Volen’s foot slammed the accelerator, the transport truck’s engine roaring a desperate protest. The hulking vehicle, designed for carrying grain, not ramming human obstacles, barreled across the roadway. Savelia Dorn and Miksa Drenka, two stark silhouettes against the pre-dawn mist, held their ground. Volen’s mind screamed at their audacity. They were just peasants. He, a rising official of the Ovestran Republic, would grind them to dust. He could already taste the triumph, the satisfying crunch of steel against flesh. Savelia didn't flinch. Her grip tightened on the box-like device. It wasn't a detonator, not in the traditional sense. It was a pressure-activated charge, crude but effective, designed to rupture the span's ancient, corroded conduits that carried factory runoff down into the chasm. These lines, leaking for decades, coated the asphalt in the stench of sour earth and oxidized copper. Beside her, Miksa, still streaked with mud and blood, held the actual detonator. Not for the concrete, but for the *content* of the stolen quota registers she clutched in her other hand. She'd spent her reborn life studying the system, and that included the chemical compositions of its most mundane elements. These ledgers, mandated for their durability and water resistance, were printed with a special, oil-based ink containing a highly reactive metallic powder. In large quantities, ignited properly, they were surprisingly potent. The truck was mere yards away, its headlights blinding. Miksa looked at Savelia, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Then, with a bared-tooth snarl, Miksa dropped a stack of papers onto a puddle of leaking sludge, triggering the clicker with her thumb. The oil-based ink, now saturated, ignited instantly, a searing flash of white light. The initial explosion was small, a contained burst, but it was enough. The heat from the smoldering reams, amplified by the chemical sludge, caused the casing of the nearby charge to warp. The box device Savelia held shuddered, then bucked violently in her hands. With a grunt, she hurled it directly at the truck’s grill just as Volen was about to make impact. The charge detonated against the truck's front bumper. It wasn’t a massive bomb, but it was perfectly placed. The rusty conduit, weakened by decades of corrosion and sudden thermal shock, ruptured with a deafening roar. A geyser of pressurized sludge erupted from the cracked deck, directly beneath the chassis. Vaporized methane, superheated by the sudden tear and the blazing pages, met the sparks. “*Go!*” Savelia shrieked, grabbing Miksa and pulling her back with surprising force. They threw themselves flat onto the roadbed just as the asphalt beneath the truck broke open. A blue-green plume tore upward, spewing scorched silt, rivet heads, and sulfurous fumes into the morning fog. Caught square in the blast pocket, the truck rose, twisted, and cracked open in a spray of white-hot steel. The percussion slapped against the canyon walls, rattling teeth. When the roar died down, greasy black smoke settled over the highway. The center of the span was a gaping, smoking wound. Twisted metal girders jutted skyward, glowing cherry-red. The once-solid concrete was fractured, its surface blackened and crumbling. From the flaming wreckage, a figure emerged. Volen Trakis. His bureaucratic tunic hung in shreds, smoke curling from the wool. His face was a mask of soot and terror, one arm hanging limp at an unnatural angle. He coughed, a ragged, wet sound, then stumbled forward, collapsing onto his knees. “Exemption!” he croaked, his voice raw above the crackling metal. “I demand political protection! I hold rank in the capital! This is treason! You will all hang!” He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, darting around for a glimpse of the central authorities, of rescue, of anything that wasn't the two vengeful women limping towards him. Miksa, her face a grim, satisfied sneer, kicked a piece of smoldering debris out of her path. “State protection?” she scoffed. “You’re lucky we don’t demand a labor tally sheet from you for surviving that.” “We’re not done,” Savelia muttered, leveling a glare at him. “Not by a mile.” A new set of footsteps approached, measured and unhurried. Through the swirling smoke, Velsia Drenka appeared, a vision of casual defiance. Her clothes were remarkably clean, save for a smudge of ash on her cheek. Over one shoulder, her beloved hammock was draped, still perfectly folded. In her other hand, the heavy scythe gleamed, reflecting the firelight. “What’s all this racket?” Velsia drawled, a languid yawn escaping her lips. “Some of us are trying to enjoy a nice, post-Purge nap. Honestly, the noise pollution in this sector is getting out of hand.” She surveyed the ruined crossing, the burning truck, and the groveling bureaucrat with an expression of mild inconvenience. Volen gaped at her, his earlier bravado evaporating. “Velsia Drenka,” he spluttered, trying to push himself up. “You… you’re supposed to be dead!” Velsia tapped the scythe against the ground, a soft *clink* that somehow cut through the din. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you. But then, you always were a bit of a cockroach, weren’t you, Volen?” She looked at Miksa and Savelia. “He mentioned protection? How quaint. I believe the proper term for someone who just tried to murder half the settlement's population and blew up a state asset is ‘highly disposable.’” She reached into her pocket, pulling out a crisp, official-looking document. “Conveniently, I happen to have the deed for the entire Grevka Agricultural Commune right here. Signed by your dear Overseer Rylos, who, shall we say, had a sudden change of career plans. All it needs is your signature, Volen, to make it… official. A transfer of ownership. From the Ovestran Republic, to me. For services rendered, of course.” Her eyes, usually half-lidded with boredom, held a razor-sharp glint. Volen stared at the deed, then at the scythe, then at the ravine below. His face contorted in a pathetic mixture of fear and rage. “Never!” he shrieked. “I will never give you anything, you… you rebel scum!” Velsia sighed, a picture of put-upon exasperation. “Such a fuss. You’re lucky I’m giving you a chance to avoid a… more direct disposal.” She glanced over her shoulder. Bramen Vost emerged from the smoke, his silhouette impossibly tall, his face impassive. He carried no weapon, but his presence alone was a weapon. He stopped beside Velsia, his gaze fixed on Volen. Volen shrank back against the roadbed. He knew the dead stillness in Bramen's posture, the flat stare of a man used to turning soil over corpses. “Fine! Fine!” Volen whimpered, snatching the pen Velsia offered with his good hand. His fingers trembled as he scrawled his name illegibly across the document. “There! Now let me go! I have state clearance! I hold a party seat!” Velsia took the deed, inspecting the signature with a satisfied hum. “Excellent. Punctual, as always, Bramen.” She winked at her husband. “Now, about your safety… I think we can arrange an expedited departure.” Before Volen could even register her words, Bramen moved. A blur of motion. One heavy boot connected with Volen’s chest with a sickening thud. The official, already weakened and injured, let out a strangled cry as he was launched backward, over the sheared guardrail and dropped into the churning river far below. The distant smack of water was drowned by roaring flames. No one bothered to watch him sink. Velsia stretched, a picture of contentment. “Ah, much better. Now, I believe I have some napping to catch up on. Savelia, Miksa, perhaps we can discuss new management strategies for the commune over some rations?” As the three women turned to leave the inferno, a low rumble vibrated through the ground. It wasn't the fire. It was deeper, heavier. Velsia paused, cocking her head. The smoke-choked horizon began to shimmer. Through the dissipating mist, the unmistakable, boxy outlines of heavy military tanks, their cannons gleaming, appeared, rolling steadily towards Grevka.

Toll on the Bridge