Sinclair Feldman's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Sinclair Feldman waited by the fence, radio clipped to his belt, three names running through his head like a checklist. Zelda. Marcus. Achilles. Close all three, and Red Hills had its trade hub. Lose one, and the whole alliance died in the dust. An eyebot drifted past in red and yellow camo, scanning him without slowing. A tuxedo cat in a RobCo jumpsuit watched from a stack of tires, tail flicking. Then the flap of the medical tent pushed open, and Zelda stepped out. Pale. Mouth tight. A rust-stained folder under her arm. "You need to see this," she said. She set the folder on a crate and flipped it open. Yellowed pages, oil-streaked, stamped with a seal that wasn't Red Hills. "Came in this morning. From the other outfit sniffing around." Sinclair read. The terms were clean and brutal. Marcus got his caps. Zelda got her clinic stocked. Achilles got nothing. Red Hills got nothing. The rival took the whole floor and cut him out at the knees. "They're offering you the deal without us," Sinclair said. He kept his voice level. "Why bring it to me?" Zelda tapped the page. "Because it leaves Achilles in the cold again. And because I don't sign things I haven't read aloud to the people they hurt." She closed the folder and slid it across. "You've got until sundown to give me a reason to tear it up. After that, the floor decides without you."