The first lock exploded, and I learned three things in very quick succession.
First: reinforced doors were a lot less comforting when someone on the other side had decided reinforcement was a suggestion. Second: the Inquisitor moved like she had been waiting for reality to make an attempt on her life and was mildly disappointed it had taken this long. Third: whatever now lived behind my eyes had a terrible sense of timing.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
MONARCH FRAMEWORK
Immediate Threat Detected.
Objective Updated:
SURVIVE EXECUTION.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
I stared at the words for the shortest moment a man could stare at anything while a door was actively being murdered in front of him.
"...Execution?" I muttered.
The Inquisitor did not look back.
Which, in my very professional opinion, meant she had either not heard me or had decided my existential concerns ranked somewhere below the armed lunatic attempting to enter the room.
Which was fair, can't fault that.
A second impact struck the door. Not a shot this time— something heavier. The reinforced slab screamed inside its frame, metal bending in a way metal probably wasn't supposed to bend. Dust shook loose from the ceiling. The red alarm lights strobed across the room in uneven pulses, painting everything in brief flashes of blood and shadow. The table. The walls. The Inquisitor's pistol. My still-attached ankle.
Especially my still-attached ankle.
I looked down at the restraint.
Then back at the door.
Then at the Inquisitor.
"You know," I said, carefully, because sudden movements felt like a wonderful way to become a cautionary stain, "this feels like an excellent time to revisit the whole conditional mobility agreement."
"Quiet."
"Right. Quiet. Good plan."
It was not a good plan.
The third impact did not strike the door.
It struck the lights.
For half a second, everything went black.
Not dim nor shadowed— black.
The kind of darkness that made the brain immediately begin suggesting every terrible possibility it had ever collected. Something moved beyond the door. I didn't see it, couldn't see it, but the sound reached me anyway. A shifting of weight. A scrape of metal. The patient adjustment of someone who did not need to hurry because every obstacle between him and his objective had already failed.
Then the lights returned.
Low red gloom.
The Inquisitor was no longer standing where she had been.
One blink of darkness and she had become a different problem entirely. She had moved to the side of the entrance, pistol raised, body angled away from the likely blast path. Not hiding. Waiting. There was a difference, and something in me recognized it with uncomfortable clarity.
The door's second lock blew inward.
Fragments screamed across the room.
The Inquisitor fired first with no warning or demand.
No dramatic declaration in the name of the Emperor, justice, or whatever else people in this nightmare future used to justify vaporizing each other.
Just light.
Blue-white fury tore through the chamber, so bright my eyes tried to surrender. Heat slapped across my face. The air cracked, burned, and tasted like hot metal. The plasma bolt punched through the damaged door and disappeared into the corridor beyond.
For one beautiful second, I thought that might have solved the problem.
Then something outside moved again.
Still standing.
Wonderful.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
THREAT ASSESSMENT UPDATED
Hostile Asset:
Professional Human Combatant
Estimated Intent:
Termination
Threat Rating:
Significant
Recommendation:
Do Not Remain Restrained.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
My eyes drifted down to the ankle cuff again.
"...I'm trying," I whispered.
The final lock detonated.
Between being opened and being disengaged— the difference was there in comparison to being detonated— one my ears learned very quickly as the reinforced door screamed inward by several inches. Metal fragments tore loose from the locking assembly and scattered across the chamber like angry insects. One piece struck the table hard enough to carve a bright line through the surface. Another punched into the wall beside my head with a sound that did wonderful things to my blood pressure.
I didn't scream I might add. A strangled noise left my throat— sure— but that was different. That was tactical surprise leaving the body.
The Inquisitor fired again.
The plasma pistol roared, a contained star packed into the shape of a handgun. Blue-white light filled the room, brighter than the red alarms— than the sparks— even brighter than common sense. Heat rolled across my skin in a wave and the damaged door glowed around the impact point metal bubbling like wax under a candle.
Through the chaos, a flicker of something moved sideways beyond the breach.
The bolt missed whatever it had been meant to kill and struck deeper into the corridor. The explosion that followed was muffled by distance and ruined bulkhead, but enough force rushed back through the broken doorway to make the chamber breathe dust.
Still standing— still very much on the move and committed to the whole execution thing.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
THREAT BEHAVIOR UPDATED
Hostile Asset:
Evasion Confirmed
Combat Discipline:
High
Preparedness:
High
Professional Classification:
Likely
Recommendation:
Stop Watching.
Move.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
"Very helpful," I hissed.
The ankle restraint opened without any announcement or warning. Just a heavy clunk below me as the final cuff snapped loose.
For one perfect moment I was free.
Then the chair, still bolted to the floor and apparently offended by my optimism, reminded me that freedom was a complicated concept. My legs moved before my brain gave them permission. I shoved off sideways, half-falling, half-throwing myself out of the chair as another shot came through the gap in the door.
The round did not sound like the others. Nothing that resembles a roar. Instead, it cracked. A sharp, disciplined report followed by the feeling of death passing very close to my face.
The back of the chair exploded where my head had been.
Wood, padding, and metal fragments burst outward. Something hot kissed my cheek. I hit the floor shoulder-first and discovered that concrete remained an unpopular surface among bones. Pain flashed through my arm, clean and bright, but it vanished under the much louder realization that someone had just attempted to turn my skull into an open discussion.
I stared at the destroyed chair— specifically at the hole in it. My eyes then drift toward the door.
"...Okay," I whispered.
My voice sounded much calmer than I felt— which was good... because internally, I was making several noises inappropriate for the dignity of a future Monarch.
The Inquisitor moved again, toward a better angle and not away from the door.
She stepped with the kind of precision people only developed after surviving things that had killed everyone standing next to them. Her coat shifted through the red gloom. Plasma coils hummed in her hand. Her other hand had found the sword at her side, though she had not drawn it yet.
That somehow made it worse.
A person drawing a sword meant they had decided violence needed a close and personal touch.
A person waiting to draw a sword meant violence had entered negotiations and was losing.
"Stay down," she ordered.
"Gladly."
For once, I meant it.
Another object entered the room. It was small and dark whilst being cylindrical. It bounced once against the floor and rolled beneath the table.
My eyes followed it; and in some part of me I knew The Inquisitor's eyes followed it.
The Monarch Framework, in all its ancient wisdom, chose that exact moment to be uselessly dramatic.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
WARNING.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
"No shit."
The Inquisitor kicked the table in quick succession.
The heavy metal thing tore loose from whatever pathetic bolts had been pretending to hold it in place and flipped sideways between us and the device. A fraction of a second later the cylinder erupted.
Light... then sound as the room rattled. The entire room vanished into white. My skull became a bell someone hated.
I felt more than heard the detonation. Pressure punched into my ears, into my teeth and behind my eyes. The floor disappeared beneath me. For a second... I was weightless in the least pleasant way possible. Then I was on my back, blinking into brightness that refused to become shapes.
I could not hear the sirens anymore— that which concerned me. Mostly because my ears had been very attached to functioning.
Despite that, the world returned in pieces. First was the red illumination that faded in and out. Then the smoke that clouded a portion of the room, its origin in many places I can't pinpoint right now. An overturned table... The Inquisitor through the haze moved in a hurried yet practical profession. A glimpse of a shadow at the door followed by gunfire— fast... controlled.
Not the wild panic of hive scum emptying magazines into whatever offended them. This was measured; In short burst. Each one placed with the calm certainty of someone who considered ammunition a tool instead of a suggestion.
The Inquisitor fired back as her plasma answered bullets with arrogance that of a supernova. The first bolt forced the shadow away from the gap; the second turned the part of the doorframe molten. The third did not come— much to my own expectation.
Her pistol gave a warning whine. It hissed in cooling and relieved in reloading. Then came the charge.
Whatever the word was, I hated it.
The shadow beyond the door understood faster than I did.
It had moved; a boot struck the damaged door from the other side. The slab, already half-dead, bent inward with a tortured groan. Smoke curled around the opening. Through it came a figure.
Nothing large nor monstrous. Not covered in spikes— with horns— no glowing eyes— or any other helpful visual indicators that screamed evil in a universe apparently overfond of those.
He looked human... in ways... that made him worse.
Dark work clothes. Maintenance harness. Tool case abandoned somewhere behind him. Rifle braced to shoulder. Face hidden behind a plain respirator mask and smoked eye lenses. Nothing decorative or ceremonial. Trophies, sigils, not even a dramatic cloak fluttering in nonexistent wind.
Just a man.
A man who stepped through the broken doorway like the room belonged to him because everyone else inside it had failed to prove otherwise.
The Inquisitor's sword came free.
A low hum filled the chamber as the weapon awakened. Pale energy crawled along its edge, turning old metal into something that wanted to cut concepts instead of flesh.
The man fired but she was already on the move.
The round passed through the space where her chest had been. She closed distance in three steps, blade angled low, pistol held back. He retreated half a pace. not from fear, instead in calculation. The rifle shifted in his hands, too long for the room now, bot he compensated with practice efficiency. The barrel dipped, stock turned, weapon becoming shield for half a heartbeat.
The power sword struck it.
Metal screamed.
The rifle did not split in half.
That surprised the Inquisitor much less my self too; and I was currently on the floor with no professional standard to uphold.
Some kind of reinforcement along the weapon's frame caught the blade for a fraction of a second. Not stopped it. Nothing about that sword looked stoppable. But slowed it enough.
Enough for the assassin's free hand to draw a pistol from beneath his coat.
Enough for the Monarch Frame work to decide my survival depended on making another unhelpful observation.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
COMBAT ANALYSIS
Current Position:
Prone
Available Weapons:
None
Available Cover:
Poor
Dignity:
Compromised
Recommendation:
Acquire Weapon.
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"With what hands?" I snapped.
Then I remembered that my hands were free. That realization arrived with a second, far more important one: the room had debris. Plenty of metal shards, broken restraints, even fragments of the chair.
A piece of the locking mechanism lay near my right hand, jagged and heavy, about the length of my forearm. Nothing comparable to a sword, a knife, not even remotely designed for violence.
But recently, my life had become a long argument against intended use.
I grabbed it, the metal was hot enough to burn my palm. I held on anyway. The pain felt nothing compared to the thought of losing this life.
The assassin's pistol came up. Not toward the Inquisitor— toward me.
A very cold part of my brain admired the prioritization. Another part, significantly louder, objected. The Inquisitor saw the angle change.
Her sword shifted, hoping to respond. But it was too late. The pistol had fired by then.
I moved before thought formed. Nothing graceful, neither was it heroic.
I twisted, slammed my shoulder against the floor, and felt the shot tear through the air above me. Pain sparked along my side where something clipped me, hot and shallow. Not fatal.
Probably... maybe even hopefully.
The jagged metal left my hand unprofessional. Training, skill, or anything resembling martial form— nothing about that throw hinted that I had any of it.
I threw it with panic, spite, and the sincere belief that dying on a floor while half-deaf and recently interrogated would be deeply embarrassing.
The fragment spun through the red gloom.
The professional assailant turned his head.
It wasn't enough: the metal struck his respirator hard.
Glass cracked as his shot went wide. The Inquisitor took the opening. Her plasma pistol came back online with a rising whine. Blue light gathered at the muzzle.
The assassin saw it. For the first time since entering the room, he chose retreat. A tactical decision not reinforced by panic or failure. He twisted backward through the broken doorway as the Inquisitor fired.
The plasma bolt caught the edge of the his shoulder and turned armor, cloth, and possibly flesh into burning vapor. He disappeared into the corridor beyond, swallowed by smoke and red alarm light.
Silence followed; just a pause where everyone still alive checked whether that status remained accurate.
I lay on the floor, breathing hard, one hand still stinging from the heated metal. My side burned and my ears rang. My dignity had fled the room somewhere around the flashbang.
The Inquisitor kept her pistol trained on the doorway.
"Report," she demanded.
It took me a second to realize she was talking to me.
"Alive," I paused, "annoyed."
Another pause, "possibly bleeding."
"Can you stand," her eyes never leaving the doorway.
"Emotionally?"
"Physically."
"Jury's out."
She did not look amused.
The Monarch Framework appeared again.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
OBJECTIVE STATUS:
SURVIVE EXECUTION.
Progress:
Temporary
Recommendation:
Do Not Celebrate.
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I stared at the words then at the smoking doorway... then at the Inquisitor.
"...The voices say not to celebrate."
Her eyes did not leave the corridor still.
"For once," she commented, "they are correct."
◃───────────▹
The first breach had failed.
The assassination had not.
The man in the maintenance harness retreated three corridors before stopping. He didn't run for running belonged to panic— and panic wasted breath, distorted judgment, and invited mistakes. His left shoulder burned beneath ruined cloth and damaged armor plating. Plasma had kissed the edge of him, nothing more. He registered the pain and the tissue damage. Importantly, mobility remained within acceptable limits.
Acceptable was enough.
He stepped into the shadow beside a half-open service alcove and pressed his back against the wall. The rifle remained in his right hand. His pistol remained in his left. Neither weapon shook. Smoke curled from the melted seam of his shoulder guard, carrying the stink of scorched synthetic fiber and cooked meat. He ignored both.
Assessment first.
Inquisitor present. Armed with plasma sidearm... power sword for closer encounters. Reflexes above projected estimate... as expected with her reputation. Prisoner partially mobile. Target capable of improvised resistance under lethal pressure. Target reacted before visible confirmation. No training indicators observed. The cause is unknown.
The last point remained... not concerning— but irritating.
The target had moved before the shot landed. Not well— further incentivizing target had no prior training nor experience— but fast enough that instinct had replaced thought. Such people survived longer than they should. The executor had killed men like that before. From soldiers and heretics, to saints, cowards, and prophets; titles changed, but bodies did not. Eventually, flesh always discovered its limitations.
He reached beneath his coat and removed a small black cylinder from an inner pouch. One twist released the seal. Inside sat a strip of folded parchment so dark it looked more like dried blood than paper.
A black writ
No heraldry marked it. No official stamp; no administratum code either. Nothing that would survive scrutiny, because scrutiny was precisely what such things existed to avoid. A black writ did no command— it implied. It did no authorize; instead, it suggested that certain deaths would be ignored by the correct people and rewarded by others.
He unfolded with two fingers.
The instruction remained unchanged.
UNKNOWN MALE SUBJECT RECOVERED BY INQUISITORIAL FORCES.
TERMINATE PRIOR TO CONFIRMATION OF IDENTITY.
BODY RECOVERY PREFERRED.
BODY DESTRUCTION ACCEPTABLE.
INQUISITORIAL CASUALTIES: DISCOURAGED UNLESS OPERATIONALLY NECESSARY.
Beneath the text sat the only mark the sender had allowed.
No name, no seal— just a circle of ink broken by eight uneven cuts.
the executor looked at it for half a second, then folded the parchment again.
Clients enjoyed symbols. Nobles loved them. Priests required them. Heretics worshipped them. In his experience, the difference mattered less than people pretended. every faction in the Imperium believed its reasons sanctified blood. Some prayed before killing while others signed papers. some whispered to things in the dark and called the answer revelation.
None of that changed the work.
The writ returned to its cylinder.
He adjusted the damaged respirator. Cracked glass distorted the left side of his vision— unacceptable. He removed the mask entirely, exposing a face ordinary enough to vanish in memory. Scar tissue crossed one cheek. Old... surgical... maybe even purposeful. Nothing decorative. He dropped the broken respirator onto the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.
No evidence worth leaving intact.
From the chamber ahead came no pursuit. The Inquisitor was holding position, then. Sensible. She would move soon... the room no longer favored her. She knew it, and if she was competent enough to survive the first exchange, she was competent enough to refuse a second on identical terms.
Good.
Competent prey chose routes—
— and routes could be predicted.
He opened a second pouch and withdrew a compact injector. the needle punched through the fabric at his shoulder. Cold entered the wound; pain receded, not vanished, merely placed behind a wall where it could wait until the work ended. His fingers flexed once. Response acceptable.
The rifle magazine came free... two rounds remained.
He replaced it with a fresh one.
The pistol followed with three rounds spent; reloaded.
He listened...
Sirens... distant shouting... failing vox traffic bleeding through damaged speakers. Boots somewhere far behind him, too many to belong to the Inquisitor and too poorly timed to matter. Reinforcements finally understanding they were late.
Late men were scenery.
The executor turned his head toward the corridor branching left.
Maintenance access. Narrow with poor lighting. Structural supports behind the interrogation block. If the Inquisitor moved the target, she would avoid main corridors and obvious checkpoints. She would choose the ugly route. The route built for workers, servitor, and emergencies. The route nobody used unless something had already gone wrong.
His employer had provided three possible extraction paths.
The Inquisitor would choose the fourth.
That was what professionals did when cornered.
He allowed himself one slow breath... then another.
The target was alive. The writ remained incomplete. Somewhere behind him, men bled around doorways because they believed walls, badges, and authority could substitute for preparations.
He stepped away form the alcove.
The first breach had failed— so he would not breach again...
He would herd.
◃───────────▹
"...And that's why I'm saying we should take the obvious path!" I reasoned with her.
Reasoned, for the record, meant limping after an armed Inquisitor through a smoke-filled interrogation chamber while bleeding from at least one place and pretending my argument had any tactical value whatsoever.
The Inquisitor did not slow, "obvious paths are watched."
"Yes, but they're also obvious, which means people expect us not to take them. Therefore, by taking them, we become unexpected."
"No."
"That was a complete strategy."
"It was a complete sentence."
"Harsh."
A silent orchestra played after; our boots playing percussion.
"You know," I began, "lady, I never got your name..."
The Inquisitor did not slow.
For several seconds, I thought she had decide the question did not deserve oxygen. Which, considering everything else currently competing for attention, felt rude but understandable. The corridor outside the interrogation chamber looked worse from the inside than it had sounded from the floor. Bodies occupied inconvenient places. the walls had collected blood, soot and fresh holes with the enthusiasm of a very depressed art gallery. Red lumen strips pulsed overhead, painting every surface in warning colors, as if the building had only just realized it was being murdered.
The Inquisitor stepped over a dead guard without looking down.
I, on the other hand, looked down— then immediately wished I had not. I've seen dead bodies before, but all that was recent; and time is something that's needed when one needs to get used to something.
"Eyes forward," she ordered.
"My eyes are making independent decisions right now."
"Correct them."
I couldn't help but make a self deprecating smirk, "working on it."
My side burned where the shot had clipped me. Not enough to kill me, apparently. Just enough to keep reminding me that being alive could still be extremely inconvenient. Every step pulled at the wound. Every breath dragged smoke into my throat. My ears still range from the flash bang; which turned the world into a distant, muffled version of itself where sirens screamed from underwater and gunfire existed as unpleasant memory.
The Inquisitor reached the corridor intersection and stopped.
She didn't freeze; freezing implied fear, uncertainty, or hesitation. She did none of those and simply stopped. She simply became still, and the stillness made the corridor feel smaller. Her plasma pistol remained raised in one hand. If she froze, it would've looked rigged. Instead, it looked loose— ready to snap at anything in the shadow ahead. A difference worth noting. The power sword rested on the other, its low hum crawling through my teeth. She studied the three paths ahead with the expression of someone listening to a confession nobody else could hear.
Left: a broad corridor lined with emergency lumen strips, leading toward what I assumed were reinforcements, exits, and other comforting concepts.
Right: a narrower hallway choked with smoke, flickering lights, and enough ominous atmosphere to qualify as a personal threat.
Ahead: maintenance access. Dark, low, ugly; the sort of route invented by people who hated posture.
I pointed left, "that one."
"No."
"You didn't even look where I pointed."
"I did."
"Then you saw how exit-shaped it looked."
"That is why we are not taking it."
I opened my mouth only to close it. I opened it again because survival had apparently damaged my restraint.
"Respectfully, that feels like the kind of thinking that gets people eaten by maintenance corridors."
"Obvious paths are watched."
"You said that already."
"You failed to understand it."
"I understand it. I disagreed with it on the grounds that I enjoy being alive and upright."
She glanced at me then; briefly. Not long enough to count as concern, but long enough to verify I had not begun leaking in a tactically unacceptable manner.
Then she looked back to the intersection, "Voss."
I blinked, "What?"
"My name."
For half a second, the corridor, the corpses, the smoke, the active murder attempt, all of it became slightly less important.
"Voss," I repeated.
"Yes."
"That's your name?"
"Yes."
"Not a title?"
"No."
"Not a warning?"
"Often."
Despite myself, I smiled.
It hurt— everything did, really, but the smile somehow found a separate category of unpleasantness.
A terrible time for introductions; really. Which made it, unfortunately, the most appropriate time for my life so far.
"Numen," I said.
She did not look at me, "you told me."
"Did I?"
"During the Interrogation."
"Right," I paused, "in my defense, a lot has happened since then."
"Move."
"To be clear, is that a command from Voss or the Inquisitor?"
"Both."
"Efficient... noted."
She took the maintenance access— of course she did.
The hatch resisted for approximately the length of time it took her to become annoyed. Then the power sword came up; its edge kissed the lock and the mechanism surrendered in a shower of sparks. The panel groaned open, revealing a narrow passage lined with bundled cables, rusted conduits, and darkness that seemed deeply committed to its profession.
I stared into it; and the passage stared back.
...No, that was stupid. Passages did not stare... probably.
"After you," Voss said.
I looked at her, "me?"
"You are the target."
"That feels like a reason for me to go second."
"It is why you go first."
"I would love to hear the tactical philosophy behind that."
"If he fires from behind, I can return fire."
"And if he fires from the front?"
"Then you will alert me."
I stared and she stared back unflinchingly.
"...By dying?"
"Preferably by moving."
"Your confidence in me is touching."
"It is conditional."
"Everything with you is conditional."
"Yes."
A burst of distant gunfire rolled through the facility before I could argue further. Not close enough to be directed at us, but closer than I liked. Shouts followed and more gunfire pursued. Then nothing... the silence after was almost worse, because silence had developed a habit of meaning someone competent had finished speaking.
Voss looked back down the corridor we had come from. Her eyes— that of which I can see in this shadowy haze— held calculation.
"He is moving again."
"How do you know?"
"Because we are alive."
I hated that answer for being both unsettling and probably correct.
The Monarch Framework shimmered at the edge of my vision, its ancient boxes and royal arrogance arriving with the timing of an advisor who had never personally dodged bullets.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
TACTICAL STATE:
Current Escort:
Inquisitorial Asset
Trust Level:
Insufficient
Survival Value:
High
Recommendation:
Do Not Antagonize Armed Escort.
■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■
I stared at the words— then at Voss— then back at the words.
"...Unhelpful," I muttered.
"What."
"Nothing."
"Your invisible voices?"
"They are currently advising diplomacy."
"Wise."
"They also called you an asset."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
I immediately raised both my hands to defuse whatever it is she's thinking, "not my words."
"Move."
"—Right! Moving..."
I ducked into the maintenance passage.
The ceiling immediately became my enemy. Pipes crowded the walls. Thick cables hung low enough to brush my shoulders. the air smelled of old oil, hot dust, and machine sickness. Every surface seemed designed to catch clothing, skin, or optimism. Behind me, Voss entered with considerably more grace than the space deserved, closing the hatch most of the way behind her without sealing it.
"Do we have a destination?" I whispered.
"Yes."
"Do I get to know it?"
"No."
"Wonderful. Love the team communication."
"You would object."
"That implies it's bad."
"It is necessary."
"That implies worse."
We moved deeper.
The sounds of the facility changed around us. The sirens became muffled. The gunfire became directionless. Somewhere beyond the metal walls, people shouted orders that arrived as distorted echoes, words broken apart by steel and distance. The maintenance passage turned left, then downward, forcing us into a short stairwell slick with grime. My boots nearly slipped on the first step. Voss caught my collar before I could turn survival into an acrobatic failure.
Her grip was iron.
"Careful."
"That's the nicest thing you've said to me."
"It was an instruction."
"I choose to interpret it emotionally."
"Do not."
"Too late."
She released me.
I kept moving. For perhaps twenty or so seconds, nothing tried to kill us. It was the most suspicious twenty seconds of my life.
Then Voss stopped and her hand rose.
I froze. Ahead, the passage split again.
Two routes: one descended into darkness— the other rose toward a faint emergency lumen glow.
The Obvious choice was up. Which meant, naturally, she looked down.
I leaned closer, voice low. "Please don't say it."
Voss listened.
The facility breathed around us.
Somewhere beneath the sirens, beneath the distant gunfire, beneath the groan of old metal and working machinery, there was another sound.
It was soft and rhythmic. Patient; a percussive footstep— not behind us... neither was it ahead— but below.
Voss's expression did not change, but mine did enough for the both of us.
"...He wanted us to come this way," I whispered.
"No."
The answer came too quickly and too certain.
I looked at her. She raised the plasma pistol toward the descending dark.
"He wanted me to think he wanted us to come this way," a pause, "unfortunately for him, I expected that."
The darkness below shifted
Something metallic clicked.
Voss fired.