“Here are our birdies,” mused Hryhorij, peering from behind a steel beam.

Piam pressed two fingers to her lips, saying nothing. The magnifying lens of her artificial eye pierced the darkness, catching distant cars approaching the construction site. A lone guard on the night shift jumped to his feet, hastily opened the gates, and then had to leap away to avoid being hit by the gate as the front vehicle accelerated and smashed it open.

Pompous idiots. Piam calmly concluded, observing no dent on the six-wheeler. If one knew where to look, one could glean information from anything, and the agents of the Investigation Bureau weren’t known for their laxity. The civilian vehicle had a bulletproof alloy coating, and the flames painted on its side, surrounded by golden shapes, revealed the newcomers as members of the Benguigui family, useful rats who benefited from Houstad’s thriving industry in exchange for keeping the underworld clean. For a long time, the Bureau had turned a blind eye to their little business.

A kindness that might be withdrawn tonight.

“Raffy boy,” Hryhorij stated the obvious, as a yawning man in a light-toned brown business suit stepped out of the middle car.

Raffy Benguigui, Tony’s current eldest son, had lost his handsome looks. The skin around his eyes sagged, the corners of his lips turned downward despite his attempt at a contemptuous smirk as he snapped to send the guard away. Long years of unrestricted alcoholic and narcotic addiction had taken their toll, staining his once yellowish skin. But he moved easily, unaided by any augments.

A larger shape clung to the man from behind, an Orais brute dressed in a studded leather biker suit that left his tattooed forearms exposed. His head was hidden by a helmet, and the man knuckle-walked on his four-fingered hands. Fiery streaks flew from between his knuckles, and Piam nodded, satisfied with the quality of the report. Tony’s enforcer, able to wield flames thanks to his power. Arrived illegally, responsible for four assaults; his latest victim is in the hospital, horribly burned.

“The Benguiguis need to be trimmed,” she stated. Tony Benguigui swore he had no idea about his goon’s whereabouts. A lie. Who knew how many others he had told?

“Eighteen.” Hryhorij clicked his tongue, counting the number of guards who left the opulent vehicles. “And I don’t even know half of them.”

“Neither do they,” Piam replied. Most of the rabble carried shotguns and automatic pistols. They formed a circle around the entrance into the unfinished parking lot, standing guard as Raffy, the Orais, and two of his minions stole inside. “They don’t want them to see what’s going to happen. Your hunch was right.”

The Investigation Bureau was on full alert in preparation for the Third’s arrival. Recovery was the official reason. In reality, the Dynast and Commander Devourer wished to also civilize the Wolf Tribe. The best way to do this was to introduce their younger generations to the goods of civilization to stimulate a gradual and controllable change. The Bureau’s civil specialists had great expertise in introducing the Orais tribe into the nation’s life, and they were ready to repeat that feat, smoothing out the rough edges and misunderstandings that will inevitably arise between the locals and the Wolfkins.

The field agents spread around the city, infiltrating every den, forcing every snitch to spill the beans. Sixteen would-be shooters, young fools hungry for fame, were arrested. Four were burned alive as examples, two were recruited, and the rest were sent to prison. Twenty cases of police corruption were reported and solved; the Bureau spared several idiots who now served as double agents, informing the agency of the families’ actions. Terrorists tried to prepare bombings; there was a rapid spark in violent crime and the delivery of highly addictive drugs… Too many people thought that the massive event would distract the Bureau.

Houstad had a long history of tolerating petty crimes for the sake of preventing tragedies. Anti-mutant and anti-immigrant movements, bigots who stirred up troubles by rallying fools against the New Breeds, rowdy criminals, drug dealers, flesh trade—the head criminal syndicates reported it, and in exchange, the mayor kept his eyes and ears closed to illegal contraband and occasional snatched construction bids.

But Hryhorij, Planet bless him, had spotted a curious pattern. The Benguigui family acted queer. Their thugs stumbled around, photographing the northern power plant, streets, and even the city’s hall. Rather than peddling soft drugs or harassing their debtors, they joined a guided tour of the plant. Next, they discovered an unusual contraband: two all-terrain vehicles plated with pure gold alloy and encrusted with gems, capable of achieving the speed of a high-powered racing car, despite their remarkable weight. And the last piece of the puzzle was at this construction site.

The families cried and whined to the mayor about Murzaliev Construction, Sunblade Corporation, Ironwills Restoration, and Wintersong Renovation’s aggressive expansion into the Core Lands construction business. Usual methods didn’t work; Ice Fangs stomped out any attempts to intimidate their workers, and Ivar Murzaliev’s corporate security put those who dared damage the company’s equipment straight into hospital beds. The message was clear: stay away.

Hryhorij called Piam and shared his concerns, pointing out the construction site for a new shopping mall and how far behind schedule Tony’s workers were. Why should his family risk losing such a luxurious contract by missing the deadline? Piam compiled a very long and messy list of facts gathered by her colleague into an orderly file and came to the same conclusion. There was something in here—something so big that Tony was willing to risk losing tokens just to keep from showing it to anyone.

“But right about what?” Hryhorij said. “There is nothing below; we checked everything. I don’t see any threats or traps. Is this some elaborate misdirection operation? Are we being had, and there is a huge contraband shipment coming in somewhere else?”

The two agents wore camouflage and positioned themselves in the middle of the unfinished first floor of the mall, at the far edge of the construction site. A few days earlier, they had gone through the standard procedure of forging identification and posing as construction workers. They searched for everything, ranging from drugs to experimental weapons, and found nothing. Piam even began to doubt herself because the security was so lax. Could it be that the family had nothing to hide and had simply gone senile from overdosing? Doubtful, since two years ago Raffy had murdered his older sister and usurped her position in the family after she had briefly sunk into a drug-induced bliss. The Benguiguis were cutthroats and opportunists, easy to predict thanks to their gluttonous ambition.

Until today, when shift supervisors suddenly announced a paid day off for all workers. Piam contacted the Provincial Army and received a detailed report about Benguiguis’ cars making their way here. Something was fishy, and the agent intended to learn what. She didn’t care about the so-called guard; four squads of the Provincial Army stood ready, not recently enlisted recruits, but veterans who had experience subduing hostile New Breeds. At a snap of her fingers, they would swoop in, ending any resistance.

Maybe Hryhorij was right. Maybe the family knew of their presence. Perhaps it would be wiser to go in, guns blazing. But Piam favored a tip-of-the-needle approach to any situation, which involved crippling hostile leadership and keeping the organization intact for the Bureau’s future use, rather than leaving a power vacuum that could lead to a bloodbath.

She also trusted in Hryhorij. Messy, unrepresentative, and overly reliant on his intuition he may be, the burly man rarely made mistakes in uncovering crimes against the Reclamation Army and the righteous Dynast.

“Tony doesn’t have the manpower to pull it off,” Piam said. “We stick to the original plan.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

They pulled on the cowls of their gray camouflage suits, and a rumbling jolt passed over their skin as servomotors activated, filling the two agents with newfound strength. Neither of them was a New Breed; the brown-skinned Hryhorij enlisted in the Bureau from a cozy mountain village in the west, and the wheat-skinned Piam was born in Houstad. But both had years of experience dealing with a dangerous opposition, their responses enhanced by the mechanical augments and drugs their suits injected into their bloodstreams.

Quietly, the agents slipped out of the unfinished building and signaled the troopers to stand by. Piam led her partner behind the currently empty workers’ barracks, keeping their distance from the hired thugs. There was not enough information to say if any of them had power, so there was no reason to risk detection. They proceeded to the barred entrance of an emergency exit corridor, where a locksmith on Piam’s wrist activated, bypassed the electrical system to disable the alarm, and then burned a small, round hole in the door. A manipulator slipped in and pushed the bar aside. The two agents entered cautiously, throwing one last glance at Houstad.

As expected, there was no presence in the narrow corridor created to let the masses out in case a collapse buried the main entrance. Hryhorij and Piam readied their standard modular SMGs and turned their suits’ sound detectors to maximum, hearing distant footsteps heading toward the lowest level.

The agents were familiar with the location; they had not only done a sweep with the portable scanners but also worked to secure the western walls. Piam rolled her eyes at the instruments left in the hardened concrete. Someone’s ass was going to be grilled tomorrow, but that was none of her business.

Their quarry passed four levels and stopped at the very bottom of the unfinished parking lot. Raffy reached for a cigar, and his Orais bodyguard snapped his fingers, creating a ball of flame lingering in the air for his master to light his cigar. Then the Benguigui paced back and forth, tapping at his belt, and the agents glanced at each other as his Normie minions placed four light bulbs around him to illuminate the place.

This was weird. There was nothing but settled dust, rubble, instruments, and trash here. Gray dust had already dirtied Raffy’s pants to his knees; his loud kick sent an empty can against a wall, but there was no answer why he was here. Raffy wasn’t an errand boy; when he wasn’t wasting his time in brothels, drinking, partying, and overdosing on drugs, he mercilessly investigated his brothers and sisters, seeking to subjugate the weakest and kill those above him to secure his position as Tony’s heir. Why was he here? A new kink of solitude? Madness.

Piam calmly sent a silent report to the soldiers, warning them to alert the headquarters and begin the storm the moment communications were cut or jammed. No risk. She and Hryhorij nestled themselves in the unfinished elevator, each pressed tightly against the wall, and the optical camouflage adjusted the colors of their suits to make them indistinguishable from the gray walls.

Then the sensors caught something. A ripping sound came from an empty space in front of Raffy, accompanied by a faint electric surge in the air. A louder crack followed, and a thin finger protruded from the empty space. The finger moved down, bisecting the space and leaving a faint blue light in its wake. The line reached the floor, then the finger disappeared into the blue, and then the line expanded, unleashing a billowing window inside the parking lot.

Music, guttural singing, laughter, and clanking sounded from the opening. Bright lights flashed, quickly banishing the darkness. The other side was filled with a murky mist that even the agents’ lenses struggled to see through. Their suits detected a rapid rise in temperature as heat poured in, and the vapor trails carried traces of hallucinogenic narcotics. Raffy inhaled a full breath and grinned, maintaining perfect composure as his Normie bodyguards strapped on rebreathers.

Figures danced in the mist: beautiful women, completely naked except for gold bracelets and jewelry. They leapt and pirouetted, landing gracefully and never breaking their dance - not even to glance at the criminals. Piam’s eyes saw burning braziers, incrusted with jade, standing in what appeared to be a gigantic tent. Soft carpets, richly trimmed with real gold, covered the floor.

In the distance, shrouded in the thickest mist, a figure sat on a throne composed of dozens of women. They weren’t stitched or fused together; these were living, breathing women doing their best to form the armrests, back, and base of the throne. Covered in sweat and groaning from exertion, they tried their best to maintain a comfortable seat for their cruel overload.

“Raffy, my friend!” the figure boomed in a deep, pleasant baritone. “How’s life been treating you? Have you found my modest gifts to your liking?”

“They are beautiful,” Raffy replied, his voice trembling. “A single door costs enough to buy a villa.”

“Is it possible to do any less for your friends? Stick around, and more good things will inevitably follow!” Piam thought that she saw a pincer briefly appear from the smoke, but it could’ve been her imagination. Irrelevant. She’ll review the recorded footage later. “A new dawn fast approaches Houstad, my dear friend. Our alliance promises a bright future for us both.”

“I am sure my father will appreciate it,” Raffy said.

“Father? Raffy, let us not speak of Tony; let us speak of you. You are a shrewd man, so drop beating around the bush,” the speaker laughed inside the mists. “You want to be in charge. And why shouldn’t you? Your genius saw the potential in my offer; it is your diligence that delivered the required photos and intel, securing the wellbeing of your khaganate…”

“Family,” Raffy interrupted him. “We prefer the word family.” The man walked around the spatial window, examining it from every angle. “Your words are pleasing to the ear, but you have made me wait, and I have the impression that you are forgetting my father on purpose. How do I know you won’t be discarding me like him the moment I outlive my usefulness?”

“Raffy, you are a smart man—the smartest man I’ve met lately.” Honeyed words flowed from inside the mists. “Discarding you? And who will replace you? Tony? Your father may believe you are expendable, which is why he sent you instead of coming himself, but is it not the fate of every father to fade into obscurity eventually? It would be foolish to sacrifice a rising star for a fading one. You know the locals; you understand what makes them tick. Why should I replace you? Why would Khatun not want you? My boy, we want you to rise and take the seat of this freak in the City Hall. Just imagine it: Raffy Benguigui, Taluqdar of Houstad. It has a lovely ring to it, does it not?” the voice softened. “Women, drugs, gold, respect and authority could all be yours if you but reach out and take them.”

“And what price would I have to pay for it?” Raffy asked carefully.

“A little less than a bauble. A simple, paltry sip of airag to show respect and devotion to our cause. No risks or dangers involved,” the deep voice purred from the other side of the spatial window. “You have already provided the images we requested—splendid pictures—the best photos ever. We will ask for more of the same, detailed photos of public squares, sewers, streets, and such. And if you drop in photos of the mayor’s office, we’ll be much obliged. We also dislike the freak.”

“How much time do I have?” Raffy inquired. “And why do you even need these photos? Couldn’t you take them off the Net?”

“A month, no less, my friend. We have our own morsel to devour; an ignorant dolt had refused the Khatun’s generous offer of submission. The next step is for our forces to reach the wall. It is a tedious, grueling, mundane task, so I leave it to Iron Lord. Let him play at conventional warfare,” the speaker chuckled, and his living throne groaned as the poor slaves struggled to bear the immense weight. “As for your question, we need recent pictures; anything over two months old won’t do. We wouldn’t want to open a hole into a brick wall, am I right? And the trustworthiness of the information found on the Net is overrated.”

“The Third Army will be in Houstad,” the criminal warned the shrouded figure. “And I heard something about your people dying in the north…”

“Sky Lord Khan had failed? Ha, that’s what you get when you act on your own.” The swirling mists of drugs elicited a booming laughter, and the throne shook. The slaves’ eyes bulged from their efforts. “That’s what you get for ignoring allies and living in solitude. You and I are different, Raffy. We are men of vision; we seek to rise high and thrive. Dying on a battlefield is such a bore. Decapitations are coming, my friend. We will show the people that they can’t rely on their precious armies, laws, or civilization to protect them. The ensuing chaos will cause the families’ leaders to meet in person to assess the situation. And if you, my wonderful, loyal, clever friend, take the helm, it’ll be grand.”

Piam kept her cool, absorbing the information. These were the scum who attacked the Reclamation Army’s territory. Their fate is sealed, their armies will be crushed, and their lands will know prosperity and peace under the Dynast’s rule. But she didn’t let her loyalty training cloud her judgment. The Net. The leader of those fat bastards knows it, and he doesn’t seem to care about losing a New Breed equal to a warlord. They also know about the Third, which means they know about the noble Commander Ravager, the Dynast’s trusted sword, and the Tamer of Wilderness.

She sent the recordings to the soldiers outside, disregarding the possibility of detection, along with a strict command to relay them to headquarters immediately and storm the place.

Sky Lord. Not Mad Hatter, as Warlord Janine had assumed. Sky Lord was a servant.

A potential equal to the commander was leading the Horde… If Piam was right in her suspicions, such a being cannot be allowed to enter the Core Lands.

“Agreed,” Raffy said and crumbled his cigar. “Tell me the details.”

“Raffy’s lives, the rest die,” Piam ordered, and she and Hryhorij took aim and fired.