The dropship’s shadow swallowed the vibrant light of Rustbloom Orchard, plunging the courtyard into an oppressive gloom. Its engines howled, a predatory shriek that vibrated through Mezri’s bones, She clutched the rusted syndicate coin, its sharp edges biting into her palm. Pip, still perched on her shoulder, trembled, a low whine escaping its copper beak. “Everyone inside!” Farmer Corvan’s voice, usually a booming call across the fields, was tight with urgency. He ushered farmhands towards the sturdy timber buildings, his gaze fixed on the descending monstrosity. The dropship, a jagged beast of pitted chrome and gunmetal, settled with a heavy *thud* near the main gate, kicking up a storm of red dust. Its massive ramp hissed open, revealing a platoon of Gallowglass troops. They wore reinforced plating, their plasma rifles humming with charge. At their vanguard, an officer stepped out in an immaculate trenchcoat emblazoned with a silver skull and crossed bones, contrasting with the grimy squads flanking him. He had an angular jaw and hard, pitch-black eyes. He surveyed the orchard, a sneer twisting his lips. “Such a quaint little hideaway,” his voice, amplified by a throat mic, grated across the courtyard. “Always knew you farmers had a soft spot for strays.” His gaze swept over the remaining few, settling on Corvan. “We’re not here for your glowing turnips, old man. We want the smuggler. Mezri Canto. Give her up, and we might let you keep your pretty little sanctuary intact.” Mezri’s hand instinctively tightened around the coin. Her carefully constructed tourist façade threatened to crack. *They know. They’re here for me.* The commander's eyes landed on Toma, who stood frozen beside his half-finished defense mech, a wrench still clutched in his hand. The officer strode toward the boy, gravel crunching under heavy boots. “And what’s this? A child playing soldier? You think this scrap heap will protect you from the Gallowglass? Adorable.” He snatched the wrench from Toma's numb fingers, bent the thick tool into an arc with a harsh twist of his gauntlet, and threw the ruined steel at Toma’s feet. “Run along, boy. Before you get splattered.” Toma’s face flushed crimson, shame and terror warring in his eyes. He stumbled back, unable to meet Vane’s gaze. Toma's knuckles trembled against his thighs, the silence stinging worse than a lash. Mezri felt a sudden, hot surge of fury. She had played the helpless tourist for weeks, but this… this was too much. Toma, who had offered her honest kindness, was being debased. Her eyes flicked to the bioluminescent pie she’d been carrying, still warm in its woven basket. The pie filling, bright cerulean and bubbling faintly, was made from concentrated Gloomberry sap, potent and highly corrosive, a necessary agent for its unique glow. A wide, clumsy smile stretched across Mezri’s face. “Oh dear! What’s all this fuss about?” she chirped, her voice falsely bright, stepping forward with an exaggerated wobble. “Such a serious man, for such a lovely afternoon! Perhaps you’d like a slice of our famous Gloomberry pie? It’s absolutely *divine*!” She pushed past Kevral, who shot her a warning glance, his shoulders rigid. The commander turned, dark eyes narrowing. “Get out of my way, tourist.” “Oh, but I couldn’t!” Mezri insisted, her foot catching on an imaginary stone. Her body pitched forward, a symphony of flailing limbs and exaggerated cries. “Whoops-a-daisy! So clumsy of me!” The basket tilted, and with a theatrical gasp, Mezri “accidentally” upended the entire, piping-hot bioluminescent pie directly onto the officer’s polished, chrome-tipped boots. A sickening sizzle filled the air as the concentrated Gloomberry sap, a vibrant blue, began to eat through the chrome plating, releasing a acrid, metallic stench. The officer froze, features knotting in outrage. “You… you imbecile!” he roared, staring in fury as the sap ate away the outer layer of his expensive footwear. Wisps of grey smoke curled upwards. “Do you know how much these cost?!” Mezri clapped her hands over her mouth, blinking with feigned innocence. “Oh my goodness! I am *so* terribly sorry! I’m such a klutz! Is your boot… dissolving?” Her voice was sweet, laced with just the right amount of mock concern. Before the officer could strike, Kevral moved between them. He did not say a word, planted firmly, his stare locking onto the Gallowglass officer. The officer glanced up from his smoking boots to Kevral, and recognition broke across his mouth. “Well, well, well,” he murmured through his throat mic. “Look what the rust-rat dragged in. Kevral. Or should I say… ‘The Cinderspur Butcher’?” The air thickened, suddenly charged with a different kind of tension. Mezri felt her carefully constructed composure falter. *Cinderspur Butcher?* “Still hiding in the shadows, I see,” the officer continued, sneering. “Heard you’d gone soft, playing tunes for rubes. A far cry from the carnage you unleashed in Cinderspur. Those were some truly magnificent massacres, Kevral. A real shame you ran.” His smile widened, devoid of warmth. “But don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me… for now. We’ll have a proper reunion once I’ve dealt with your little smuggler friend.” He gestured to his squad. “Grab Canto. The rest of you, secure the perimeter. Don’t let a single glow-worm escape.” The syndicate soldiers moved, their heavy footsteps shaking the ground. Kevral remained impassive, but Mezri could feel the tension thrumming through his body, coiled and ready to strike. As the enforcers advanced, a stray laser beam from one of their rifles, carelessly discharged, grazed Pip. The bio-mechanical glider shrieked, a high-pitched, metallic keening. It tumbled from Mezri’s shoulder, crashing to the dirt. “Pip!” Mezri cried, dropping to her knees, abandoning all pretense. She scooped up her pet. Its copper scales flickered erratically, and smoke wisped from a small, charred scorch mark on its side. Its optical sensors spun wildly, then locked onto the air directly in front of Mezri. A holographic projection shimmered into existence, not the crosshairs from before, but a swirling vortex of arcane symbols. Then, a voice, unmistakably Mezri’s own, echoed through the courtyard, amplified and distorted by Pip’s malfunction: “Jolla didn’t write this list, I did.”

Corrosive Intentions