“Kanza,” the Boss’s voice was a low rumble, amplified by the mainframe vault's acoustics. It held no warmth, only a predator’s satisfaction. “A curious path you’ve chosen. Trading a dynasty for… this.” His gaze swept over the unconscious Dalko, lingering on the rebreather Kanza had discarded. A cruel smile touched his lips. “Such loyalty to your pathetic desert friends. It’s almost touching.” Neural gas scraped Kanza's throat like ground glass. Each shallow intake brought a copper tang to the tongue, while the Boss stood pristine beyond the haze. Kanza thought of Oakh tending the roadhouse stills, of Dalko snarling through grit to secure a perimeter. They were kin forged in sand, not blood. “They’re not pathetic,” Kanza rasped, the electro-baton a dim glow in their grip. “And they’re more blood than you ever gave me.” The Boss chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Dynasty is power, Kanza. Not sentiment. Look at him.” He gestured to Dalko with a flick of his wrist. One of the shock-troopers, plated in scavenged vanguard carapace, stepped forward, his muzzle lowering toward Dalko’s temple. “Tell me, Kanza. How much do you value these… connections? Enough to watch him die a slow, agonizing death right here? Or will you finally come home?” The air reeked of scorched wire and chemical rot. Dalko lay motionless beneath the phosphor drift, his jaw slack against the tile. Blood pulsed in Kanza's temples, hot and sharp enough to clear the dizziness. Retaining the sanctuary meant leaving no leverage behind. “You won’t touch him,” Kanza snarled, struggling to stand upright. The baton hummed against Kanza's knuckles. The Boss raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And how will you stop me, my dear child? With that toy?” He nodded towards the baton. “You have nothing left. No network, no resources, and soon, no breath. Give up, Kanza. It’s inevitable.” “Maybe,” Kanza coughed, the gas tearing at their throat. “But I’m not the only one who plans ahead.” Kanza looked toward the central data pillars, remembering Dalko's calloused thumb pressing a dark wedge against the load-bearing strut. The thermal charge. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but Dalko’s planning was always meticulous. Kanza triggered the remote detonator on their wrist comm, a simple, almost unconscious flick of the thumb. The world dissolved into chaos. A searing *CRACK* ripped through the room as the thermal charge detonated. Not a blast of raw force, but a concentrated pulse of heat, severing the primary power conduit running along the beam. The overhead lights shrieked, then died. The emergency generators kicked in, but only partially, plunging the chamber into an erratic red pulse. Red. Black. Red. Black. Each strobe lit Kanza’s father and the squad, their silhouettes splintered against the dark. “Kill them!” the Boss bellowed, his voice distorted by the echoing strobes. “Don’t let them escape!” The troopers opened fire, heavy-caliber auto-slugs gouging trenches across the alloy floor. Kanza dropped low, rolling behind an overturned equipment chassis, the electro-baton crackling. The neural gas was still thick, but the blackout had disrupted the room’s ventilation, preventing new gas from pumping in, thinning the green vapor. Kanza lashed out, the baton connecting with the knee of an enforcer who had blundered past the partition. Bone gave way with a sharp snap. The man folded, his autogun skittering across the tiles. Kanza grabbed it, the cold metal a familiar weight, but the clip was nearly empty. Three rounds. Three shots against a dozen armored killers. Red. Black. Red. Black. Kanza fired, the muzzle flash momentarily blinding, dropping another rifleman. Two rounds left. The remaining enforcers spread out, their scavenged armor glinting beneath the strobes as optical sensors recalibrated. They converged, a wall of steel and fire, pinning Kanza behind the chassis. Slugs hammered through the plating, shedding copper filings over Kanza's collar. The Boss, illuminated in a sudden burst of red light, stepped forward, his personal sidearm raised, aimed directly at Kanza’s head. “Such a waste,” he sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger. Then, the world above them exploded. A sharp crack tore overhead as the reinforced skylight gave way. Thousands of crystalline shards rained down, glittering like razor-sharp diamonds in the strobing light, impacting the floors and consoles with violent force. Through the gaping hole, a figure descended. Not falling, but dropping with controlled grace, a dark silhouette against the fractured, neon-lit night sky of Oura. Two gleaming, broad blades, forged from desert-steel and humming with a faint energy signature, were already in hand, catching the strobes as they spun. Oakh dropped onto the ruined floor, heavy curved steel already whistling through the air. The twin daggers met raised rifle barrels with shower of sparks, shoving weapons off-line before shearing through two breastplates. Kanza pushed up from the floor, breath rattling against dry ribs. “Kanza!” Oakh’s voice was a low growl, clear and commanding even amidst the chaos. “Back to back!” Kanza scrambled to their feet, the empty weapon a useless weight, but Oakh was already there, a blur of motion, his blades a deadly dance of steel and light. They moved in perfect, brutal synchronicity, a whirlwind of coordinated strikes and parries, pushing back the surviving riflemen. The Boss, bleeding from a superficial cut Oakh had inflicted across his cheek, staggered backward, his face a contorted snarl of disbelief and rage. “You brought an outland butcher into my city?!” he roared, clutching his bleeding face. He pressed a hidden button on his wrist comm, his laughter echoing maniacally through the collapsing room. “Then let’s all die together! Two minutes, Kanza! The building’s foundation is rigged!”

Shattered Glass