A rhythmic thudding pulsed through Drusya’s skull, like a particularly persistent, tiny drummer inside her brain. She shifted, her cheek sticking to the cold, grimy metal of a support pillar. The air smelled of stale incense and greasy engine wash, a common stench in the Krasnograd Enclave, but unusually thick here. She blinked open one eye, a sliver of grey light cutting through the gloom. A faint, droning voice was lecturing a sea of black-clad figures. Drusya sighed. A funeral. Worse, a *grand* funeral. The worst kind of nap interruption.
Her internal clock marked twelve hours down, four short of her strict sixteen-hour quota. She needed another four hours, minimum. Her stomach rumbled, a deep, dissatisfied growl. Algae paste for breakfast again, no doubt. She yearned for something that didn’t require the strenuous jaw work of *chewing*. Something rich, tender, falling apart on the tongue.
She squinted past the pillar, catching a glimpse of a shimmering, blue-tinged hologram projected above the podium. A face. A stern, powerful face, framed by a severe braid, eyes that held the chill of a winter storm and the unwavering focus of a starved predator. It was a beautiful face, intimidating in its intensity. Drusya felt a faint, distant recognition, like a half-remembered dream about a particularly pointy rock. Then she realized the face was *hers*.
“...the late Drusya Vaneva,” the droning voice of Commander Petrovic, thick with theatrical grief, boomed through the cavernous hall. “Our legendary vanguard slayer. The Shield of Krasnograd. Her sacrifice, an eternal beacon…”
Drusya blinked again, slower this time. *Her* face. Apex Hunter. Sacrifice. The words drifted, meaningless, over her. She patted her pocket instinctively, her fingers brushing against the familiar, worn leather of her precious recipe notebook. Its title, scrawled in faded ink, read: ‘Retirement Plan: Vol. 1 – Deliciousness & Deep Sleep.’ That felt more accurate. An apex operative sounded like endless running around and no napping.
The eulogy droned on, a tedious litany of heroic deeds Drusya had no memory of performing. The cold stone floor began to feel less like a pillow and more like, well, a cold stone floor. Her stomach rumbled again, more insistently this time. She needed to get back to the slum ring, back to the relative warmth of her artillery-tank-diner, ‘The Rusty Skewer,’ before the craving for soft, braised meat became an actual physical ache. Her memory might be patchy, but her culinary instincts were razor-sharp.
Suddenly, the mournful brass fanfare that had begun to play shuddered to a halt, replaced by a guttural roar that rattled the very foundations of the hall. Panic scattered the assembled ranks of ceremonial guards. A colossal shadow fell across the stained-glass ceiling, then shattered it with a shriek of twisted metal and pulverized stone. Through the gaping maw in the ceiling descended a beast of nightmare: a Razor-Grizzly. It was a mountain of matted, grey fur, rippling with raw muscle. Its claws, each as long as a man’s arm, ended in obsidian-sharp talons, and its teeth, yellowed and jagged, were designed for rending.
The eulogy was forgotten. Guards scrambled, armor plates clattering, but the beast moved faster. It crashed into the front ranks, sending bodies and ceremonial flags flying. Its roars echoed, laced with a terrifying hunger. Petrovic, still on the podium, drew a heavy plasma rifle, his knuckles whitening against the grip. “Hold your ground, men! For Drusya!”
Drusya, meanwhile, simply let out a low groan. This was a completely unacceptable interruption. She’d been *this* close to drifting off again. All that noise, all that flailing. It disturbed the peace. She glanced down at the dented, steel soup ladle she’d somehow managed to pilfer from the catering crew earlier. Its head was still warm from a particularly thin, tasteless broth.
The horned carnivore tore through another row of sentries, its massive snout twitching toward fresh targets. It let out a triumphant roar, shards of concrete embedded in its fur.
Drusya frowned. Such a waste of good protein. She flicked her wrist, a motion so casual it was almost imperceptible. The soup ladle, with surprising grace, spun end-over-end through the air. It hummed, a low, almost imperceptible whisper, as it sliced through the chaotic air. It was a blur, moving with an impossible velocity, a silver streak against the grey chaos.
Time seemed to stretch. The Razor-Grizzly paused, its head tilted, a glint of confusion in its small, predatory eyes. The ladle, a mundane kitchen tool, struck precisely between its eyes, directly into the brainstem. Not with a clang, but with a wet, sickening *thwip*.
The mountain of muscle wobbled. Its roar died in its throat, replaced by a gurgle. It sagged, then crashed to the floor, shaking the entire hall. Dust plumed, obscuring the stunned, silent faces of the mourners. Its limbs twitched once, twice, then were still. Death was instant, absolute.
The silence was profound, broken only by the distant dripping of water from a broken pipe. Commander Petrovic stood frozen, plasma rifle half-raised, his jaw slack. The surviving troops stared, first at the dead behemoth, then at Drusya, who was now slowly pushing herself up from behind the pillar, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She retrieved her ladle from where it had bounced back and clattered lightly against her boot.
“Honestly,” Drusya mumbled, inspecting the ladle for dents. “All that commotion for nothing. Now my head hurts.” She eyed the enormous carcass. The ribs looked promising. A nice long braise, maybe with some fermented algae-root and spiced-berry extract. That would melt into soft ribbons. No chewing required. A flawless late-afternoon meal, followed by an eight-hour top-off nap.
Ignoring the gaping, horrified expressions of the military elite, Drusya ambled over to the immense, dead beast. She rummaged in a hidden pocket of her threadbare jacket, pulling out a length of thick, salvaged mech-cable. With surprising ease, she looped it around one of the beast’s immense, clawed legs. The body was still warm. Ideal for immediate butchering.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice a low murmur, as she began to drag the colossal carcass towards the massive hole in the wall the beast had created. “Coming through. Dinner’s ready.”
The infantry stood frozen as the 'deceased' veteran, clad in a grease-stained apron and patched trousers, dragged the prize out of the ceremonial hall. The Commander was the first to move, rushing to the edge of the crater to watch her disappearing figure, a strange blend of disbelief and dawning hope on his face. He tracked her progress toward the rusted tank hull anchored among the scrap heaps. He muttered, “Drusya…”
Hours later, a rich, savory aroma began to drift from the bottom district, cutting through the freezing smog of Krasnograd. It was an aroma that cut through the pervasive stench of stale algae and recycled waste, an aroma that promised warmth, richness, and an indulgence the Enclave had long forgotten. It was the scent of slow-simmered, tender bear ribs.
The sun was beginning to dip below the jagged crater rim when a polished hover-limousine glided silently into Sector Null. Its sleek, pristine lines were a stark contrast to the surrounding landscape of rusted metal and salvaged junk. It stopped directly in front of ‘The Rusty Skewer,’ its engines humming softly. The tinted door hissed open, and an impeccably dressed man stepped out, his tailored uniform a pristine white against the grime. He wore a sneer as if the very air of Sector Null offended him. In his gloved hand, he held a crisply folded piece of paper. A demolition notice.