The wind whipped strands of dark hair across her face, but she ignored it, her focus absolute. Nika, wrapped tightly in Bramien’s thick overcoat, peeked out from behind his leg, staring quietly from behind his kneecap. She clutched a half-eaten, sun-warmed tomato. Even in this harsh weather, the scent of fresh soil and vibrant sweetness clung to her. “The radio offered a seven-figure schematic bounty,” Bramien stated, his voice a low growl, eyes scanning the perimeter. His new legs, once useless, now flexed with an almost primal strength beneath his patched trousers. He held Nika close, a silent promise of protection radiating from him. “Every greedy fool in Ostrovya will be clawing at the gates.” “Precisely.” Zivena’s tone was flat. “They will serve as excellent target practice. Prepare for close-quarters engagement, Bramien. Maintain Nika’s safety as the primary objective. Casualties among the opposition are acceptable.” He gave a curt nod, his hand already on the hilt of a scavenged, heavy pipe wrench. Yovela, pale but resolute, clutched a rusted crowbar, her expensive silken scarf a stark contrast to the grim reality. “So, we simply… walk in?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “With that… contraption?” “We make an entrance,” Zivena corrected, adjusting the gun's optical sight. A low drone began as its cylinders engaged. The Varga Township’s main gate, a sagging affair of rusted iron and splintered wood, came into view. A motley collection of figures milled about, their postures predatory. They wore mismatched scraps of armor, carried blunt instruments, and their eyes, even from this distance, gleamed with avarice. The moment Zivena, Bramien, Yovela, and the child stepped onto the main thoroughfare, a cheer erupted from the assembled cutthroats. “There she is!” A burly man with a scarred face, carrying a spiked club, bellowed. “The Varga witch! The bounty is ours!” Zivena did not pause. She lifted the multi-barrel assembly, bracing the carriage against her hip. The barrels spun with an unnerving speed. A torrent of deafening *thumps* tore through the air, each sound a projectile finding its mark. The lead tracker, mid-charge, disintegrated into a mist of red and tattered cloth. His companions faltered, their cheers dying into choked screams as the automated fire swept through their ranks. Bramien moved forward into the gaps. He met the few who dared to close the distance with blunt strikes. The wrench arced, a devastating extension of his will. Bones shattered, bodies crumpled. Yovela, surprisingly, found her nerve. With a shriek that was more rage than fear, she swung her crowbar, connecting with a crack against an assailant's knee. The man dropped, howling. The massacre was swift, clinical. Within minutes, the township's entrance was littered with the mangled remains of Ignac's eager opportunists. A chilling silence descended, broken only by the cooling whir and Nika’s soft gasp. Zivena lowered the rig, its dark metal steaming in the cold. “Right,” she said, her voice completely devoid of inflection. “Phase two. Human resources.” As they advanced into the grimy heart of the factory complex, the air grew thick with the acrid smell of coal smoke and stale grease. The rhythmic clang of distant machinery echoed. A crowd of soot-caked mill hands emerged from a sprawling assembly hall, gripping prybars and iron ladles. Yovela stepped forward, her expensive clothes incongruous amidst the industrial squalor, but her voice carried authority. “Brothers and sisters of Varga! For too long, Ignac Varga has bled us dry! But today, a new future dawns!” A murmur rose through the crowd. Zivena pulled a pristine, laminated schematic from her coat pocket. It depicted a modern shuttleless loom. She held it aloft. “This is yours. A schematic for a weaving machine. Ten times the output, half the effort. No more broken spindles, no more wasted thread.” The murmurs swelled into excited exclamations. Then, Zivena reached into her mental space again, pulling out several large, ripe tomatoes, still warm from the sun. She tossed them to the nearest men. “And these,” she added, “are for your lunch. Fresh produce. Daily. No more Ignac's moldy rations.” The sight of the vibrant red fruit, so alien in this bleak environment, was the final straw. A roar erupted from the floor hands. “Down with Ignac!” “No more starvation wages!” “For the new looms!” They surged forward, a tide of furious laborers, their tools held level. Yovela smiled, a genuine, triumphant smile. “They’re with us.” Ignac’s hired militia, a scruffy band of ex-soldiers and thugs, formed a defensive line outside the administration doors. A brutish overseer barked orders. “Hold the line! The old man pays! This scum gets nothing!” Zivena stepped forward, the rotary cannon slung casually over her shoulder. She surveyed the hirelings with an appraising squint. “Attention, hired personnel,” she announced, her voice projected by some unseen, internal mechanism. It boomed across the courtyard, clear and resonant. “Your current employer offers substandard compensation, poor working conditions, and high occupational hazard.” The overseer scoffed. “What in the blazes are you babbling about, witch?” “I am offering a new employment contract,” Zivena continued, unperturbed. “Competitive wages, paid time off for sickness or personal matters, and comprehensive dental care. Furthermore, a 401(k) retirement plan will be implemented, ensuring financial security post-service.” The guards exchanged bewildered glances. The overseer’s mouth twisted. “She’s lying! Ignac pays in silver, not... molar scrapings!” “Ignac pays you in exhaustion and contempt,” Zivena countered, her gaze unwavering. “I offer respect, stability, and a future. Consider your options carefully. The heavy artillery, for example, is highly persuasive.” She gestured toward the red stains scattered across the front gate. The militia stared at the snow. A few of the hired men began to fidget. One, a lanky youth with a nervous twitch, lowered his rifle. “Dental care?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “My molars have been aching for years.” Another, older, with a missing eye, muttered, “Paid time off… I haven’t seen my mother in seven seasons.” The overseer roared, “Traitors! Ignac will flay you alive!” “Ignac will be unable to flay anyone,” Zivena stated, her voice chillingly calm, “once he is unemployed. A simple cost-benefit analysis will confirm my offer is superior.” She pulled a stack of crisp, newly printed contracts from her mental space, each bearing a detailed list of benefits. “Sign here for your new career.” One by one, the men dropped their carbines. They queued to take the sheets, grubby fingers tracing clauses for paid leave and root canals. The abandoned overseer backed away as the mill hands closed ranks, letting out a sharp yelp as Bramien advanced with the wrench. The path to the central steam facility was now clear. They burst through the reinforced door, the air inside thick with superheated moisture. Massive pipes snaked across the ceiling, dripping condensation. At the heart of the room stood a colossal steam-pressure valve, its intricate gauges glowing red. Zivena's eyes immediately flew to the fail-safes. They were gone, ripped out, wires dangling like severed nerves. “Looking for something, Zivena?” Ignac Varga stood on a catwalk high above them, his silhouette framed against the steam-shrouded ceiling. A wide, manic grin split his face, revealing stained teeth. In his hand, he clutched a small, crudely fashioned detonator. His finger hovered over a large, red button. The main pressure dial, already deep in the red zone, ticked ominously. A high-pitched whistle began to build, a sound of immense, contained power nearing its breaking point. “Two minutes, Zivena,” he cackled, his voice echoing off the metal walls. “Two minutes until the Varga legacy – and your precious family – are nothing but a memory.”

Human Resources