There is an aspect, a by-product, of an explosion that popular media often omits. Film, television, animation, video games, many are guilty of leaving an empty space at this particular table. Its name is ‘Shrapnel’.

And it holds no allegiance.

The explosion rattled the building, causing the squad to squeeze their eyes shut and reach out to grab the nearest solid, anchored object. The noise, akin to the bark of some hound of hell directly in their ears, was followed by the pinging and rattling of dozens of wooden shards. Due to the positioning of the explosives the majority of debris was sent into the top floor, but that didn’t stop a small cavalcade of timber slivers raining down upon them. Alter was fortunate to be facing down the stairs and was fairly sheltered but for a solitary ping as one of the missiles glanced off his helmet. Those at the front were not so fortunate as their arms frantically flashed up to cover their faces.

“Argh, bloody hell!” Whim growled as he clawed at one of his eyes.

“Did you really need to use that much C4?” Someone asked, the ringing in Alter’s ears making the voice unrecognisable.

“Did you see that door?” Whim retorted defensively. “I’d have used the whole block if I wasn’t worried about bringing the ceiling down.”

“Well, you certainly brought something down. Like our life expectancy.”

“We can discuss the topic of ‘appropriate use of force’ later, push forward and seize the ground.” Riptide ordered as he began to advance through the forest of splinters.

Sufficiently recovered, the rest of the men fell into place behind him and they were soon standing at the site of their hexogen-based remodelling. The door was in a suitable level of ruin, shards of wood littered the floor, with a skeleton of a construct still hanging limply from bent hinges. The twisted remains of four thick metal bolts, two on the floor, two in the ceiling, stood apologetically amidst the carnage like trees that somehow manage to withstand a hurricane. They say that there is no smoke without fire, and there was certainly smoke. As they continued to push through the picture became clearer. An eclectic collection of furniture had been pushed against the door, with the force of the explosion knocking them backwards into the room beyond. Some of the pieces were covered in rich velvet-looking cloth, three of which were merrily ablaze and emitting dark, acrid smoke in all directions.

“Team Two covers the approach.“ Riptide ordered. “Team One, deal with those fires before they spread.”

The squad had emerged into a moderately sized room with a solo corridor leading along the front of the building where a series of wide glass doors opened onto the terrace. The purpose of this room was unclear, but the presence of a thick, business-like desk in the centre of the scattered furniture led Alter to believe this was a reception area. With no other entrances to the space, Riptide’s team moved to the entrance of the corridor and settled in while the rest set to work fighting fires. Cushions and chairs were punched, stamped on, waved about and overall treated rather poorly. It was a wildly inefficient method but with perseverance and the convenient wearing of heat-proof gloves, the blaze was sufficiently smothered.

The sound of urgent but nervous conversation could be heard emanating from the terrace as the squad regrouped and readied themselves to continue onward. Winslow had mentioned a group of men trying to climb down the outside of the building, perhaps some of their number didn’t possess the nerve to join the attempt. As the squad paused and listened, the voices continued to bicker as they seemingly moved back and forth along the terrace. Alter could count four distinct accents, with a possible fifth. Three doors were spaced out on the opposite side offering passage deeper into the building. Two were conspicuously open while the third, which maintained a similar solid aura as the one they had destroyed, was firmly shut.

“Edwin, if you’ve got a plan you need to tell us now! That bang sounded like it was coming from the stair-block!” One of the more panicky voices suddenly raised in volume.

“I know, I know! Just, give me a second.” Another responded with a frustrated tone.

“We can’t jump down, old Splitface is rounding up everyone that makes it. Where’d the boss go?” The first voice insisted.

“He’s been in his office the whole time. Face it, Siddy, he’s abandoned us. Did so the moment those weirdos started slaughtering their way through the whole place.” A third voice joined in.

Alter couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the accusation. ‘Slaughtering’? A little extreme, wasn’t it? Then again, how else would people who’d never seen them before describe their actions?

“Their boss has fled while simultaneously never leaving his office? Well, that’ll narrow down our search area quite nicely.” Boozehound whispered, a smug expression stealing across his face.

“Mmh.” Riptide nodded. “Let’s grab these guys before they can do anything drastic. Team One takes the first entrance and scares them down, Team Two will move straight ahead and prevent any escape through those doorways.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Affirm.” Walross responded.

“Go now.” Riptide ordered and the men burst into motion.

There was little to no hope of maintaining secrecy as they charged forward, but their close proximity to their target gave the men no time to react properly. Alter’s shoulder was mending itself slowly, and he was able to hoist his weapon at a satisfactory speed. However, he was still unable to lift the rifle beyond ninety degrees so he kept to the rear. There were indeed five men still milling about nervously on the terrace, split into a three and a two. A variety of ages were apparent, from roughly twenty to fifty, each was pretty well dressed for the time period, and each was armed. Elegantly wrought, shining swords were strapped to their hips, blades roughly a forearms length. They looked awfully, suspiciously new. It was a relief that none of them went for their weapons as the first team piled out of the building. Their appearance was accompanied by a loud slam as Riptide forced one of the open doors closed as his team advanced, splitting the men’s attention.

“None of you move a muscle!” Walross called out in a stern but not overly unfriendly voice. “We’re not going to hurt you unless we have to, let’s keep things as civil as they can be.”

The group seemed uncertain as they exchanged glances between each other. The tension hung in the air for a while longer as the men withered under Walross’ fiery gaze and the slamming of the second door. Their resolve faltered quickly once they realised they were flanked, and under the hawkish eyes and clear, concise instructions of Walross they unsheathed and dropped their weapons before backing into one of the corners. Alter shifted across and leaned over to examine the street below. Guards could be seen moving in all directions, either to shepard the captured patrons, or to keep the rubber-necking locals from over-running the Last Flourish in a tidal wave of curiosity. Winslow was standing at the centre of the operation, speaking quietly to his men and shooting powerful glares at captive and civilian alike. As if sensing Alter’s observation, he turned his gaze upward to the terrace and gave a questioning gesture.

“Five to pick up on the top floor terrace.” Alter called down to him before stepping back after receiving a nod of understanding.

Riptide had wandered over once the situation had stabilised and was busy inspecting the discarded blades.

“I’m fairly certain these swords are the ones we saw in the immigrant camp. Looks like the distribution has already begun.” He murmured to Alter as he moved to join him.

“They haven’t had that long to dole them out, all going well the rest of them are still here.” Alter patted his friend on the shoulder before moving across to the silent and resentful men. “Your boss’ office. Where is it?” He asked in a deadpan tone.

Stone-faced looks greeted his question at first before the man with the fraught voice from earlier, Siddy, spoke up.

“First door from the stairs, then to the right. You won’t find him though; he’ll be long gone.” He answered through gritted teeth, whether the anger hidden behind the dentistry was direct at Alter or the Foreman was hard to tell.

Movement from inside drew his attention away as Winslow and a cadre of guards appeared and began pulling the surrendered men away. Winslow stayed behind, joining Riptide in his attempt to appraise the abandoned arsenal.

“Those will be part of the shipment alright. You said these weapons were being moved in containers marked with a green lion, correct? That’s a signifier used by the Royal Djarel Foundry, a manufacturer from one of the smaller nations down south, bordering the Fourth. This isn’t the first time we’ve caught thugs sporting the Foundry’s blades.” He confided.

“‘Royal’? Sounds expensive.” Riptide remarked but Winslow shook his head.

“Anything but. Pretty they may be but below the surface the material is cheap and prone to cracking under repeated impacts. I’d sooner have a heavy wooden stick than one of those things in a scrap.” He frowned.

“They’ll still do the job though.” Alter warned and pointed back into the building. “One of those men told me the Foreman’s room is through that door and to the right, is that accurate?”

“He’s telling you the truth. I’ve been there a couple of times when we’ve had to deal with outsider gangs who thought that snatching unsuspecting women off the street was a good way of doing business.” Winslow spat over the side of the terrace.

“They also said he’ll have already fled the scene. It sounds like this office backs onto the next building in the row, do you think he ran next door?”

Winslow nodded again. “The Last Flourish rents the attic space for storage, I’ll show you.”

Leaving a handful of men to keep watch, the newly bolstered squad breached into the first room to no resistance. A small, almost cosy looking living room in a quaint cottage style. It seemed quite out of place given the contents of the rest of the building.

“Man’s a sentimental type.” Winslow explained with a chuckle as he moved across the space. “Office is through here.” He came to a halt next to a rather nondescript yellow painted door.

Alter, confident enough to resume leadership, ordered the rest of the squad to hold position while the command team moved through to inspect the office. He had been speculative on how it would be presented. Would it be a grand, spacious affair akin to a penthouse suite? Or a dark, dangerous bolthole with walls covered in weapons? Alter was more than willing to admit that ‘Your grandma’s countryside kitchen’ had not been on the ballot.

“What?” Riptide asked as he glanced around the room in disbelief.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a copper saucepan before?” Alter jibed.

“Subverting expectations is the Foreman’s style, really throws the wannabe hard-noses through a loop. It’s certainly worked on you.” Winslow’s mirth continued as he skirted the old wooden table that took up the centre of the space.

He examined the far wall with a pondering eye and, having spotted the necessary points, pushed a pair of terracotta tiles in unison. With an oddly smooth glide, a section of the wall slid back and across, revealing a metre-high hole that led into a dusty looking storage space.

“Come on.” Winslow beckoned as he ducked through.

Alter, Riptide and Boozehound looked at each other, bemusement written across their faces before following the man into the attic beyond.