Chapter 25 Courting War
Ironwood Grove loomed ahead like a memory I hadn't earned yet. Towering ironwood trunks formed walls that whispered of permanence, smoke trails rising over rooftops like slow exhalations from a sleeping giant. For a place shaped by sweat and steel, it still managed to feel... grounded. Safe.
Raul, walking beside me, let out a low chuckle, gaze fixed on the settlement. "I'll be damned," he muttered, and for once, there was no edge to his voice—just quiet awe. His jumpsuit shifted as he squared his shoulders, a man trying to stand taller in the presence of something real.
"You know," he said, voice warmer now, "this reminds me of home in a way—minus the sandstorms."
I smirked. "Glad the Grove meets your standards, Raul. And you can drop the 'boss' stuff."
He shot me a sidelong glance, half-grinning. "Habit, jefe. Spent too long herding broken men. Never liked being in charge—just made me hate giving orders."
"Then you'll fit right in here," I told him. "Only thing you'll have to command is a mug of ale."
We passed through the gates as the crowd began to gather. The freed slaves were taken in gently by Kansani healers—quiet strength in their touch, no wasted words. That part of the Grove always struck me: everyone knew what needed doing. No orders, no chaos—just action.
Then the murmurs started. Eyes drifted toward Raul. Not with suspicion. With rage.
"Those monsters," someone hissed. "Look what they did to him…"
Raul let out a sigh so familiar it could've been scripted. He raised a hand slowly and gave the kind of weary smile only someone centuries tired could manage. "Easy, amigos. The Legion's got plenty of sins, but this?" He pointed to his face. "This one's all mine."
The shift in the crowd was slow, confused. I stepped in before any more assumptions took root.
"He's not a victim of the Legion," I said, making sure they heard me. "His scars tell a different story. One we'll honor in time. But for now—he's one of us."
It worked. They backed off. Nods replaced scowls. Raul looked over, nodded once. The kind of thank-you that didn't need words.
Boone appeared not long after. Quiet as always, but focused. "Come," he said. "The shamans will want to see you."
We walked together, deeper into the Grove. No words. Just the sound of footsteps and firelight, like the heartbeat of the place guiding us inward.
The shamans were already waiting in the ceremonial hall, glyphs tattooed into their skin. They looked up as we entered. Their surprise faded quickly.
"The Witness returns," one murmured.
That title still felt strange. But I wasn't going to argue with it—not today.
They asked why I'd come. I didn't say a word. Just triggered the Nanoboy on my wrist.
Mist hissed and blue light shimmered as two fallen Plainswalkers materialized at my feet. The room went silent.
The shamans moved instantly, prayers slipping from their tongues like smoke. They honored the dead without question. No one asked how I had done it. That could wait.
"You have done us a great service," the elder said to me. "They will be honored properly."
Boone stood beside me the whole time, quiet and still. When the shamans finished their rites, he turned to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Thank you," he said. "Plainswalkers don't usually get this. We die far from home. Most get a prayer, maybe a cairn if they're lucky. Bringing them here—bringing them back—means more than I can explain."
I nodded. "They deserved it."
Boone gave me a rare smile, small but real, then stepped forward to help prepare the fallen.
That's when it happened.
My vision flickered.
A soft tone chimed inside my skull—Focus interface alert.
Perk Unlocked: Ghostwalker's Precision
Your ranged attacks now have 15% increased accuracy and ignore 10% of enemy armor when using rifles or bows.
Boone's discipline has left its mark on you. You see more clearly now. You strike cleaner.
I exhaled, steadying myself. My vision… sharpened. It was subtle, but real. Like Boone had passed something on without even meaning to.
"Thanks," I whispered. "I'll use it well."
Before I could leave, something caught my eye on the chamber wall. A mural—huge, wild, bold.
Sekibayashi Jun.
The Kansani War God.
I approached without realizing I'd moved. His image filled the wall—muscles coiled like storm cables, face painted with that iconic grin of challenge. Black marks, red tongue, white war-mask. The First Kansani. The Great Inspirer.
Looking at it now… I understood. I really understood. Whoever painted it hadn't been guessing. This wasn't just a myth. It was history. It was worship by brushstroke.
I activated the Focus.
It scanned the paint, peeled back the grime and time, revealed a hidden message near the bottom:
"Dedicated to Sekibayashi Jun, who stood firm, protecting us all as we evacuated Salt Lake City. May his strength never be forgotten."
That name. That place.
A chime echoed in my ear.
Quest Updated: The Fate of the Deva
New Objective: Explore the Ruins of Salt Lake City to uncover records of Sekibayashi Jun's final stand.
I stepped back from the mural, heart beating harder now. This wasn't just Kansani myth. It was a breadcrumb. A lead. A truth buried in a city that might still remember him.
I stood before the mural, memories slipping quietly through my mind—flashes from another life. Sekibayashi Jun. I'd watched those fights on a screen, back in a world so distant it felt like a half-forgotten dream. Jun had never dodged. Never retreated. He'd taken punches that would break lesser men, standing tall through every strike, an immovable object daring the storm to try harder.
Now, staring at this massive tribute, it struck me how perfectly the Kansani had captured Jun's essence. They hadn't just mimicked his stance or copied his paint; they had absorbed his entire philosophy. Where another culture might've faltered or misunderstood, reducing him to just a powerful warrior, the Kansani saw deeper. They saw defiance, resilience—strength defined by endurance, not just force.
It was honestly incredible. Without even knowing the man, they had crafted an entire martial culture from fragments of his legacy, becoming a people strong enough to withstand horrors like the Legion. A lesser tribe would've shattered years ago, scattered by Caesar's brutality. But not the Kansani. They stood firm, their warriors embodying the same indomitable will that Jun had shown time and again in the ring.
I couldn't help but smile, impressed and a little humbled. Jun had been entertainment to most—spectacle, theater. Here, he'd become a war god, a symbol of survival. They didn't worship the man himself; they worshipped what he stood for, the idea of standing tall even when the world tried its hardest to break you.
"Guess your showmanship paid off more than you ever expected, Jun," I murmured quietly, offering a respectful nod to the mural. "You're still fighting—just in ways you couldn't have imagined."
Staring at the mural, it clicked into place: Jun's legacy wasn't about power or violence—it was about resilience. Defiance. An unbreakable spirit. Somehow, understanding this felt...different. Like something had settled deeper within me, a quiet shift that sharpened my nerves, numbed old aches.
A soft tone echoed in my head, my Focus humming gently at my temple:
Minor Perk Unlocked: Wall of Endurance
Effect: Your understanding of Sekibayashi Jun's legacy grants a permanent 15% increase in pain tolerance.
I flexed my fingers, felt my muscles relax slightly, the tension of old wounds easing just a bit. It wasn't invincibility. Just clarity—recognition that pain was only another sensation, something I could endure and overcome. A lesson Jun had always embodied.
"Your message got through, Jun," I whispered, offering a respectful nod to the mural. "Thanks for the reminder."
With that quiet gratitude settling inside me, I turned away, stepping back into Ironwood Grove a bit stronger than I'd been moments before.
As I stepped out of the ceremonial hall, Ubba was already stomping toward me like she'd been pacing for hours. Grease on her fingers, soot on her cheek, and that look in her eye that meant I was about to get interrogated.
"There you are," she said, stabbing a finger toward my chest. "I've been looking everywhere, and what do I find when I finally track your ass down?"
Her gaze snapped to Raul, standing just behind me. She froze.
Then frowned.
Then tilted her head.
"What in the hot, crackling fuck happened to you?"
Raul grinned like he'd been waiting all day for that reaction. "Name's Raul Alfonso Tejada. Been alive longer than your entire bloodline and still better looking than most."
Ubba blinked. "Is that… is your face supposed to look like a dried boot?"
"Only on Wednesdays," Raul said, deadpan.
She squinted at him. "You smell like varnish and old math."
"I take that as a compliment," Raul replied, giving a slight bow.
I stepped in before this became a full roast battle. "Ubba, this is Raul. He's not cursed, not sick, and not some deranged machine experiment. He's just… old. Pre-Collapse."
Ubba slowly turned back to me. "No shit. I guessed he wasn't built by one of ours, unless someone in the Grove's been making weaponized jerky."
Raul chuckled. "She always this warm?"
Ubba grinned. "Only when I like someone."
Then she smacked the side of my new shotgun.
"But you—you've been ducking me. I came to ask how my Boom Stick did. You fired it, yeah? Did it kick? Did it scream? Did it jam? Tell me it made a Legionnaire explode—I need this."
"It worked," I said. "Loud, brutal, and earned a name."
Ubba's eyes gleamed. "Oh yeah?"
"Warcrime."
She made a noise like a forge vent releasing pressure. "Yes. Yes. That's perfect. You name it Warcrime, it better commit one."
Raul, who'd been studying the weapon, reached out. "Mind if I?"
Ubba hesitated just a second, then handed it over. "Sure, Crypt Keeper. Don't lick it." Rion looked at her with a raised eyebrow, what's with people of this age licking things?
Raul examined the shotgun with the casual familiarity of a man who'd seen too many weapons fail and fixed them anyway. "Trigger's good. Tolerances are tight, maybe too tight—this vent channel's gonna backflash on the third reload unless you tweak the seal. You're using scav steel?"
Ubba frowned. "With some coil-braced inlays, yeah. Why?"
"Because the right side's warping under heat. Not enough to fail, but enough to drift your next shot unless the user compensates."
She snatched it back, glaring. "How the hell do you know that?"
Raul shrugged. "Been fixing guns since before your mother's grandmother was born. You learn things."
Ubba looked him over one more time.
Then pointed at him. "Tomorrow. You're in the forge. I'm not letting that brain go to waste."
Raul gave a mock sigh. "First day in town, and I'm already being press-ganged."
Ubba grinned. "Call it what you want, Wrinkle-face. But if your hands move as sharp as your mouth, we're gonna build something nasty."
As Raul chuckled and handed the shotgun back, I found myself staring at him a second longer.
Old. Scarred. Worn down to the bone. And yet…
Useful.
Respected.
I remembered how it had gone for him in the Old World—the version I'd played through. Alone in a shack outside New Vegas. Fixing junk for people who never thanked him. A gunslinger buried in rust and guilt, treated like a tool or a cautionary tale. No one cared about his past. No one asked what he knew. They just saw the rot and forgot the man.
But here?
Ubba wanted him in the forge. She valued what he knew. For once, Raul wasn't being tolerated. He was being trusted.
I felt something tighten in my chest—not pity. Just... clarity.
He'd prefer this.
This place. This role. Being put to work by someone who respected his experience, not someone looking to exploit it. He'd survived centuries, carried too many ghosts—and now he had a fire to sit by and a forge that might actually listen when he spoke.
Maybe it wasn't perfect.
But it was damn close to justice.
I gave a small nod to no one in particular.
"Welcome home, Raul," I muttered.
As Raul and Ubba made their way toward the Pile—her already gesturing wildly about recoil patterns and "righteous blast radius" like she was narrating a love story—I stayed where I was, arms crossed, watching them fade into the crowd.
That's when I felt him behind me.
Jorta.
I didn't need to hear him. The shift in air pressure was enough—the weight of his presence settling like armor across my back. He stepped up beside me, silent at first, eyes tracking where the others had gone.
Then his gaze drifted to me.
Not to my gear. Not to the scars still fading. But to the way I stood.
"You move differently now," he said.
I glanced at him, but he wasn't really waiting for confirmation.
"You're not thinking about the stance anymore," he continued, voice low and even. "You don't have to."
He wasn't smiling, but there was something in his face—something rare. Pride, maybe. Or respect, buried under all that weathered stone.
"You've stopped performing the style," he said. "You are the style."
I stayed quiet. Let the words land.
Because I felt it too.
In the way my boots settled automatically into grounding positions. In how my weight shifted without thought, tracking motion around me. Every part of me was wired now—not to mimic, not to copy, but to embody.
The claw wasn't something I wore.
It was something I became.
Jorta nodded once. That was all he needed.
"The final lesson," he said, almost to himself. "Good."
He turned to leave, then paused—just a half-step.
"Next time we spar," he added, "I won't go easy."
"I'd be insulted if you did," I replied.
He grunted softly—might've been a laugh.
Then he walked off, the weight of his approval trailing behind him like a banner I hadn't asked for… but had earned.
And for the first time, I realized something simple.
This wasn't Deathclaw Kenpo anymore.
It was mine.
I was still watching Jorta fade into the crowd when I caught the sound of familiar footsteps behind me—light, deliberate, and just cocky enough to be hers.
Sula.
She stepped up beside me, eyes flicking toward the street Raul and Ubba had vanished down, then back to me. Her expression softened just enough to betray a flicker of pride.
"You carry yourself different," she said. "Stance is sharper. Shoulders are heavier."
I didn't answer.
She smirked. "You've been bloodied in battle. And not just once."
I gave a small nod, letting the silence answer for me.
"Means you've earned a meal that isn't dried roots and ration mash," she added. Then, almost casually: "Come to the Spiked Paw with me."
I raised an eyebrow.
"My treat," she clarified, giving me a sidelong look. "Don't get used to it."
I blinked. "You're buying?"
"Don't make it weird," she said, already turning toward the path. "You've earned it. Few days ago, you were dragging a Deathclaw out of the wild. Today, you got Jorta to nod like a proud uncle. That's worth a drink and something hot that didn't get rehydrated in a boot."
I snorted. "This your version of a victory parade?"
She grinned over her shoulder. "Only if you drink slow enough to enjoy it."
And just like that, the weight of training, scars, and war talk eased.
I followed.
We walked quietly toward the Spiked Paw, the noise of Ironwood Grove fading into a steady background hum. I could feel Sula's occasional glances, measuring me in her careful, subtle way.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"You holding up alright?"
I glanced at her, confused for a second. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"
Her eyes lingered on mine a beat longer, searching for something I hadn't realized I was hiding.
"You've been fighting since you got here," she said. "Machines, beasts—those feral things down in the bunker. But these last few days…" Her voice trailed off.
"Go on," I prompted gently.
"Those people you killed down there—those ghouls," she said, voice quiet. "From what you told me, they weren't really people anymore. It was mercy. Like ending an injured animal's pain."
I nodded slowly, not entirely sure where she was heading.
"But the Legionnaires," she continued, softer now. "They were different. Real people. Terrible ones, but still…human. Taking a life like that, no matter how justified—it stays with you. Even if you don't feel it yet."
I stayed quiet. Because somewhere deep down, in places I hadn't fully acknowledged, I knew she was right. The bunker had been a grim necessity—creatures lost beyond saving. But the Legionnaires? I'd felt their lives end. Seen their eyes at that final moment. Human eyes.
"Maybe," I finally said, trying to keep my voice steady. "But they made their choice."
She nodded slowly. "They did. Doesn't mean it won't catch up to you, though. That's how it works."
I exhaled softly, trying not to let the weight settle back onto my shoulders. "Guess we'll find out."
Sula stepped slightly closer, her voice gentle but firm.
"When you do, don't keep it locked up. You're tough, Tourist. But nobody's armor stays strong if they ignore the cracks."
She didn't say anything else, didn't push further. Just kept pace with me, steady and quiet.
I let her words settle, a quiet truth working its way beneath the walls I'd built.
We were nearly at the door to the Spiked Paw when Sula slowed, lingering just behind me. I paused, looking back at her, noticing the unusual hesitation in her posture.
"Hey," she said quietly, eyes drifting downward, tracing the grooves in the packed earth. "About what I said before…"
I stayed silent, waiting, feeling a subtle shift in her demeanor. She seemed suddenly unsure—not the confident warrior, but someone softer beneath all the scars and skill.
"It's just—I don't want you to break, Rion," she murmured. "You keep pushing yourself. I see it. Everyone does."
"I'm fine, Sula," I said gently.
She shook her head, not looking up. "You're not. Not entirely. And I…" She hesitated, words tangled in the quiet moment. "I don't want to see it happen."
Something tightened in my chest—understanding catching up to the moment. Her eyes flicked up, shy but honest, and suddenly the depth of what she meant hit me, clear and unmistakable.
She'd grown to care for me. More than as a friend, more than just a trusted ally. In a matter of weeks, a heartbeat compared to the slow, cautious pace of relationships I was used to, Sula had let herself open up. Here, in this world, connections formed quicker. Life was shorter, sharper—more immediate. Hesitation was a luxury, caution a rare privilege.
I was the one out of place. The anomaly.
I stood there, feeling my pulse quicken slightly, unsure what to say next. How to say it.
"Sula," I started softly. "I…"
"You don't have to say anything," she interrupted gently, that fleeting shyness quickly masked by her familiar strength. "I just wanted you to know. I understand you might not feel the same—not yet, maybe not ever—but I'm here. If things get heavy, if the cracks start showing…"
Her voice dropped again, her gaze steady on mine.
"You're not alone."
The words lingered between us, quiet but heavy, carrying honesty that needed no further confirmation.
I nodded slowly, feeling both grateful and somehow inadequate. "Thank you," I finally said, my voice soft. "I'll remember that."
Her smile came back, soft and genuine. "Good."
She moved toward the tavern door, confidence returning as she glanced back at me, a gentle teasing note slipping into her tone.
"Now come on," she said. "Before all the good seats are gone and I change my mind about buying you dinner."
I followed her inside, letting myself smile despite the complexity lingering behind my ribs.
She'd spoken her truth. Now I had to figure out mine.
We sat at a small table tucked into a quiet corner of the Spiked Paw, the low murmur of evening conversations drifting around us like smoke. The food was simple, but hot and hearty—thick stew, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and ale strong enough to chase away any lingering doubts.
As I ate, I found myself glancing at Sula more often than I intended, my eyes drawn to the quiet confidence in her movements, the easy strength she carried without thought. She was pretty—strikingly so. Even under layers of leather and salvaged armor, her figure was unmistakable, athletic but graceful. Her features, framed by that windswept blonde hair, held a kind of understated beauty that would only deepen as she grew older.
Older.
That thought lingered for a second. She was younger than me—not by much, but enough to notice. Yet, here she was: poised, capable, strong. She'd seen more battle, more hardship, than many twice her age, and it showed in the steadiness of her gaze, the quiet weight in her eyes.
Why would someone like her be interested in someone like me? Someone who wasn't even from this world—someone still grappling with its rules, its rhythms, its realities.
Then I reminded myself: Sula wasn't just anyone. She was essentially Kansani royalty—the niece of the tribe's most respected warrior. Jorta wasn't just a strong fighter; he was legitimately terrifying when he needed to be. Anyone trying to court Sula would have to contend with that imposing, protective presence.
But then again, I realized, I wasn't just anyone either.
I was Jorta's student. His chosen pupil, trained personally by the man himself. I'd proven myself over and over, in battle and beyond, earning his respect—his trust. That wasn't a small thing. Maybe Sula had noticed that, too.
"You're staring," she said suddenly, breaking my train of thought with a knowing smirk.
I blinked, clearing my throat slightly. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize," she said casually, tearing off a piece of bread. "Just curious why you seem so surprised."
I paused, gathering my thoughts. "Just thinking about why someone like you—"
"Would bother with someone like you?" she finished, a playful glint in her eyes.
I chuckled quietly, nodding. "Something like that."
She leaned back slightly, thoughtful, her expression softening. "Maybe because you're not like everyone else, Rion. Not even close."
She took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully before continuing.
"You came here out of nowhere, adapted faster than most outsiders, and earned the respect of a man who terrifies people for a living," she said, the humor gentle but genuine. "And somehow, you still wonder why I'm interested?"
I felt a small smile tug at the corner of my lips. "When you put it like that…"
Sula just laughed softly, shaking her head. "Eat your stew, Tourist."
As we finished eating, Sula leaned forward slightly, watching me with an amused curiosity. She seemed to be weighing something—considering carefully what she wanted to say next.
"So," she began lightly, "exactly how long are you planning to keep pretending?"
I paused mid-chew, looking up at her. "Pretending?"
She arched an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. "That you don't want to sleep with me."
I cleared my throat quickly, covering the awkwardness with a sip of ale. "It's not that," I said slowly. "In my time, things worked differently."
"How so?"
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "It was considered improper to… be with someone, until they reached their eighteenth year. Rules of society and all that."
Sula's eyes narrowed slightly, a playful skepticism in her expression. She stared at me quietly, clearly unconvinced. Finally, she leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms, smirking faintly.
"You're lying," she said matter-of-factly.
"What?" I tried to sound innocent. It didn't quite land.
She gave a small, knowing laugh. "I believe you about having rules—but you're lying about the details." She tilted her head, eyes twinkling mischievously. "It's not about society, is it? It's just about my age right now. Isn't it?"
I didn't respond right away. I wasn't entirely sure how. Eventually, I nodded slowly, giving her a half-smile.
"You old ones have some restrictive ways," she teased softly, shaking her head.
"Maybe," I admitted, feeling slightly embarrassed despite myself.
She reached across the table, lightly touching my hand. "Relax, Tourist. If waiting a little longer is what it takes for your 'Old World honor,' then I can wait. But just so you know—I won't wait forever."
I laughed softly, grateful for the lightness returning to the moment. "Understood."
"Good," she said firmly, pulling her hand back with a satisfied nod. "Now finish your drink. I still have more mockery planned before we're done here."
I finished off the last of my ale, feeling steadier, clarity settling behind my ribs. Sula watched me carefully, sensing I still had something to say.
"Look," I began, leaning forward, voice low and sincere. "Just because I feel it's morally wrong to cross that line right now doesn't mean we have to pretend there's nothing between us."
Her eyebrow lifted slightly, intrigued. "Meaning?"
"Courting," I clarified, pausing briefly. "Your tribe does it too, right? Spending time together, learning about each other first, taking it slow."
She chuckled softly, eyes shining with amusement. "Yes, Tourist. Believe it or not, you're not the first one to think of that. Courting isn't exactly a lost art here."
I smiled sheepishly. "Right. Sorry. Just wanted you to understand what I meant."
"I do," she said gently, her smile warm and genuine. "So, what did you have in mind for our first step in this highly original idea of yours?"
I stood, offering her my hand. "Come to my room."
Her eyes widened slightly, mischief sparking once again. "Not wasting any time, are you?"
"Not for that," I said quickly, feeling the heat rise again. "I have something special I'd like to show you."
She laughed softly and took my hand, squeezing lightly. "Lead on, then."
We walked quietly back toward my quarters, a comfortable silence between us. As we reached my room, I carefully shut the door behind us, feeling Sula's curious gaze sweep across the modest space.
"All right," she said, turning back to me expectantly. "What's this special thing of yours?"
I activated the Nanoboy, pulling out the small holo projector. Its polished edges caught the lamplight, glinting gently.
Sula stepped closer, curiosity flaring in her eyes. "What is it?"
"A piece of my world," I said softly, placing it carefully onto the small table. "Something from before."
I tapped it lightly, and the device hummed softly to life. Colors and shapes shimmered into existence, coalescing into a vivid, moving image suspended in midair. The title appeared clearly: When Harry Met Sally.
Sula's eyes widened in amazement as the figures moved, laughing, talking, walking through a city alive and bright—so unlike our current world, yet oddly familiar in its humanity.
"It's called a movie," I explained quietly, watching her reaction. "Stories told through moving pictures and sound. This one's a romantic movie from long before my time. One of my favorites. It's about two people who start out as friends and…well, it gets complicated."
She stared, quietly enthralled, reaching gently for my hand without taking her eyes off the flickering images. She smiled softly as the characters bantered playfully, their connection clear even through the centuries separating us from them.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, squeezing my hand gently. "Thank you for sharing this with me."
We sat on the bed together in the soft glow of the Old World watching the playful banter and gentle laughter flicker softly through the air between Harry and Sally. The old-world charm and humor seemed to fill the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the lantern's glow.
After a few quiet moments, I gently squeezed Sula's hand. She turned her head slightly, looking up at me, her expression soft, thoughtful.
"I chose this one for a reason," I said softly, my voice barely more than a whisper above the quiet dialogue of the movie.
"Why's that?" she asked gently, eyes never leaving mine.
I hesitated for a heartbeat, carefully finding the right words. "Because these two started out as friends. Before anything else, they were friends. They knew each other—really knew each other—and that's why it worked."
Sula's eyes softened even more, understanding filling her gaze.
"That's what I want," I continued quietly. "No matter what happens—between us, around us—I want to make sure we're friends first. That no matter what changes, that part stays true."
She squeezed my hand gently, nodding slowly. Her voice was quiet, sincere. "I like that. Friendship first."
We turned our attention back to the glowing images, the warmth settling comfortably between us. It wasn't a promise of perfection, but something even better:
A foundation strong enough to weather whatever came next.
...
Outpost Yor Southern Fringe
The gate didn't break.
It folded.
Wood, steel, and bone-reinforced beams snapped inward like ribs punched in by something impossibly strong. The wind shifted—no storm, no war horns. Just the sudden, awful stillness that precedes a death no one trained for.
Hell's Angel stepped through the breach.
It didn't run. It didn't roar.
It entered.
A towering construct of polished alloy and dense black muscle, its frame radiated both precision and brutality. Orange light pulsed through thin vents carved along its spine and forearms—like veins pumped not by blood, but voltage.
Normally, this machine was stationed at its master's side. A sentinel. A personal bodyguard. Created not to roam, but to defend. To stand.
But the order had come down through the neural tether just hours ago—not with urgency, not with panic, but with the cold logic of proximity.
"Target medical drone. Ironwood Grove. Close enough to justify direct recovery. Proceed."
And so it walked.
The defenders at Outpost Yor never stood a chance.
They were warriors, each one trained in disruption tactics. Their movements were deceptive by design—paint breaking their outlines, body rhythm hiding intent. One pressed forward, slow and heavy, each step anchoring into the ground. Another glided sideways, feinting stumbles before snapping into sudden motion. Two more circled opposite directions, eyes locked, waiting for a mistake they could drive through.
Hell's Angel made none.
The first attacker surged forward—a low shuffle, arms wide to bait a grab. Hell's Angel leaned into the bait, turned with the momentum, and lifted the man off the ground by his belt and shoulder.
A twist.
A slam.
The sound of a spine snapping echoed through the yard.
Another dove low—an arcing kick meant to sweep the leg and set up a follow-up strike. She hit nothing but empty air.
Hell's Angel spun, caught her by the forearm mid-recovery, and dragged her sideways like luggage before driving her headfirst into the stone wall. Blood painted the surface in jagged arcs.
The remaining defenders moved in unison—silent agreement. They pressed forward with baiting footwork, rhythm shifts, broken angles. One leapt. The other flanked. A third dashed in low, hands flicking in feints to draw the machine's eye.
Hell's Angel didn't flinch.
It stepped through the leaping attacker, catching her mid-air and driving her downward in a perfect textbook powerbomb. The second was met mid-turn—his face met a knee moving faster than it should've, and his jaw collapsed like wet wood.
The last hesitated.
Hell's Angel saw it.
It moved forward slowly, shoulders rising, gait suddenly theatrical.
Not efficient.
Wrestling.
A fake step to the left. A shoulder roll. A feint that drew the defender's counterstrike high—exactly where it wanted him.
Then it lunged.
One hand gripped the man's throat. The other, his thigh.
It lifted him like a child.
And snapped his spine over its knee with a crunch that left the outpost silent.
The smoke hung in the air like a judgment. Flames crackled where the forge had ruptured. Metal hissed in broken molds.
Hell's Angel stood amidst the dead, no blood on its hands—because most of it had burned off on impact.
Then it tilted its head. A quiet voice echoed again from far beyond:
"Retrieve the data."
"Medical drone."
"Ironwood Grove."
It turned north.
Not out of malice.
Not to hunt.
But because it was the closest available tool.
And it had a job to do. So it ignored the man dying at its feet
The last living Kansani warrior Zarbo couldn't move his legs anymore.
Somewhere between the third slam and the screaming, something in his spine had gone numb. The rest of his body was trying to follow. But his mind—Kansani to the last—refused.
Blood pooled beneath him, warm one moment, cooling the next. His painted chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, each breath a betrayal. A fractured rib rasped against his lung. His left arm lay twisted behind him like an afterthought.
But he kept his eyes open.
He had to see.
Hell's Angel stood in the center of the outpost, steam rising from its shoulders, blood sprayed across its plated chest like warpaint. Not its blood. Theirs.
The thing hadn't spoken. Not even once.
But it fought like it had something to prove.
It had broken them—methodically, deliberately—using movements it shouldn't have known. Wrestling stances. Grapples. Throws. Footwork that mirrored human intent but moved with machine precision. Not copied. Owned.
The last warrior blinked slowly, vision doubled from blood loss, but he could still see the silhouette turning toward the northern path. Its arms lowered to its sides. Its fists unclenched, not in peace—but in the knowledge there were no more threats here.
It took one step toward Ironwood Grove.
Then another.
Then it paused.
And that was when the survivor realized…
It wasn't alone.
From the shattered gates behind it, a new sound emerged. He tried to lift his head. Failed. Turned his eyes instead. What he saw dragged a groan from his lips—a protest the wind quickly buried.
They came in silence.
The first wave were the humanoid frames he and his squad had been accustomed to, what the Witness had started calling Strikers.
But it was more than a dozen.
Marching in formation tighter than any warband, their movements unnervingly unified. Each one built like a soldier sculpted from nightmares—blank-faced, efficient, identical. Basic Striker models the ones they were used to the lanky armed one.
Then came the heavies.
Larger bodies. Broader shoulders. Slower steps—but every movement grounded like it was ready to throw down the sky. Their hands flexed with reinforced knuckles. Their frames hunched slightly forward—combat stances locked in from the moment they powered on.
Boxers.
The earth trembled under their tread.
The dying Kansani coughed blood down his chin. Tried to call out.
More came.
Not fists this time—but steel.
A fresh wave strode through the broken remains of the outpost gates. Their builds were all wrong—one carried a great blade slung across its back, shoulders hunched from weight. Another had twin knives, its frame narrow and angled, head tilted as if listening. One held a polearm as long as a full-grown warrior, moving slow but constant, as if it had no reason to rush. And the last—
He didn't see the last. Only heard its step: heavier, dragging, like its blade was too large to carry—but it carried it anyway.
They didn't speak.
Didn't scan.
Didn't pause.
They followed.
Hell's Angel never looked back.
It simply walked north, each step drawing the line toward Ironwood Grove.
And they followed. The Simple models only pausing to clumsily bend over and retrieve the weapons of the fallen.
It was a procession of death.
A machine phalanx.
A signal of escalation.
The Kansani's vision darkened, his final breath rattling in a throat slick with blood. He let it go, not with fear—but fury.
Because he knew what they were.
An army.
And Ironwood Grove didn't have time.