The foundations of the compound shuddered again, a groan of stressed rock and reinforced plasteel. Red warning lights pulsed, casting the stunned faces of the drinkers in a crimson glow. Kanza, still mid-confession, clamped their jaw shut as bile rose in their throat. The sound of splintering metal, a scream of twisting hinges, echoed from the courtyard. Then, the rhythmic thud of heavy boots. Not one engine. Several. Too many for a simple dust-bandit raid.
Oakh moved. His hand swept Kanza behind the bar counter, pressing them low. “Stay down,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble that cut through the rising panic. He didn’t reach for a weapon. He didn’t need to. His eyes, usually placid and deep as an aquifer, hardened into chips of obsidian. He vaulted the counter and slid a heavy, oiled timber across the gap, barricading it. The crowd scrambled, some diving under tables, others huddling together near the far wall.
“Welcome to the roadhouse!” Oakh’s voice boomed, calm and steady despite the roar outside. He stood in the center of the floor, arms loose at his sides. Just as he finished speaking, the reinforced courtyard doors blasted inward, tearing free from their hinges with a shriek of tortured metal. Dust and pulverized rock billowed into the room, backlit by the searing glare of external floodlights. Through the haze, hulking figures emerged.
They wore the scavenged livery of the Black-Sand company. Their scavenged plasteel armor, patched with dark, oil-stained fabrics, glinted menacingly. Each carried a heavy-gauge carbine or a stubby, drum-fed scattergun. At their head strode a man whose bulk filled the doorframe. Vex. His bald head was scarred, a jagged line bisecting his left eyebrow. A sneer twisted his lips, revealing teeth filed into sharp points. He carried no weapon in his hands, only a cruel, expectant glint in his eyes.
“Well, well, well,” Vex rumbled, his voice like grinding gears. “The famed Hollow-Rock. Cozy. But we’re not here for your overpriced cactus brew, innkeeper.” His gaze swept over the cowering travelers, then landed on Oakh. “We’re here for Dalko. Or rather, what Dalko stole from us.”
Kanza’s stomach clenched. The military data drive. The one hidden in the jacket Kanza had taken. The one with the symbol of the Oura City’s elite security forces. This wasn’t just a common hired crew. This was deeper, more dangerous than Kanza had anticipated.
Vex peered across the floor and leveled a thick, scarred finger at a lanky youth huddled under a table. “You. Skinny. Get out here.”
Grak whimpered, trying to shrink further into the shadows. Vex’s sneer widened. “Didn’t hear me, did ya? Maybe you need a little incentive.” With a surprising burst of speed, Vex crossed the room, grabbed Grak by the collar, and hauled him upright. Grak was practically lifted off his feet, dangling like a rag doll. Vex slammed him against the rough-hewn wall, the impact echoing through the room.
“Where’s Dalko, boy?” Vex demanded, his face inches from Grak’s. Grak’s eyes were wide with terror, tears streaking through the grime on his cheeks. He shook his head violently, unable to speak.
Kanza felt a familiar heat ignite in their gut. The Vayan family had taught Kanza to eliminate threats, to protect their own, no matter the cost. This was a reflex, honed and deadly, that quiet months at the canyon roadhouse had only barely dulled. Seeing Grak, an innocent, caught in the crossfire, Kanza’s control snapped. The ‘Dalko’ identity, the quiet life, the slow, gentle anchor Oakh provided – it all vanished in a blinding flash of fury.
“Let him go,” Kanza said, voice devoid of their practiced gruffness and sharp with aristocratic venom.
Vex slowly turned, his eyes finding Kanza. Kanza had emerged from behind the bar, no longer hiding. The red emergency lights cast sharp, dancing shadows across Kanza’s face. Vex chuckled, a grating sound. “Well, well. Look what the dust storm dragged in. The coward who hides behind others. You Dalko?”
“I told you to let him go.” Kanza took a step forward. The air crackled. Oakh, standing motionless, watched Kanza with an intensity that missed nothing. He had seen this look before, a dangerous flicker of the predator Kanza tried to hide.
Vex, still holding Grak, laughed louder. “And what are you going to do about it, little sand rat? Get in my way and I’ll snap you like a dry twig.” He punctuated his threat by tightening his grip on Grak, who let out a pained gasp.
That was it. Kanza moved. Not the clumsy, brawling style of a hired gun. This was the ruthless efficiency of high-rise enforcers. A blur of motion. Kanza weaved under Vex’s arm, a feint, then pivoted. A sharp crack tore through the room. Vex screamed, a guttural roar of pain as Kanza’s elbow connected with his forearm, snapping it with sickening ease. Grak dropped to the floor, gasping for air.
Vex stumbled back, clutching his mangled arm, his face contorted in disbelief and agony. “You… you broke my arm, you little bastard!” he shrieked, his voice suddenly high-pitched. His gunmen immediately raised their carbines, the muzzles glowing faintly in the dim light. A full shootout was seconds away. Bystanders screamed, scattering further.
“Hold your fire!” Kanza commanded, their voice ringing with an authority that surprised even themself. They moved, not toward Vex, but directly toward the riflemen, eyes locked on the leader. Old muscle memory took over, cold and practiced. Disarm, disable, dominate. Before anyone could react, Kanza disarmed the nearest raider, sending his carbine skittering across the floor, then spun and kicked another in the knee, dropping him with a grunt of pain.
“Who are you?” Vex hissed, his face now a mask of pure hatred and fear. “No drifter moves like that!”
Just as Kanza prepared to finish the fight, a new sound ripped through the chaos. A furious, metallic thud against the now-empty doorframe. Then another, louder, more forceful. The broken doors, already blasted inward, were kicked again, this time with a primal, desperate rage. A figure, battered and bruised, stumbled into the hall.
He was coated in grit, his clothes torn, his face a swollen mess. One eye was completely shut, a grotesque purple lump. In his hand, he clutched something small and ominous, pulsing with a faint, internal glow. A thermal detonator. The real Dalko.
Silence fell over the room, absolute and heavy. Even Vex’s crew froze, their weapons still aimed, but their eyes fixed on the man with the detonator. Dalko’s good eye, red-rimmed and bloodshot, swept over the room, filled with a burning, unadulterated fury. His gaze landed on Kanza, still standing amidst the fallen mercenaries, the picture of lethal competence.
“I knew it!” Dalko rasped, his voice hoarse from pain and rage. He lifted the detonator slightly, a silent threat to everyone. “You thought you could steal my life, my identity, and walk away?” He stumbled forward, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger directly at Kanza. “That’s no soldier for hire! That’s Kanza Vayan, the prime heir of the Oura Syndicate!”