depot’s inner wall, peering through the lanes between tarp‑covered pallets to map the guards’ routine. From there they tracked the rhythm of each pass, eyes sharp for the momentary gaps. Wendy slipped into the lanes, a shadow among tarps and barrels. She hugged the stacks as patrols moved by, waiting for boots to fade before darting to the next cover. Her hands moved quickly, tucking charges deep under the tarps and into the heart of the pallets where no eye would catch them.
One charge. Two. Each time Jerry studied the rhythm of the guards and signaled her forward with a closed fist or a sharp point. A light swept across the rows, catching nothing, before moving on. She pressed herself flat as two soldiers walked by, their lanterns swinging low, then moved again as soon as their backs were turned.
One by one, four pallets were seeded, their deadly burden hidden in plain sight. Above, Jane shifted her grip on her rifle, whispering that the patrols were looping back faster now. Jerry gave a curt nod, his jaw tightening with each successful placement. The hum of power seemed to vibrate faintly from the stacked fuel, a dangerous heartbeat waiting for the right spark to bring the whole depot down.
The second depot fell with the same clockwork precision as the first. The three commandos moved in perfect rhythm, dancing between patrols as though every step had been rehearsed a hundred times. Wendy slipped from cover to cover, her movements deceptively playful in their speed, leaving behind a litany of deadly surprises in the form of her detonation charges. Despite her manic streak and her almost lustful delight in the destruction to come, her timing and precision were unmatched. Each charge was placed for maximum effect, tucked so deep that even a thorough search would have missed it. Jerry and Jane shadowed her progress, intercepting glances and keeping the rhythm steady, until the depot had been wired so heavily it would leave nothing but a crater behind.
The third depot proved even easier. Deeper into the occupation camp, the watch grew thinner, the guards more distracted. A cluster of patrollers had congregated around a small radio set, its tinny speaker rattling out the play‑by‑play of some Imperial sport while they chewed rations from their packs. Their laughter and jeers carried above the rain, drowning out the soft movements of the Gallians as they slipped through the building and seeded its stacks with charges. By the time the game’s announcer called the final score, the three commandos were already gone, leaving behind a silent deathtrap waiting in the shadows.
The fourth was not so kind. Luck, which had carried them smoothly through the earlier depots, suddenly turned sour. A guard shirked his patrol, leaning against a stack, grabbing a smoke and hidden from view. A faint rattle of shifting barrels carried over the storm at just the wrong moment, and his head snapped up. Suspicion narrowed his eyes as he stepped around the corner, boots clomping loudly. Wendy froze, her hand still brushing the cold rim of a barrel, caught in the open.
His eyes widened in recognition. For a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Then chaos erupted. Jane fired first, her pistol hiss-cracking in the confined space, the sound harsh even beneath the storm’s roar. The shot punched through his throat and the man collapsed, armor scraping loudly down the stack of drums. The racket echoed like a warning bell, rolling across the depot and raising the hairs on the back of their necks.
What should have been another silent takedown had become a siren in the dark, and Jerry knew that they had to act fast. The three of them braced for the fallout, weapons raised, as the silence around them strained on the edge of breaking.
“What was that?” another voice called from deeper in the depot. “Sounded like a fuse blowing."
"It sounded like something fell!” Another called out, and the sounds of moving boots had the hair on the backs of their necks standing up. "Has anyone seen Ferdinand? I swear, if you broke something-!"
Jerry froze them with a gesture. Two more guards appeared, peering toward the noise. Jerry signaled and moved with silent precision. He and Jane circled wide, knives drawn. He let them get close, real close, and for a moment, the first guard spotted the boots of his friend, his body springing into action. That was the moment Jerry had been waiting for. When he turned his head, Jerry’s blade drove deep into the shoulder of the first, slipping into the gap between the breast- and back-plates, slicing deep into the guard's flesh. Jane caught the other with a sudden punch to the throat, making him gag as the knife came in to catch him in his unprotected spine, digging deep as she found the gap under his helmet. Both bodies toppled silently into their arms, and then gently lowered to the ground. A moment of shifting found the bodies stacked under a tarp, an imperfect solution, but good enough for now.
The depot lay quiet again. The three of them drew back into the storm, slipping into the alleyways once more, the rain washing blood from their hands. Behind them the bodies of the dead cooled quietly, lives ended without ceremony and left to burn when the inevitable happened. Each step forward carried the weight of finality; every man cut down was one more nail in the coffin of the occupation.
The clock was ticking. In barely two hours Welkin would be ready to move, and the explosions they left behind had to pave the way. There was no time to waste, no chance to hesitate. Jerry tightened his grip on his pistol, eyes fixed ahead, his mind already on the next objective. The night was far from over, and there was still work to be done.
The armory loomed larger than the warehouses, an old factory turned into the beating heart of the camp. Even in the storm its silhouette was massive, walls of brick and iron braced with makeshift scaffolds, the windows blocked with steel plating. Pale light bled through cracks in the shutters, and shadows moved inside with mechanical precision. Around the perimeter, patrols walked their routes with measured steps, rifles in hand and eyes sharp. Unlike the scattered guards at the fuel depots, these men were watchful, the storm doing nothing to slacken their vigilance.
Jerry led them into the lee of a collapsed shed, crouching low as water streamed from the roof in heavy sheets. He studied the small western entrance through the slits of shadow, noting the lone sentry standing there with his rifle across his chest. The man shifted his weight now and then, stamping a boot against the cold, but his eyes remained forward, posture disciplined despite the storm hammering at him. The yard around the building was the real issue, wide open but for the cover of the rain, and even in the din he could see at least two roving patrols. This would need some... finesse.
Jerry keyed the radio softly. “Juno, eyes on the western entrance?”
A moment of static, then Juno’s voice, hushed but firm. “Affirmative. We have eyes on it. What are you thinking?”
Jerry breathed out slow. “Can Marina get a clear line on that guard?"
"She says yes." Juno said, voice low, as if they could hear her if she spoke too loud.
"Wait for a flash, and then take him. Time it for when the patrols are moving away, but don't wait on my signal. We'll make do down here."
"Affirmative." Was the only reply he got. It wasn't long before the first crack of thunder hit, but the guards were too close, and then the second chance was lost when someone poked their head out to talk to the man. It wasn't until almost ten tense minutes had passed that the stars aligned.
For a heartbeat the storm masked all sound, then a flash lit the sky above, followed by a thunderous crack. The sentry jerked, knees buckling as his body slumped against the doorframe before sliding into the wet grass. The gap was made. Jerry motioned with two fingers and they sprinted low across the yard, boots splashing shallow but lost under the thunder. They reached the wall and pressed in tight, the rain pouring down their helmets and dripping from their noses. The body was tossed into a nearby bush, and the three slipped in.
The doors groaned as Jerry’s hand twisted the latch shut. Inside, the armory stretched cavernous and dim, lit by flickering lamps strung along the rafters. The air was thick with oil, damp stone, and the faint tang of hot metal. To the right, a heavy door opened into a side chamber where rows of crates and racks of weapons were stacked high. Ammunition boxes, rifles in neat lines, and spare armor plates filled the space, all of it under the eyes of three watchful soldiers standing guard with rifles ready. Their presence made clear that this was the stockpile’s heart, the tools of war guarded with care.
The other half of the armory was even more imposing. The factory floor had been converted into a machine shop and tank bay, its wide center lined with heavy tools, spare treads, and thick chains dangling from beams. Six tanks loomed in their bays, massive shapes of Imperial steel, half stripped for maintenance while the rest slumbered under tarps. Stacks of shells and spare parts lined the walls in careful rows, gleaming faintly in the unsteady light. The sight alone set Jerry’s jaw tight; if these beasts rolled into the fight tomorrow, the Edelweiss wouldn't last long.
“Quiet," he mouthed. Jane and Wendy gave the barest of nods and melted into the busy room. As they split, Jerry’s gaze drank in the room with rapid, practiced observation. To the right a separate chamber opened, its doorway heavy with iron reinforcement and a trio of soldiers standing guard just inside, rifles at the ready. Beyond them, the room was loaded down with racks of rifles, all hung in neat, orderly rows, ammunition boxes stamped and stacked three deep, and spare armor plates arranged along the walls.
To the left the main bay consumed most of the floor space, a cathedral of steel ringing with the smell of oil and hot metal. Mechanics in coveralls hunched over engines and treads, their movements efficient and practical despite the storm. Tanks rested in their stalls like sleeping beasts, tarps half-draped over hulks of Imperial steel, while stacks of shells and spare parts marched in tidy ranks along the walls. Two roving sentries threaded the central aisle in an even cadence, rifles cradled and scanning for anything out of place.
With a silent confirmation, the three decided to take out the tanks first, the armory too well guarded to tackle just yet. Taking the left, Jerry slipped along the closest wall, Jane slipping to the other side of the bay and hugging the far wall, and Wendy hugging the shadowed seam between them. There were a number of mechanics, maybe half a dozen, the late shift, maybe or just some people trying to get some last minute repairs in, it didn't matter. They were an obstacle, and a target.
Jerry moved first, gliding between crates until he loomed behind the nearest mechanic. One arm clamped over the man’s mouth, the knife sliding across his throat in a clean draw. He lowered the body, tucking it behind a stack of spare treads. Across the bay, Jane mirrored him, her knife flashing as she slipped behind a second mechanic. One quick thrust to the base of the skull ended him before he could cry out, and she eased the body down into a grease pit, the body hidden by the tank above it. Wendy, already crouched under a tank, set the first charge against its radiator blades before slipping deeper among the machines.
They worked in deadly harmony. Jerry checked the aisles, intercepting the path of one of the patrolling guards. Timing it with Jane, he drove his knife into the man’s side, twisting until breath wheezed out of him. Jane baited the second guard with a tossed bolt clattering across the floor. When he turned, puzzled, she drove him back into the corner with a strike that left him twitching on the ground. Each kill was hidden swiftly, each charge planted with care. Dispatching the remaining mechanics was easy, the noise of the shop masking the hiss-cracks of their pistols under the scream of metal grinders and torches.
One by one the six tanks were sabotaged, with a few more placed inside the racks of shells for good measure. All that was left was the armory itself.
The armory itself demanded a different touch. The secured chamber to the right was not simply a storeroom but a fortified bunker, its iron doorway guarded by three soldiers with rifles ready. From the corner, Jerry could see two armorers inside at their benches, ragnite lamps casting them in harsh light against walls lined with racks of rifles and neat stacks of ammunition crates. The smell of gun oil, cordite and lead seeped into the air, the closer they got, heavy and thick. Five men in total stood between them and the stockpile, three at a relaxed alert, the others toiling away at the benches. Jerry studied them, watching them move, and noticed that the third guard, the youngest, moved out to walk the racks.
It was an opportunity he wouldn't let pass. Motioning to Jane and Wendy to move back, he slipped a small mirror from a pouch, angling it just so. It flickered in the light, just barely, as he slid back behind a rolling toolbox, and waited. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but a sudden slam of the toolbox's lid had the young soldier glancing over. It was enough to bring him off the beaten path, not noticing just how it cut him off from the other two guards' line of sight, and it was all he needed.
Jerry moved fast, sliding in behind him, one arm clamping tight around his neck while the knife pressed cold at his throat. The man stiffened, then sagged as he was dragged into the shadows, his eyes wide as Wendy ripped his gun from his hands in a smooth, singular motion and Jane pulled his pistol and knife away. Disarmed, and the press of cold steel against his throat, he froze, what few struggles he tried to put up lost as the reality of the situation sank in.
"What's your name?" Jerry whispered, his tone dark, menacing and cold. The man seemed to try to think, to say something, anything, but the touch of the blade, it's thin bite drawing a single bead of blood down his neck, changed his mind.
"H-H-Hans!" He gasped out, in a strangled tone. The man holding him hummed quietly as the two women watched him with impassive glares.
"Hans, huh? Nice to meet you Hans." The words were hissed as the arm around his throat tensed. "You like being alive, don't you Hans?"
Choked off and barely able to draw in air, Hans nodded frantically, before abruptly stopping as the blade bit deeper.
"Good, Hans. because I want you to live too. But I have a problem. Your friends over there are blocking the way, and I need them to come over here. So if you want to keep on living, I need you to call them over." The edge of the knife stung ever so slightly as the man shifted behind him. "Just call to them, Hans. You try to warn them, you do anything stupid, you disappoint me in any way, and you won't be living any more. Got it, Hans?"
Hans nodded again, his hands clutching the arm around his throat desperately.
"Now, call to them Hans. Do it."
"Lars! Friedrich! I need a hand here!” he croaked, voice thin with fear.
“What did you knock over this time, Hans?” came the weary reply.
"Look, I just need a ha-hand now! T-this is heavy damnit!" Hans' voice went an octave higher, and a sigh could be heard even over the din, put upon and frustrated. Boots rang as the other two approached, a language Jerry didn't recognize coming from one guard to the other as they turned the corner.
The knife touched Hans' neck again, and he called out "Over here!"
Deeper in the two armored soldiers went, past where Jane hid with Wendy.
"Damnit, Hans, where did you hare off to this time, idiot!" One said, and, with a snake's speed and lethal precision, Wendy struck, her knife slipping into the gap at the back of the first guard, between the ribs, and into his lung, just as she'd been taught. Jane’s knife took the second’s throat in the same instant. The captive flinched, eyes wide, when the two were dispatched, their lifeblood staining the concrete below. He didn't even feel the blade across his throat, either, until his knees hit the ground and the air just... wouldn't reach his lungs. Jerry watched on with blank eyes as the soldier, barely a man, flopped helplessly on the ground, betrayal and shock in his eyes. A victim, he thought, of his own cowardice.
A moment later the three were at the fortified door. Jerry shoved it open, revealing the guts of the armory itself. Inside, the two armorers turned in shock. One fumbled for a pistol on the bench, the other reaching for his rifle, but it was too little, too late. Wendy slid in beside Jerry, her pistol cracking once, with Jane’s a heartbeat later. Both men dropped, one collapsing across his tools, the other sliding lifeless down the wall. A second shot made sure.
With the chamber cleared, Wendy went to work, mixing the explosives charges with the firebombs. She planted charges deep into ammunition lockers, wedged them under racks of rifles, and fixed one beneath a bench heavy with tools. Each placement was precise, her eyes glinting with a manic spark.
“Hey Boss?” Jane called from the side as she rifled through the benches, catching Jerry’s attention.
“What is it, Jane?” He asked, walking over, as he looked at the piles of what looked like designs spread out over the table, and seeing it was a modification blueprint of some kind.
“What do you think it is?” she asked, as Wendy finished setting the last of the charges. He honestly had no idea, but it looked like it was for a tank of some kind.
“Cheslock, front and center.” He called over his shoulder, and the pyromaniac strolled up, looking more pleased than she had in a while.
“What’s up, Boss? Found something interesting?” She asked, leaning past him.
“Seems so. Can you make heads or tails of it?”
“It’s engineering schematics alright. Weight ratios, torque measurements, that kinda stuff. Looks like someone is trying to bolt another fifty tons of armor plate to a heavy tank, but… it’s weird.” She said after a second.
“Weird how?” Jerry asked. Wendy just shrugged.
“This kinda stuff isn’t my specialization, Boss, but it looks like they’re trying to cover the radiator, which is fine if they wanna make it a furnace, or a rolling bomb. It’d be okay for an hour or two, but without any venting of the loose ragnoline particles you’re looking at a catastrophic failure.”
“Then why do it?” Jane asked, glancing at the schema.
“Because for those two hours the thing would be basically invincible. Even the Edelweiss’ cannon doesn’t have the punch to get through armor this thick, much less a light tank’s. Lances aren’t even an afterthought.”
“That’s… hrm. Does it say anything about if this thing is out there somewhere? I didn’t see it in the machine shop.” he asked, finally, and Wendy started shuffling through the sheafs of paper, tossing this and that as she ripped through it.
“Doesn’t say, Boss, but the tank is apparently the Lupus. General Jaeger’s personal ride. It’s already on the list, so maybe we can nip it in the bud?”
“We’ll keep an eye out. Everything else finished here?” He asked, and the two nodded an affirmation.
“Then we're done here. Let's get out before someone notices.”
They retraced their steps, slipping back toward the western entrance. But voices carried suddenly, muffled through the storm outside. A two‑man patrol was circling back earlier than expected. Juno’s voice hissed in their ears, urgent. “Heads up. Patrol at your door. Twenty seconds.”
Jerry cursed under his breath. They ducked behind the last tank just as the doors opened, rain gusting in with the two guards. “Carl? You in here?” one called, irritation clear in his voice. “You lazy bastard, if we catch you hiding from the rain in here again, I'll have your guts for garters!”
Their boots clanged across the iron grates as they strolled in, irritation plain in their voices as they muttered about Carl’s laziness and the miserable duty of checking after him. Their tone was casual, annoyed but unsuspecting, the storm outside still heavy enough to make them raise their voices. Step by step the irritation ebbed into uncertainty, their helmets turning left and right as they noticed how empty the factory floor was. One frowned, pointing at the dim shape of a fallen wrench in the aisle. “Odd,” he muttered, unease creeping in now. “The tools are left out... but where the hell is everyone?”
He never got an answer. Jerry burst from cover, his pistol barking twice, rounds slamming into the man’s chest. The second guard whirled, eyes wide, only for Jane to catch him in the back with her own. He tumbled to the ground, and the two bodies were dragged into the shadow of a vehicle pit. Jerry’s pulse pounded in his ears. That had been too close, too close.
He motioned them out, and they slipped back into the storm, the doors closing silently behind. Lightning split the sky above, thunder chasing close behind. Around them the camp slept, unaware of the doom seeded into its core. Jerry’s thoughts centered on the ticking clock: time was running thin.
The rain didn’t let up as they slipped out from the armory, the storm pressing down over the city like a weight. The streets were slick with water, the gutters running high, and sheets of runoff splashed into the alleys in restless surges. Jerry led them into the shelter of storage shed, crouching low as the lightning gave the rooftops harsh, skeletal outlines. They were soaked to the bone, uniforms clinging heavy against their bodies, but there was no pause, no reprieve. The clock ticked on, and with it came the pressure of Welkin’s plan: in little more than an hour, the Edelweiss would be arriving, and they still had a laundry list of targets.
Juno’s voice crackled through the radio, strained but clear. “Perimeter patrols are doubling back quicker now, Boss. They’re starting to notice the gaps. You’ve stirred the hornet’s nest.”
Jerry answered with a low growl. “Then we move faster. Where’s our next target?”
“Head east, toward sector three. They’ve turned and old hotel into a barracks. Be careful, though, it'll be teeming with Imps.”
Jerry grimaced at that, but didn't reply. He just clicked his radio twice to confirm what she'd said. Things were starting to get complicated, but with so much riding on them softening up this nightmare for the assault, there wasn't time to second guess it.
He motioned for the others to follow, and they broke cover, slipping into the alleys that twisted through the camp, half of them from converted buildings, others from hastily erected tents and towering supply pallets. The camp itself was structured like a large rectangular plaza, the Imps clearly dug in for the long haul. More fool them, Jerry thought grimly, as he slid past a roving guard, Jane and Wendy close by. A flash of lightning cracked overhead as the building they wanted came into sight.
At the edge of the square, Jerry pulled them up short. The hotel sat hunched against the street, four stories of stone and brick, its awning sagging under the weight of water. Imperial banners hung limp in the rain, draped over balconies where sandbags and crates had been stacked into firing positions. A single lantern burned at the entrance, where one tired guard slouched in his chair, half-dozing with his rifle across his lap. Beyond him, through the open doorway, voices drifted from within, the sound of dozens of men at rest.
“Same plan as before,” Jerry whispered. “Quiet in, charges down, then we ghost out.”
Jane’s lips curved in a humorless smile, all teeth. "Good place for a cookout, Boss."
"Oh, you have no idea." Wendy whispered back as the three waited for a chance to move.
They crossed the square in a crouching run, hugging shadows, the rain drumming loud enough to hide their approach. Wendy darted forward first, sliding low to the awning with the grace of a predator. She flowed behind the dozing sentry, her arm snapping around his jaw as her blade danced across his throat. His body sagged soundlessly, breath escaping in a final rattle. Jane was already moving, slipping in from the flank, gripping the limp soldier’s collar and hauling him swiftly behind the foyer desk, tucking him out of sight before his blood made too much of a mess. Jerry’s eyes flicked forward as he raised signaled them. At this early hour not even the cooks were up, the clock ticking just past four.
Inside, the air was warm and stale, heavy with the stink of wet wool and unwashed bodies. The foyer was cluttered with crates and discarded gear, ration tins stacked beside Imperial helmets, half-empty bottles scattered across the counter. The three of them moved quick, Wendy directing them as they emptied nearly the entire second pack of it's firebombs, laced under tables and tucked inside roof tiles, lining the building with enough fire to burn it down twice. The only exits were on the bottom floor, and the stairwells made for perfect chimneys.
There had been few men awake at this hour, the occasional hall-walker, or someone looking to use the toilet, but for the most part it was quick and quiet. They didn't need to wire up the upper levels. The crawling flames and lack of exits would do the rest for them, unless they jumped. Then, again, if they did, that was just as good. Either way, once Wendy set the last charge, and looked at Jerry with a malicious grin.
"This is going to be SPEC-tacuylar. That's everything we need here, Boss."
Jerry nodded once, curt. “Then we’re finished here. Out, before someone wakes up.”
They retraced their steps carefully, moving past the dead guard at the foyer. Outside, the rain swallowed them whole again. Jerry keyed the radio. “First barracks seeded. Moving to the second.”
“Copy,” Juno answered. “But be advised, enemy traffic’s picking up. They’re shifting men toward your sector.”
"Damn," Jerry muttered a curse as they set off through the forest of crates again, "Bound to happen sooner or later, though. Jane, Wendy, eyes open. We're on borrowed time."
"Do you want Marina to start picking off stragglers? Sow some chaos?" Jane whispered after a moment, but Jerry shook his head.
"No, I want everyone nice and situated once those charges go." He said, before flicking his radio. "Juno, you've got the line. Prep for callsign: Flash. Copy?"
"Copied, Boss. Flash on your mark." Came the reply as they slipped to the next target."
The second barracks was smaller, less fortified, a single-story structure that had once been a warehouse. Now it was nothing more than a wide hall crammed with bunks and footlockers. Rain ran off the tarred roof in steady streams, pooling into mud around the foundation. There was a sentry by the door, but a quick look around showed them that they wouldn't need to worry about him.
A grate along the base of the wall gave them the opening they needed. Jerry pried it loose, and Wendy slipped into the crawlspace, her face slightly aghast at the prospect of crawling through the mess down there. The space was thick with webs and filth, the smell of rot heavy, but she forced herself through until she was beneath the floor. Ten minutes later she emerged, soaked and grimy, brushing cobwebs from her face.
“Charges are set,” she whispered, spitting dirt from her mouth. “Valkyrur, that was... bleh.”
Jane smirked. “Hey, you've got a... nevermind.”
Wendy shot her a glare. “Got a what? What is it!?" She hissed while brushing her hands over her hair, her face and her uniform, to Jane's quiet snickering.
"Stow it, Jane. And there's nothing there, Wendy." Jerry hissed, but discreetly brushed the spider off her pack anyway. Two barracks down, and the storm hid their tracks. Twenty minutes to showtime, and they had done well to make the most of it, but there was still one thing on the list that he wanted to see done before the end.
