“What do we do?” Haldon’s voice, rough with pain, cut through the clamor of the bloodstained masonry. “He’ll be there before we are.” Oletta didn’t answer with words. She ripped a heavy wrench from the wall-mounted rack, its weight a familiar comfort in her grip. Her gaze, stripped of its cheerful glaze, scanned the oil-streaked workshop floor. Heavy dynamos hummed, belts clanked, and the sharp bite of petroleum hung in the air. A towering service bay door, usually bolted, hung ajar. “The service bay,” she stated, already moving. “There’s an old cargo hauler inside. The Iron Mule. It’s slow, but it’s fast enough.” Haldon didn’t question. He pushed himself off the cold metal slab, his face a grimace of agony, but his gaze fixed on her with a fierce, unwavering trust. He snatched a coil of cable from a workbench, his calloused hands already anticipating the next move. They burst into the bay, the iron-ribbed flatbed a hulking, rust-pocked beast of steel, half-disassembled. Its thick treaded wheels promised torque, if not velocity. “Grigor wouldn’t take public transit,” Oletta muttered, her mind a whir of calculations. “He’ll have commandeered something faster, more armored. We need to be unpredictable.” Haldon was already yanking open the engine access hatch, his headlamp beam cutting into the greasy depths. “The fuel line was severed,” he grunted, a thin trickle of kerosene pooling on the floor. “And the ignition coil… gone.” Oletta’s gaze fell on a stack of abandoned crates. “Make it run, Haldon. I’ll clear us a path.” She slipped a ground-down shiv from her sleeve, its edge catching the low light. This was a different kind of precision than stitching wounds. This was the precision of a predator. Minutes later, the transport sputtered to life, its ancient motor coughing black smoke. Oletta, at the wheel, swung the heavy rig out of the bay, crushing a stack of derelict drums that blocked their way. Haldon, perched precariously on the side, hotwired the external floodlights, bathing their escape route in a harsh, unforgiving glare. The streets of Velmoth were a blur of ash-covered buildings and fleeing pedestrians. Every turn, every rumble of their stolen transport, felt like a gamble against time. They crashed through the Rustblock gates, the impact shaking the entire chassis. The air here was thick with a new, metallic tang. “He’s here,” Oletta hissed, her knuckles white on the steering column. “I can smell it.” The rig jerked to a halt in the courtyard. Oletta leapt down before the treads ceased rolling, Haldon hard at her heels. The brick portal stood open. Bex and Perrin. The young ones. Her vow. The stench of burnt oil and something else, something acrid and metallic, hit them first. The sound of distant shouts, abruptly cut short, echoed from the upper levels. They bounded up the first flight of stairs, Haldon moving with a surprising agility despite his injuries. Two steps from the corridor threshold, Oletta pulled up short. Splayed across the floorboards was a syndicate bruiser. His forearm lay pinned beneath a rusted plate dropped from an overhead beam. A length of braided cord ran up toward the joists. Another tough lay groaning beside him, bound in snagged wire and dented piping, his ankle caught in a jaw-trap of sharpened salvage. A small, hand-scrawled sign in crude chalk was affixed to the wall next to him: *‘Mind the tripwires. – P & B’*. Pride, sharp and sudden, cut through Oletta's tension. Perrin and Bex had set teeth against iron. Stepping over the wounded raiders, she muttered, “Clever little devils.” Haldon stared at the wire, bewildered. “I never showed Perrin how to rig that.” They ascended another flight. More traps. A bucket of corrosive acid, cleverly rigged, had doused a thug’s face, leaving him screaming and thrashing. A jagged drive cog, dragged from an old mill, stood wedged between two frames to choke off the passage. The corridors, usually loud with quarreling tenants, offered only the low moaning of downed skirmishers. The pair had turned the hall into a redoubt. Suddenly, a piercing cry of surprise echoed from the fourth level. Not a cry of pain, but of alarm. Ice hit the base of Oletta’s neck. Haldon shoved past her, favoring his mangled arm. “Fourth level! Right by the coal bin!” They lunged upwards, taking the steps two at a time. The upper hallway churned with violence. Bex held a pitted boiler pipe in two hands, knocking aside a crowbar swung by an intruder. Perrin darted along the baseboards, hauling a taut cord across a man's shins. But five more club-wielding thugs crowded the turn of the steps. “Grab the brats!” one shouted. “Bring them up breathing!” Just as a thug lunged for Bex, a shrill, piercing voice cut through the chaos. “What in the Grime are you doing, you thick-skulled louts?!” Matron Gorm, her hair a wild, unkempt mess, burst from the doorway of her apartment, her face a mask of furious indignation. She clutched a bent umbrella like a weapon. The thugs, momentarily stunned by the unexpected interruption, paused. “The little wretches are in the supply closet!” she shrieked, waving her umbrella toward the far dead end. “Burrowed in behind the sacks! Move, you clods!” Her eyes, darting between the thugs and the children, held a flicker of something new – a genuine, bone-deep fear that eclipsed even her usual venom. The ruffians hesitated. “You lying, crone?” one snapped. “The boss said they bolted this way.” “Bah! The main stairwell is where they *lure* you!” Gorm screeched, her voice rising to an operatic crescendo. “They keep their scrap stockpiled in the closet!” Gorm wailed, pointing frantically down the corridor. “They're ducking out the vent right now!” Her glance flicked toward Oletta, pupils pinpricked. Fear of the assassin's blades had twisted the old busybody into an unwitting shield. The thugs, their minds not built for subtlety, exchanged glances. The supply closet offered an easy bottleneck, and the matron's hysterical screeching seemed real enough. Three of the men broke rank and sprinted toward the far door. The remaining two were still focused on Bex and Perrin, but the pressure was eased. It was the opening Oletta needed. She launched herself onto the landing, a blur of controlled violence. Her shiv flashed, finding a soft spot in the first thug’s arm. He roared, dropping his weapon. Before he could recover, Haldon, with a savage roar, slammed his good shoulder into the second, sending him sprawling. Bex, emboldened, swung her pipe, catching the first thug on the knee. Perrin, quick as a street rat, snatched a discarded wrench and brought it down with surprising force on the back of the second thug’s head. He crumpled. “Bex! Perrin!” Oletta cried, her voice thick with relief. She pulled them into a fierce embrace, Haldon joining, forming a tight knot of scraped knees, bruised bodies, and overwhelming relief. Gorm, witnessing the reunion, backed slowly into her doorframe, her face pale. She’d bought them precious seconds, but at what cost to her own sanity? “We heard you coming,” Bex whispered, her face streaked with grime, but her eyes shining. “We knew you’d come.” Their reunion was brutally short-lived. A low, grinding groan, like metal tearing metal, echoed from above. The rafters over the stairwell gave a prolonged, shearing screech, shedding clouds of lath and lime. Overhead joists cracked across the grain. A three-toed claw of welded boilerplate tore through the floorboards above, venting plumes of scorched grease. As the timber gave way, an armored mining rig dropped through the rupture, its exhaust manifold barking gray soot. Behind the reinforced viewport sat the scarred face of the gang boss. The iron chassis struck the deck with a bone-jarring crash, splitting the floor under their boots. They were trapped.

Rustblock Siege