Chapter 37
TROKA
The rain pelts the pavement outside like a million needles, each splash echoing off grated drains.
My boots skid on slick cobblestones as I approach the warehouse’s heavy steel door.
The neon signs over the entrance flicker, casting distorted shadows in ragged strobe pulses.
I pause, listening. The hum of generators, distant clank of metal—this place breathes in the dark.
I wrap my fingers around the cold handle. The guards inside are already keyed in. It goes down before they see me.
The door swings open. Two guards stand in the threshold—rifles leveled, stance rigid.
“Who the hell—” the taller one starts.
I don’t wait for him to finish.
My shoulder slams into his chest with bone-shaking force; he flies back like a rag, his rifle skittering across concrete. The second guard squeezes the trigger. I step left, letting the energy round bite into the wall behind me, scorching concrete, and close in fast.
My fist meets his ribcage with a crack. He grunts, staggers. I wrench his weapon hand, twist it. His wrist snaps—bright snap, cry of pain. He drops the gun. I pivot, sweeping his legs in a circular arc. His back slams into the door frame. He convulses.
I don’t pause. With one motion, I snatch the second guard’s rifle, butt-strike him in the jaw, splitting flesh, hearing wet crack. He slumps. I step over them, breathing heavy, pulse racing. Blood beads at my strips of scale, dripping.
That’s failure for them. A warning.
Beyond the entrance, a corridor yawns: crates stacked high, shadows long, catwalks clanking overhead. More guards emerge. But they’re a line of targets.
I raise the stolen rifle. Each shot is precise. The first guard’s knee vaporizes, cartilage scattering. He howls. Next guy—center mass. The third guard tries ducking behind a crate; the bullet pierces the crate and slams into his thigh, knocking him off his feet.
They’re good. Discipline. But not fast enough.
I charge forward, sliding behind cover. I toss a mini flash-thumper grenade; brilliant white flash, concussive boom.
They stumble, eyes wide, ears ringing. I don’t wait.
I burst through their disoriented ranks, arm extended, palm gloved in reinforced metal, knocking aside weapons like they were twigs.
One guard swings at me with a baton. I catch it wrist-high, snap it in two. He screams. His eyes roll. I punch him in the face—nose collapses inward. Bone dust, blood. He crumples.
Two guards try to flank me. I twist in place, one elbow crashes into one’s chest, my knee into the other’s jaw. Broken ribs, cracked teeth. They collapse. My boots skid in wet blood and oil, the mixture hissing underfoot. I smell iron, sweat, gunpowder. My gloves slick with grit.
Silence falls. I stand among crumpled bodies, chest heaving. Echoes of groans fade. Then a door creaks ahead. I wipe my blade-hand across my chest and push forward.
In the main chamber, walls lined with weapon racks, stands Axvel Korr in a tailored suit—crisply cut, strangely pristine for this hellhole. He’s framed by the glow of corridor lights. Men behind him shift, weapons pointed at every corner, barrels trembling.
He raises one hand in greeting. “Well, that was quite the audition. Welcome, Troka Vass. I’ve been told you’re resourceful.”
Lighting flickers, illuminating his angular features. One cheek scar, lips thin, eyes cold. His voice echoes across the warehouse. “You made quite a mess at my front door. That account clearance you asked for—the balance is dipping fast.”
I swing my weapon. “Your men play like cowards. You deal in death. I deal in results. I want answers—and tools.”
Axvel nods slowly, hands open. “Of course. But first—your entertainment fee.” He gestures to two guards lying bleeding behind me. “Those were my men. I’ll make sure their medical bills are substantial.”
I step forward, boots echoing. My voice is low, dangerous. “Paid.” I tap a comm‐chip to his wrist device; credits flood his ledger. “Now show me what we’re dealing with.”
He flicks a wrist. Along the walls, weapons whine to life, plasma blades flicker, guns hum. I step closer, eyes sharp, picking: power blade with blue glow, antitank pistol with reinforced barrel, grenade packs, EMP drones. Each one wants to be taken.
Axvel watches. “That blade can carve through reinforced hull plating. The pistol? One shot could blow down a city block wall. But you’ll need more than that. Ammunition, defense gear, recon tools—I have it all.”
I don’t hesitate. “Give me all of it. Now. And send your best recon bots to feed me fixed satellite cams on the mall.”
He nods. His men swivel racks, begin handing me modules: power packs, explosive sticks, plasma cartridges, micro-scouts, cloaks. I grab them, belt them on. The hum of energy fields warms against my skin.
Axvel leans close. “You’re going after Marrok, aren’t you? I admire the courage—or the foolishness.”
My jaw twitches. “This is personal. My family’s in there.”
He tilts his head. “Tragic. But profitable for me. I’ll close shop tonight, or maybe not. Just watch your step. Use everything I sold you—but don’t kill me before paying me in full.”
He gives a curt nod. “Go. Save them.” Then he steps back, arms folded, his suit immaculate, expression unreadable.
I turn toward the door. My weapons hum. Each strap, each grenade—it’s promise. I step into the corridor, rain slamming against outer walls, wind howling like an engine. The warehouse seems to exhale.
As I charge out, I tap my comm. “Larek—status?”
Static. Then: “All channels nominal. Recon drones up. Satellite cams active. You’re locked.”
I barge into night air. A gust crashes over me like a challenge. Rain lashes my face. My skin tastes of salt and grit. I clench my fist.
This is the beginning of the end.
No turning back.