Rose O'Connor's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Dalmore was falling apart. Once a hub of trade and innovation, its open streets and bustling ports welcomed travelers from all over the world. But during the war, the city had sealed itself behind hastily-built walls—monuments to desperation. Beyond them, thousands of refugees crowded into makeshift camps, their shelters little more than patched tarps and rusted sheet metal. Inside the city, conditions weren’t much better. The air reeked of sweat, rot, and the faint chemical sting of overworked filtration systems struggling to keep the city alive. The streets were congested with civilians who had nowhere else to go, filling every alleyway, every abandoned shopfront, every half-standing building. Water rations were strict, food distribution was barely functional, and the heat—unrelenting, suffocating and it only worsened tempers. The military occupied the old broadcast building, a relic from before the war, when Dalmore still had something worth broadcasting. It had been gutted of its original purpose, transformed into a command center lined with outdated computers and flickering monitors, all wired into an overworked power grid that threatened to fail at any moment. Soldiers came and went, barking orders, scanning reports, keeping an uneasy eye on the world beyond the walls. From the top floor, General Ryder Vashin surveyed the mess below. The refugee camps stretched out like a second city, a ghostly twin to the one he was supposed to protect. Smoke curled from scattered fire pits, the only source of warmth during the cold nights for those who had lost everything. Vashin stood motionless, arms crossed, the hard lines of his face carved deeper by years of exhaustion and grit. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, but streaked with silver. The military coat he wore—patched, faded, but still fastened with pride—hung off his broad shoulders like a relic from a better time. They had been holding Dalmore for months, but it wasn’t sustainable. The walls kept the Rean out, but nothing could stop the slow decay from within. The city wasn’t just overcrowded—it was on the verge of collapse. And when that happened, Dalmore wouldn’t need the Rean to fall. General Ryder Vashin had fought in more battles than he cared to count. He had watched cities burn, men break, and governments fall, but Dalmore was different. This wasn’t a warzone—it was a slow, agonizing death. Vashin’s arms were crossed as he looked down at the streets below. The city groaned under its own weight, overflowing with desperate people who still clung to the idea that Dalmore could keep them safe. But the truth? The walls weren’t impenetrable. The food wouldn’t last forever. And if Talenstar really wasn’t making a cure, as he suspected, then they were on their own. A knock at the door. Vashin didn’t look away from the window. “Enter.” A lieutenant stepped in, saluting stiffly. “Sir, Colonel Rose has arrived.” Of course she had. Vashin exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. Late as usual. The general had no patience for Rose’s antics today. But like it or not, she was one of the few officers he had left, and that meant he had to deal with her. “Send her in.” The lieutenant hesitated. “Sir, she—uh—she brought something with her.” Vashin turned, his expression darkening. “Define ‘something.’” Before the lieutenant could answer, the door swung open, and in strolled Colonel Rose, grinning like she had just won a bet. A half-empty bottle of something strong dangled from her fingers, and her uniform—if it could even be called that anymore—was wrinkled, stained, and missing the top two buttons. “Vashin,” she greeted, taking a swig. “Hope you don’t mind. I brought refreshments.” Vashin closed his eyes for a brief moment. Of all the soldiers left in Alister’s battered military, why did he have to be stuck with her? Vashin didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, taking in the mess of a woman before him. The pink curls—shaved on one side, wild on the other—made her look more like a rogue mercenary than a colonel. The bottle in her hand only reinforced the impression. Rose flopped into a chair across from his desk, propping her boots up on the surface without a care. “Hell of a view you got up here. All that suffering, all that despair. Warms the heart, don’t it?” Vashin sighed. “Get your damn feet off my desk.” Rose gave him an exaggerated eye roll but complied, dropping her boots to the floor with a thud. “You’re no fun, old man.” Vashin ignored the jab. He was used to it. “You’re late.” She shrugged. “You’re surprised?” Vashin moved around his desk, taking a seat across from her. “You were supposed to report in this morning. I assume you have some sort of explanation that isn’t just ‘I was drinking myself unconscious again.’” Rose grinned and took another swig from her bottle. “What, you think I just sit around all day wasting away? I’ll have you know I was out in the field, getting my hands dirty while you were up here brooding.” “Drunk on duty, again,” Vashin muttered. Rose leaned in, grinning wider. “Drunk and still better at my job than half these tight-asses running around pretending they’re heroes.” Vashin drummed his fingers against the desk. “Did you at least bring me something useful? Intel, reports, anything that justifies your existence?” Rose raised a finger, wobbling slightly in her seat. “As a matter of fact, yes. I did. But if you’re gonna be an ass about it, maybe I’ll just keep it to myself.” Vashin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rose.” She sighed dramatically, then leaned forward, her voice dropping into something grim. “It’s bad out there, General. Worse than usual. You can feel it — people getting twitchy. Not just the civilians either. Some of ours are starting to wonder if it’s even worth staying.” Vashin didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He’d seen it too — the tension coiling tighter with every lost patrol, every empty food shipment, every grave dug in the mud outside the walls. He leaned back, studying Rose across the battered desk. She didn’t say things like this unless it was already boiling over. “You think we’re close to losing them?” he asked. Rose exhaled slowly, swirling the liquor in her bottle. “I think we already are.” For a moment, neither of them spoke — the weight of Dalmore’s slow collapse settling between them like a third presence in the room. Finally, Vashin reached into a drawer and pulled out two glasses. He set one down in front of her with a quiet clink. Rose arched an eyebrow. “Well, damn. You must really think the end’s coming.” He poured himself a drink without blinking. “Not the end. Just… time running out.” She tapped her bottle against his glass with a dry smirk. “Same thing.” Rose drained the last of her bottle and set it down with a loud clunk on Vashin’s desk. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be in charge, you really need to lighten up.” Vashin gave her a flat look. “And you need to take things more seriously.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I take plenty seriously. Like my booze. And my bad decisions. And, oh yeah—keeping these sorry bastards alive while you play chess with the big boys.” Vashin exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Why the hell did I keep you around?” Rose grinned, slouching back in her chair. “Because I’m useful and you know it. Plus, admit it—this city would be way more miserable without me.” Vashin stared at her. “I can think of at least a dozen people who’d disagree.” “Then they have shit taste,” Rose quipped, stretching her arms behind her head. She didn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, she kicked back, balancing on two legs of her chair, and glanced toward the dim, dust-coated window. “Dalmore’s a real dump, huh?” Vashin didn’t dignify that with an answer. Rose smirked and continued. “You ever think about just packing up and getting the hell out? Finding some nice little hole in the ground where no one’s trying to kill you every other day?” Vashin was silent. Rose turned back to him, her expression unusually sober. “Yeah. Me neither.” She let her chair drop forward and stood, stretching like a cat. “Alright, boss man. You’ve had your time to brood. Now, I got people to disappoint and bad ideas to execute. Anything else, or are we done?” Vashin considered her for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. “Just… try not to get yourself killed, Rose.” She grinned. “No promises.” And with that, she strode out of the office, boots echoing down the hallway. Out in the corridor, the smell of stale air and old electronics filled her nostrils. The broadcast building still had power—barely—but it hadn’t been used for its original purpose in almost a year. Now, it was just another relic of a dying city. Rose made her way down the stairs, brushing past a few weary-looking soldiers who barely acknowledged her presence. She stepped into what used to be the main studio, now repurposed into a makeshift operations hub. Papers, maps, and half-functioning screens covered every available surface. A few officers huddled around a Circl terminal, muttering about supply shortages. Others lounged against the walls, exhausted from another wasted day. Rose ignored them. She had her own problems. And the biggest one was waiting for her across the room. Lieutenant Rourke spotted her first, straightening from where he’d been slouching near a table. He was tall, solid, but with a bit of a limp. His uniform was stained with oil and dust, sleeves rolled past tattooed forearms. A thick brow and a flattened nose gave him the look of a man who’d been punched more than once and usually deserved it. “Colonel Rose,” he said, trying to sound professional despite the obvious weariness in his voice. “The squad’s been waiting for you.” “Yeah, yeah,” Rose muttered, rolling her shoulders. “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Rourke didn’t reply. He just stepped aside, revealing the group of soldiers standing behind him. They looked like hell—grimy, exhausted, a few nursing minor injuries. One of them, a young private with a buzz cut, crossed his arms. “You’re late.” Rose grinned, slinging an arm around his shoulder like they were old drinking buddies. “And you’re observant. Look at us, already making a great team.” The private stiffened but didn’t pull away. Rose smirked and let go, glancing over the rest of them. “Alright, boys and girls. Who’s ready to do something stupid?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Alright, listen up, degenerates. We’re going on a little field trip.” Rourke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rose…” “Don’t Rose me, Rourke,” she shot back, wagging a finger at him. “I haven’t even told you what it is yet!” “You don’t have to. I already know it’s bad.” She smirked. “Oh, it’s worse than bad. It’s reckless, irresponsible, and possibly suicidal.” She let that hang in the air for a moment before clapping her hands together. “We’re going to the old supply depot outside the wall.” A collective groan rippled through the squad. “You mean the depot that’s completely abandoned and has been picked clean for months?” the BuzzCut private asked. “That’s the one,” Rose confirmed cheerfully. Rourke threw up his hands. “For what, exactly?” Rose’s grin widened. “Booze.” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rourke said. Rose raised a hand. “Before you say anything stupid like ‘That’s a terrible idea, Colonel’ or ‘Rose, you need help’, let me remind you all of something very important.” She pointed around the room. “Everyone in this goddamn building is miserable. Morale is shit. Supplies are shit. And if we don’t find a way to take the edge off, people are gonna start losing their minds.” Rourke gave her a flat stare. “So your plan to improve morale is to risk our lives for alcohol?” “Exactly!” Rose clapped him on the shoulder. “Now you’re getting it!” One of the soldiers, a lanky private leaning against the table, hesitated before speaking up. “What if there’s nothing left?” Rose shrugged. “Then we cry, go home, and blame Rourke.” Rourke sighed so hard he nearly deflated. “I hate this plan.” “But you’re coming anyway,” Rose said, already turning toward the door. The squad looked at one another, waiting for someone to put a stop to this. No one did. Because, god help them, they wanted to go. — She moved through the crumbling streets of Dalmore like a shadow, her squad trailing behind her with varying degrees of enthusiasm and suspicion. The city’s outer districts were practically abandoned, the old defenses rusting, barricades leaning, the watchtowers barely manned. No one stopped them. No one even looked their way. “Still can’t believe we’re doing this,” muttered Rourke, adjusting his rifle strap. “For booze.” Rose grinned, walking backward as she lit a cigarette. “Think of it as a morale mission.” She took a drag, the ember flaring in the dim sunlight. “Soldiers fight better when they believe in something. Some believe in duty. Others, survival. And some believe in the sweet, holy kiss of a good drink.” “Vashin’s gonna have your ass if he finds out,” BuzzCut added, his tone half-warning, half-resigned. Rose flicked ash off her sleeve. “Vashin’s got enough problems. He can spare a little faith in me.” They passed through a section of the city where old market stalls stood empty, the last of their goods picked clean long ago. Dalmore wasn’t starving yet, but it was getting close. Supplies ran thin. The walls kept them safe from the Rean, from Kalvian remnants, from whatever the hell else lurked out there—but they also trapped them inside with dwindling resources and too many mouths to feed. The team crossed over an old riverbed that split the city in two, now nothing more than a cracked, weed-choked scar running between the streets. Once, clean water had flowed here, bringing life to the heart of Dalmore. Now it was just another reminder of everything they’d lost. Rose’s eyes flicked to the city gates ahead, where two sentries stood watch. “Alright, boys,” she said, exhaling smoke. “Let’s go make some bad decisions.” With a smirk, she pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her breast pocket and led the way into the wasteland. — General Ryder Vashin sat stiffly at the long table in what used to be Dalmore’s primary broadcast room. The cameras and lights were all dead, dusty relics of a forgotten time. Now, only the flicker of four Circl screens lit the space, each one displaying the sharp, aging face of a fellow general—one from each of the remaining walled cities. The meeting had already dragged on for thirty minutes, and not a single solution had been offered. “…and again I’ll say it: we cannot keep pretending Elara Vex is in charge,” said General Ardin from Vylonia, his voice sharp and clipped. “Three months missing. Three months of silence. She’s either dead or hiding. Either way, she’s not leading.” “Careful, Ardin,” growled General Niles from Stonewall, the oldest of the five. His skin was like cracked leather, his voice a low rumble. “You don’t get to decide when a leader’s reign ends.” “No one’s saying she’s unfit,” chimed in General Calder from Marston—though the sarcasm behind his smirk said otherwise. “We’re just… acknowledging reality. Dalmore’s been quiet too, Ryder. You keeping secrets down there?” Vashin didn’t take the bait. “We’re holding,” he said simply. “Same as you. Same as everyone. The Rean haven’t breached. Supplies are tight. Morale’s worse. The people need leadership, not more infighting.” “Leadership from whom?” said General Sorell of Calanthor. “You? You’re her little shadow.” Vashin’s jaw tensed. “I’m her proxy. Appointed before the bombs fell.” “That appointment don’t mean much when the capital’s shrouded in fog,” Ardin muttered. The silence that followed was thick. Vashin leaned in. “If any of you want the chair, say so. But I won’t let this council fracture further. Not while Talenstar’s silent and the Rean are chewing through every town between us.” Calder chuckled. “Talenstar is working on a solution.” “Where?,” Vashin said. “Has anyone heard from them in the past six months?” No one answered. The screens flickered, signals stuttering. Another glitch. Or maybe just the world collapsing a little more. “I called this meeting to coordinate supply drops,” Vashin said, cutting the tension. “Dalmore’s down to its last three containers. If this council’s still worth something, let’s act like it.” Another silence. Then, reluctantly, the generals began to speak again. — The road out of Dalmore was cracked and buckled, weeds sprouting from the broken pavement. The heat bore down like a hammer, making the walk feel twice as long. Rose led the way, whistling to herself, her rifle slung over one shoulder, while BuzzCut and Rourke trudged behind her, sweat rolling down their necks. The rest of the squad fell in behind them. Rourke wiped his brow. “Remind me again why we’re doing this on foot?” “Because,” Rose said, spinning on her heel to walk backward, “some paranoid bastard welded shut every last fuel reserve in Dalmore. And because I enjoy the bonding time.” BuzzCut scoffed. “You enjoy suffering. There’s a difference.” Rose grinned. “Gotta take pleasure in the little things, boys.” They moved through the outskirts, past old homes stripped to the bone. Windows shattered, doors ripped off their hinges, anything valuable long since looted. The people who had lived here—if any were left—were either holed up inside the city walls or lost to the wasteland. BuzzCut’s hand rested on his sidearm. “You sure no one else has their eyes on this depot?” “Nope, and why would they? You said it was picked clean, remember?” Rose said cheerfully. Rourke exhaled sharply. “Yeah… I remember.” “You worry too much,” Rose said. “If anyone had looted it, we’d have heard by now. Besides, the real prize is locked up tight. Nobody’s touched it in years.” “Years?” Rourke narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?” Rose just smirked and kept walking. She knew because she’d checked. Because while everyone else in Dalmore was too busy dealing with Rean outbreaks and food shortages, she was going through old records. The depot wasn’t just an old storage hub—it was where the military used to stash tech when President Vex banned anything with a Talenstar logo. The depot looked exactly as rumored—rusted shut, half-swallowed by creeping vines and dust, with shattered floodlights dangling from bent poles. The front gates hung open at awkward angles, one of them jammed into the mud like a broken tooth. Scavengers had clearly been here: empty crates, stripped wires, and scattered bootprints littered the gravel path. BuzzCut gave a dry chuckle. “Told you. Picked clean months ago.” Rose didn’t respond. She slid her sunglasses down her nose and squinted at the facility like it had insulted her. “Yeah,” she muttered, “they always hit the easy rooms first.” Rourke shifted his rifle to the other shoulder. “What the hell does that mean?” But Rose was already moving, boots crunching over broken glass. “Means the fun stuff’s further in.” As they approached the main structure, they passed a truck—a battered old freight hauler with flat tires and cracked windows, half-covered by a tarp and the dust of three seasons. It was wedged between two concrete barriers near the loading dock. BuzzCut knocked on the door frame with the butt of his rifle. “If we’re lucky, that thing still drinks fuel.” “If we’re lucky,” Rose muttered, “this whole damn building hasn’t been rigged to blow by some twitchy ex-supplier.” Rourke groaned. “Reassuring as always, Colonel.” Inside, the depot was a maze of empty shelves and overturned filing cabinets. Most rooms were cleared out—just as expected. Graffiti marked the walls, names and warnings, the usual territorial pissings from other scav teams. But Rose kept going. She led them down a narrow stairwell, its lights long dead. The team clicked on their shoulder lamps, slicing white beams through the dark. The air was thicker down here—musty, unmoved. At the end of the corridor, they reached a locked door. Not broken. Not burned through. Still sealed. Rose brushed the dust from a panel just above the keypad. “This is where the real prize is ,” she said, almost reverent. “Triple-lock security. This room was never opened.” BuzzCut stepped back, frowning. “Then what the hell’s inside?” “Stuff Vex didn’t want anyone playing with,” Rose said, already pulling wires from the now open panel. As she got to work, Rourke kept watch—tapping his foot, chewing a strip of jerky like it might be his last meal. “We’ve been out here too long. It’s too quiet.” And as if summoned by his paranoia—a thump echoed in the distance. Followed by another. A scraping sound. Everyone froze. BuzzCut raised his rifle. “Rean?” “Can’t be,” Rourke said. “We’re too far west. Most of the Rean hordes are still about a hundred miles out according to the last report.” Another scrape. Closer this time. Rose looked up from the panel. “Could be just a stray. Or could be what’s left of the last squad dumb enough to poke around here.” The sound grew louder, accompanied now by faint, wet breathing. Then it came lurching into view—a Rean, its skin was pulled tight across its bones, lips peeled back into a bloodied snarl. BuzzCut fired first. The shot echoed like a cannon in the tight hallway. The creature staggered, then launched forward. Shit!” Rourke shouted. The squad fired in sync. The thing crumpled in a jerking heap—but it had taken too many bullets. Too much effort for one. Rose stood, finally, as the lock gave way with a sharp click. “I thought you said the Rean were too far out? Well at least it didn’t want the tech. But someone else might.” She shoved the door open. Inside: sealed crates, still marked with Talenstar’s faded logo. Lined neatly. Untouched. BuzzCut stared. “You said this was about booze.” Rose grinned, wiping sweat from her brow. “I lied.” Rourke raised an eyebrow. “And this was all worth the risk?” She stepped into the room, eyes glittering. “You tell me when we’re the only squad with some of the most dangerous tech in the world and half a working truck.” Rose’s grin widened as she swept her flashlight across the crates. Unlike the rest of the depot, these weren’t rusted or broken into—these were intact, locked, and still humming with possibility. The squad filtered in behind her, weapons raised, scanning the room for more surprises. “Holy hell…” BuzzCut muttered, his eyes landing on a crate labeled MK-IX Tactical Deployment Unit. “No way.” Rourke glanced at him. “What? What’s in it?” BuzzCut stepped forward, prying open the container with his knife. The lid groaned, revealing neat rows of palm-sized mechanical spiders stacked in foam slots. Their sleek black bodies gleamed under the flashlight beams, multiple legs curled inward in dormancy. “Skitters,” BuzzCut breathed. “They’re—” “Remote mines on legs,” Rose finished for him, reaching in and plucking one up. It felt unnervingly light for something meant to kill. “You can launch them in swarms, let ‘em scuttle toward whatever you want gone, and boom.” She clacked its legs together with satisfaction. “A real disaster for infantry.” Someone let out a low whistle. “How many are in there?” BuzzCut ran a quick count. “A couple hundred.” Rose’s grin turned sharp. “We’ll take ‘em.” She moved to the next crate, flipping it open. Inside was a sleek, compact drone—a matte black frame with a streamlined body. Attached under its chassis was a small launcher. A Stinger missile rack. “Oh,” Rourke muttered, eyes wide. “Now that’s just sexy.” Next to the drone was a separate crate, labeled Tactical Operations Unit – Manual Override Required. Rose lifted the lid, revealing an old, military-grade laptop, thick and clunky. She lifted it out of the case, opening the screen, its keys worn smooth with age. BuzzCut’s brow furrowed. “That’s a closed-link system.” Rose looked at him. “Meaning?” “Meaning it doesn’t use Circl,” he said, running a hand over the screen. “This tech’s from before the weapon bans. No network dependency. No remote shutdowns. Just direct control.” He tapped the screen. “I trained in TechOps before they pulled this stuff out of circulation. I could run it.” Rose snapped her fingers. “Perfect. You’re our new Skitter daddy.” BuzzCut made a face. “Please don’t ever call me that.” Rourke crossed his arms. “We’re really just gonna steal all this?” Rose rolled her eyes. “Confiscate. If the government wasn’t full of cowards, we’d still be using this stuff.” She kicked an empty crate aside and straightened. “We’re taking a Skitter payload, the drone, the laptop, and whatever ammunition we can find.” The squad exchanged glances, but no one argued. One of them, a wiry private named Juno, pointed toward the door. “We still gotta get this back to Dalmore. On foot.” Rose smirked. “Not quite.” She gestured for them to follow her outside, back to the truck they’d passed earlier. “We slap some fresh fuel in this bastard, patch the tires, and we ride home in style.” BuzzCut frowned. “That’s assuming it even runs.” Rose tossed the Skitter she was holding, catching it with one hand. “Then you’d better pray to whatever tech gods you believe in, BuzzCut.” The squad groaned, but there was no stopping her now. — General Ryder Vashin stood by the main entrance of Dalmore’s old broadcast building, arms crossed, watching the slow, agonizing approach of a battered truck. It rattled like a dying animal, coughing up black smoke, its engine wheezing as if it might give out at any moment. Vashin sighed. He didn’t need to see who was inside to know. As the truck sputtered to a stop in front of the building, the driver’s side door swung open with a dramatic creak, and out hopped none other than Colonel Rose O’Conner. She stretched, arms high above her head like she’d just returned from a relaxing vacation rather than whatever disaster she’d dragged this heap out of. Her pink curls bobbed as she turned to the rest of her squad, waving them out like a circus ringmaster. The rest of them climbed out in various states of exhaustion, coated in dust and sweat, hauling crates out of the truck bed like a group of smugglers unloading contraband. Vashin rubbed a hand down his face. “What. The hell. Is that?” he asked flatly, nodding at the rusted husk of a vehicle. Rose clapped a hand on the hood like it was a prize-winning racehorse. “You’re looking at our glorious new company car, sir. Ain’t she a beauty?” A loud clunk echoed as something inside the engine block gave up on life. A thin trail of smoke drifted from under the hood. Vashin exhaled through his nose, hard. Rose continued, completely unfazed. “Runs like a dream. Got us all the way back with minimal explosions.” Vashin ignored that last part, glancing at the crates being unloaded. His gaze lingered on the markings. His stomach tightened. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Rose. Tell me you didn’t just drag an entire truckload of banned military hardware through the streets of Dalmore.” Rose grinned. “Okay, I won’t.” Vashin’s jaw clenched. “Tell me why I shouldn’t have you shot for treason right now.” She put a hand to her chest, feigning offense. “Treason? General, please. This is recycling.” Vashin turned his glare on the rest of her squad. Rourke and BuzzCut had the look of men who regretted every life choice that had brought them here. Rose, however, was utterly unfazed. “Listen,” she said, stepping closer, dropping the humor just slightly. “You know as well as I do we’re not winning this war by playing fair. Stonewall’s sitting pretty with their supplies, Marston’s got their fancy air fleet, and what do we have?” She tapped the side of one of the crates. “Jack. And. Shit.” Vashin’s jaw tightened. “We’re still Alister. The other cities will come around. When the time comes, they’ll stand with us.” Rose snorted, sharp and humorless. “Alister died when Vex went missing. You know it. I know it. Everyone tucked tail behind their shiny walls and left the rest of us to rot.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. “You really think Stonewall’s gonna send their fancy grain convoys when we’re starving? You think Marston’s gonna lend us their birds when the Rean break through our gates?” She let the words hang in the stale air between them. “So yeah, I borrowed a few things. Because when the real fight starts?” She tapped the crate again. “I’d rather be the one holding the bigger gun.” Vashin stayed silent, studying her. She was reckless. Irresponsible. A goddamn menace. But she wasn’t wrong. Finally, he let out a slow breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If this comes back to bite us, I’ll personally throw you to the wolves.” Rose beamed. “Aw, you do care.” Vashin ignored her, turning back toward the building. “Get that crap inside. Now.” As he walked away, he heard her call out to her squad. “You heard the man! Move it! And someone check on the truck—if it explodes, I wanna watch.” Vashin didn’t look back. This was going to be a long night. — The Fishbox creaked gently in the water, its rusted hull groaning with every swell of the tide. Once a proud fishing vessel, it now sat permanently moored at Dalmore’s neglected port—its rigging draped in string lights, its deck converted into a ramshackle patio bar. Salt crusted every surface, and the scent of brine and old ale hung in the air like a second skin. Inside, the lighting was low, the music low-fi, and the clientele lower still. Colonel Rose sat hunched over the bar with a glass of something brown and combustible, tapping it thoughtfully against her lips. The day’s grime was still on her boots, a crust of dust on her sleeves. Her curls were matted, a few wild strands stuck out in a halo of pink chaos. She hadn’t bothered to change—not that anyone at the Fishbox gave a damn. Behind the bar, Captain Nelson leaned against a barrel, puffing on his carved pipe. His face was a roadmap of every bad decision he’d ever made: leathery skin, sun-cracked wrinkles, and a white beard that looked like it had been shaped by a hurricane. His left eye was cloudy, the other sharp as a hawk’s. “You know, Rosey,” he said around the stem of his pipe, “I’m startin’ to think you only come down here to break my heart.” Rose took a long sip and smirked. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you humble.” Nelson chuckled, the sound like gravel in a tin can. “That so? You sure it ain’t just ‘cause I pour heavier than your CO?” Rose raised her glass. “That, too.” He poured her another without asking. “Heard you stirred up some trouble today.” “Me?” She batted her lashes with theatrical innocence. “I’m an angel.” Nelson gave her a look like he was too old for her nonsense but too fond of her to say so. “Word is you rolled up to headquarters in a scrapheap stuffed full o’ contraband.” “That a fact?” Rose asked, sipping. “Funny, I don’t remember any word getting out. Sounds like someone’s been eavesdropping.” “Darlin’,” he said with a wink, “you bring back an old Talenstar freight, people talk.” She shrugged. “They can talk all they want. We’ve got a rust bucket that runs, weapons that work, and the general didn’t shoot me on sight. I’m calling that a win.” Nelson raised a brow. “You planning to start a little war of your own?” “No,” she said, finishing the glass. “Just making sure we’ve got a few teeth left when the wolves come knocking.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You always act like you’re laughing, but I know that look, Rosey. You know something.” She hesitated just long enough for him to notice. “Nothing I didn’t already expect,” she said finally, setting her glass down. “This place isn’t ready. None of us are. But I’ve got a feeling we’ll need to be.” Nelson gave a slow nod and refilled her drink. “Then drink up, soldier. Can’t save the world on an empty liver.” She grinned. “That’s the spirit, Captain.” The old ship groaned again beneath them, waves lapping gently against the hull. For now, the port was quiet, the sky above painted in streaks of dark violet. The city’s glow shimmered in the distance like a memory—half-alive, half-haunted. Rose leaned back on her stool, drink in hand, boots propped up on an overturned crate. The Circl on her wrist buzzed. She scowled, shaking the device as if that would somehow silence it. Nelson chuckled. “Your boss?” “Something urgent,” she muttered, already dreading it. With a sigh, she tapped the screen. Vashin’s name flashed across the display, along with a simple message: Broadcast. Now. She groaned and threw back the rest of her drink. “Guess I’m working tonight.” Nelson smirked. “Try not to get shot.” “No promises.” — Rose pushed open the heavy doors to Vashin’s office, rolling her shoulders as she stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and old paper. Vashin stood at his desk, his jaw tight, his Circl mounted on a display screen. On the other end of the call, General Nile’s face was lined with exhaustion, the deep creases on his forehead more pronounced than usual. The Stonewall general was a hard bastard, not one to let much rattle him, but tonight, something was very wrong. “What’s going on?” Rose asked, glancing between the two men. Nile’s exhaled through his nose. “We just got word from the Bloom operation.” Rose folded her arms. “Yeah? And?” “The Rean hit them harder than expected,” Vashin said, his tone grim. “Flynn and her team made it out, but a dropship went down in the chaos.” Rose’s brows lifted. “So, send another one.” Nile’s shook his head. “We did. It never arrived.” She frowned. “Meaning?” “We don’t know.” A voice called out in the background on Niles end. The general turned his head sharply, listening, then gestured someone forward. A soldier stepped into view—disheveled, sweating, his chest heaving. Then all hell broke loose. “They’re inside!” the soldier blurted, eyes wild. “The gate—it just opened.” Vashin straightened. “What?” “It malfunctioned!” the soldier shouted. Behind Niles, other voices shouted orders, the sound of gunfire crackling through the speakers. “We can’t close it! They’re pouring in—we’re being overrun!” Niles turned, barking orders, the feed jittered. The screen filled with static, briefly flickering back to reveal a glimpse of sheer chaos—soldiers scrambling, flames licking the edges of the frame. Then the screen cut out entirely. The silence in Vashin’s office was deafening. Rose exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down her face. “Well,” she muttered, “shit.” Vashin gritted his teeth as he redialed. No signal. He tried again. Still nothing. His fingers drummed against the desk as he cycled through his contacts. Flynn? No signal. Niles? No signal. His gut twisted. Something was very wrong. He tried General Calder in Marston. No response. General Ardin in Vylonia. Nothing. Finally, he scrolled down to Wells. The colonel there—what was his name again? Didn’t matter. Someone had to pick up. He tapped the screen. The call connected. But the face that appeared wasn’t the colonel. It was Orion Pierce. Vashin’s jaw clenched. “What the hell are you doing there?” Pierce smirked, the flickering light of a nearby fire casting harsh shadows across his face. His eyes were sharp and sunken, like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. Stubble crawled across his jawline, and a long scar cut down from his temple to just under his cheekbone—half-faded, but impossible to miss. “Nice to see you too, cousin,” he said. Vashin ignored the jab. “Where’s the colonel?” “Gone.” “Gone?” Pierce leaned forward, his scarred knuckles pressing against whatever surface he had his device propped on. “Not my problem. Wells is my town now.” Vashin swore under his breath. “Wells was scheduled for evacuation after Bloom.” Pierce shrugged. “Guess they’ll have to manage without it.” Vashin’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing there, Orion?” Pierce’s smirk vanished. His expression hardened, the cruel glint in his eyes sharpening. “You know damn well why I’m here.” Vashin did. And it made his stomach churn. “Sarah’s gone, Vash,” Pierce said, voice cold, steady. “And someone is going to pay for it.” Vashin ran a hand down his face. “We’ve been over this. Rezstahl is gone. They were driven out months ago.” Pierce scoffed. “That’s what they want you to think. But I’ve got intel. There are Rezstahl here. And I’m going to find them.” Vashin’s fists clenched. “Orion—” “Save it.” Pierce leaned in, his voice dropping to a growl. “You can keep playing soldier. Keep pretending like the people who killed my little girl don’t still walk free. But me?” He exhaled sharply, eyes burning with rage. “I will find them. And I will burn them to the ground.” The line cut out. Vashin stared at the blank screen, his heart pounding. If Orion was right—if there really were Rezstahl there— Vashin’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just bad. This was about to get a whole lot worse. Vashin swiped at his Circl again. Still nothing. Not even a loading screen. He sucked in a breath and turned to Rose. “The Circl’s dead. We’ve lost all contact.” Rose scratched the back of her head. “That’s bad, right?” He shot her a look. She grinned. “Kidding. It’s very bad.” Vashin exhaled sharply. “I need you to send two soldiers to Bloom. Have them find whoever’s still alive and tell them to get their asses to Dalmore.” Rose nodded. “Got it. What about Stonewall?” Vashin’s expression darkened. “Perhaps you were right. It’s too far away. We don’t have the manpower or the supplies to do a damn thing for them.” Rose chewed on the inside of her cheek. He continued, “Once they get back, I want them to find Pierce and arrest him. Drag his sorry ass back here.” Rose gave a low whistle. “You really think they can pull that off?” “They’re soldiers. They’ll do their job.” Rose shrugged. “Alright, boss. I’ll get it done.” She turned on her heel and strode out of the office. Outside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and rust. The depot truck sat where they’d left it, its engine still warm from the last trip. Rose spotted two soldiers—young, fresh-faced, still looking for orders in a world that had none. “You two,” she called, waving them over. They jogged up, standing at attention. Rose crossed her arms. “Got a job for you. You’re taking that truck,” she jerked a thumb toward the depot vehicle, “and heading to Bloom. Find whoever’s still breathing and tell them Dalmore’s their new home.” Rose’s grin was all teeth. “And on the way back you need to pick up a special guest in Wells. Name’s Orion Pierce. He’s gonna have a real bad day.” The soldiers exchanged a look, then saluted. “Understood.” Rose clapped them on the shoulders. “Good boys. Now get moving.” They hopped into the truck, the engine rumbling to life. As they pulled away, Rose watched until the taillights disappeared into the haze. Then she sighed and rubbed her temples. “Gonna be a long night.” And with that, she turned back toward the broadcast building, the weight of the coming storm settling deep in her bones.