The Skarn diplomat’s words hung in the stale air, a final, guttural pronouncement of doom. Outside the reinforced walls of Mei-Ying’s soup kitchen, the usual racket of the concourse dissolved into a terrifying roar. Alarms blared station-wide, a raw, piercing siren that promised no safety, only flight. Jaxen’s relaxed posture vanished. His eyes, usually softened by Mei-Ying’s presence, sharpened into cold, analytical slits. He moved with a predator’s economy, already positioning himself, subtly checking his periphery for exits or threats. Raelar, still clutching the plasma-pistol, turned from Jaxen to the door, his gaze hardened, his face etched with grim understanding. This wasn't just a street-gang raid anymore. This was a full-scale incursion. “The orbital cannons don’t just *charge* without a direct, catastrophic trigger,” Raelar stated, his voice low and tight, cutting through the rising panic. “Vexel moved faster than I anticipated. He’s pushing the Skarn to fire.” Before he finished speaking, the outer gate to the lower levels buckled inward with a concussive boom. Dust and shrapnel showered the distant stalls. Through the newly formed breach poured a torrent of figures. First, black-clad cartel mercenaries, their composite armor gleaming under flickering neon, raised carbines. Behind them lumbered something heavier: Skarn vanguard infantry, their multi-jointed limbs encased in segmented battle-plate, their four ocular stalks glowing with an unsettling crimson light. Their energy carbines hummed with lethal intent. “They’re here for me,” Jaxen said, his voice devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the chaos. “To prevent the codes from being released, and to ensure the Hegemony has an excuse to glass this place.” Mei-Ying, however, remained rooted by her stove, her gaze not on the unfolding invasion, but on the simmering pot of braised pork belly. “Not on my watch,” she muttered, more to the pork than to the armed combatants. “That braise needs another ten minutes to render perfectly. And these scallion pancakes… they’ll burn if I don’t flip them now.” A Skarn warrior, larger and more heavily armed than the others, stomped toward Mei-Ying’s stall, spitting searing emerald bolts that disintegrated a metal crate. “Subject Zeta-001, surrender immediately!” its synthesized voice boomed, rattling the already damaged walls. “All witnesses will be neutralized!” Raelar snarled. “Not happening!” He met the advancing Skarn with a burst of plasma fire, his military-issue blaster carving brilliant arcs through the air. The warrior’s shields flared, deflecting the bolts, but the force of the impact staggered it. Jaxen, no longer holding back, moved with terrifying speed. He lunged, a blur of motion, disarming one mercenary with a precise, bone-shattering strike to the wrist, then using the stolen weapon to incapacitate two more before they could even register his presence. He struck with machine efficiency, snapping joints and stripping weapons in fluid, brutal economy. The Rust-Stall became a maelstrom. Plasma bolts crisscrossed the air, impacting metal, plaster, and unfortunate debris. The metallic tang of ozone mixed with the acrid scent of burning synthetics. Raelar, his shoulder still aching from the previous encounter, fought with the cold precision of a highly trained enforcer, his blaster singing death as he wove through the narrow alleyways, covering Mei-Ying’s small kitchen. Jaxen moved like a shadow, a ghost in the melee, appearing and disappearing, his bare hands becoming lethal instruments against the armored invaders. “Commander! Flank left!” Jaxen’s voice was a low growl, his eyes flicking to a small gap in the incoming fire. Raelar responded without hesitation, a silent understanding passing between the former enemies. They moved in tandem, a deadly ballet of Ascendancy tech and bio-engineered brawn, covering each other’s blind spots, their movements honed by years of combat, albeit on opposing sides. A Skarn grenadier hurled a thermal detonator, its blinking red light a promise of explosive obliteration, directly towards Mei-Ying’s stove. Mei-Ying, spatula in hand, didn’t even flinch. She observed the trajectory with a professional’s detachment, then, with a casual flick of her foot, precisely connected with the device. It tumbled end over end, a tiny, glowing red projectile, disappearing down a nearby trash chute with a distant *thump-clank*. Her focus remained solely on the sizzling scallion pancake, which she deftly flipped with a practiced wrist, achieving a perfect golden-brown crispness. “Are those… *scallions*?” A Skarn infantryman, momentarily derailed by the sudden aroma wafting from Mei-Ying’s kitchen, stuttered, its crimson ocular stalks swiveling toward the source. Its weapon dropped a fraction of an inch. Another Skarn warrior, its attention drawn by its comrade’s pause, inhaled deeply. The rich, savory scent of caramelized pork belly, laced with the sharp, fresh tang of spring onions and the subtle spice of five-flavor powder, began to permeate the ventilation systems of the Rust-Market. The smell hit cold nostrils trained only on flavorless gelatin paste. “What… *is* that?” a third Skarn gasped, its voice raspy, its battle stance faltering. Its multi-jointed legs began to twitch involuntarily. Its weapon, a heavy energy carbine, clattered to the grime-slick floor, its owner’s four ocular stalks fixed with a desperate, unblinking hunger on Mei-Ying’s stall. More Skarn infantry, caught in the rich draft of hot fat and alliums, lowered their guns, mandible plates clicking open as saliva pooled on the floor. They stood, momentarily paralyzed, their formidable armor and weapons forgotten, their attention irrevocably captured by the promise of the food. Amidst the surreal tableau of drooling Skarn warriors and disoriented mercenaries, a new figure emerged. Vexel materialized from the shadows near the buckled threshold, a thin grin splitting his face. He moved with chilling speed, darting past the distracted combatants, his hand seizing the flailing Ambassador Vur-Tash. A vibro-blade, thin and gleaming, appeared at the Skarn’s throat. Vexel’s comm-link flared, a tiny light indicating a live galactic broadcast. “Now, Commander,” Vexel purred, his voice amplified across the hollow chamber, “let’s see if your Ascendancy still values its diplomats when I ensure the Hegemony Fleet has no choice but to fire.”

The Siege of Sector 7