[POV Switch: Third-Person (Focus: Jasta / Brad)]
The wasteland sun hung in the murky sky like a moldy egg yolk, feebly baking the cracked earth. Inside the cabin of the Land Crawler Mk.II - Command Variant, the air remained crisp and stable. Sarak had utilized the "compressor principle" provided by Alex, integrating it with goblin magitek to create a high-efficiency Aether-refrigeration system. Jasta sat on a sofa stitched from mutant bison hide, swirling a glass of soda water with ice. Through the one-way ballistic glass, he watched the brutal world recede in a high-speed blur.
A pack of tattered gnoll marauders was attempting to intercept the convoy on giant hyenas. They brandished rusted machetes, letting out guttural, hungry howls.
“They possess a certain... vitality,” Jasta noted, the ice cubes clinking musically. “A pity their passion is so poorly directed.”
“It’s a death wish,” Brad grunted from the opposite seat. Encased in a custom-built suit of heavy exoskeleton armor, he had removed his full-face helmet, revealing a grin of professional boredom. “Want me to clear them? The twin-mount turret hasn't had its morning coffee yet.”
“No, Mr. Brad. We must remain elegant.” Jasta pressed a comms button on the armrest. “Vehicle Two, a slight deviation in heading. Give our friends a... nudge.”
One of the heavy cargo trucks following the command car jerked its steering. The dwarven-forged steel beast kicked up a sandstorm. Its reinforced bumper—a mobile iron wall—lightly "grazed" the gnoll pack. It was a mere tap in terms of the truck’s massive kinetic energy.
Accompanied by the rhythmic crunch of bone and a series of wet shrieks, seven hyenas and their riders were instantly converted into a red-and-black smear of road graffiti. The surviving marauders fled into the deeper barrens at a velocity usually reserved for prey.
“Problem solved,” Jasta said, taking an elegant sip.
Half an hour later, the convoy decelerated. Ahead lay the bottleneck to Rust-Water Port: the Wind-Erosion Gorge. The passage was choked by an ugly barrier of scrapped chassis and coils of jagged barbed wire. Behind this blockade stood a sentry tower flying the flag of the Golden Gear Chamber.
The gorge entrance was packed with hundreds of ragged miners and smugglers. They desperately waved pitiful transit fees at the guards, begging for passage.
“No entry! No exit!” a mercenary captain roared from atop the barrier. “Chairman’s orders! To prevent substandard goods from destabilizing the market, all non-Guild certified cargo is subject to immediate seizure!”
Then, the ground began to vibrate. The deep, rhythmic thrum of high-displacement engines drowned out the wind. The mercenaries turned, staring in shock at the steel convoy emerging from the horizon. The lead command car was a monster. Its deep-blue paint glinted, its streamlined armor plates radiating a level of industrial aesthetics they had never witnessed. The twin-mount turret on the roof traversed silently, its black barrels declaring its lethal potential.
The convoy stopped ten meters from the barrier. A massive shadow fell over the blockade. The captain swallowed hard, leading a dozen men forward with spears and heavy crossbows.
“H-halt!” he bellowed. “This is Golden Gear territory! All vehicles are subject to inspection! Get out!”
The doors remained shut. Only the passenger-side window slid down with a faint, precise mechanical hum. A draft of cool, leather-scented air drifted out, clashing with the stench of rust. A hand clad in a white glove emerged, elegantly flicking ash from a cigarette.
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“Inspection?” Jasta’s voice was lazy. “Captain, are you quite certain you wish to touch this vehicle? I worry your hands are too soiled; re-painting is an exorbitant expense.”
Insulted, the captain jabbed his spear toward the glass. “Enough talk! This vehicle is suspicious. We are seizing it for an audit! Out now, or else—”
He was cut off by the sharp sound of hydraulic engagement.
The silent 30mm turret on the roof snapped into life, rotating ninety degrees. The twin black voids of the barrels locked onto the captain’s head from a position of absolute ballistic advantage. Simultaneously, the canvas covers on the trucks behind snapped open. Thirty bear-kin infantry, armed with power-hammers and tower shields, vaulted off the beds in a synchronized, earth-shaking thud.
“Or else what?”
The door finally opened. Brad stepped out—two meters tall in his exoskeleton, looking like a mobile bunker. He rested his massive buster sword on his shoulder. “You want to seize my car?” Brad grinned with a thug’s malice. “Do you know where I buried the last guy who tried that?”
The captain’s legs began to shake. This convoy’s firepower outclassed his rabble by a logistics factor of ten. “This... is a misunderstanding...”
“Rules.” Jasta finally stepped out, leaning on his ivory cane. He walked to the captain with an incredibly kind smile. “I love rules. Skyreach is a bastion of order.”
Jasta tossed a heavy velvet pouch. Chink-a-link. The pouch landed in the dirt, spilling several silver-white, mirror-polished metal discs. They caught the sun, reflecting the captain’s stunned face. The minting precision of the gear-tower crest was beyond anything Rust-Water had ever seen.
“What is this crap?” The captain picked one up. It was too light—like a feather, yet hard as stone. “Are you mocking me? Rust-Water only takes gold!”
Jasta let out a soft chuckle. “Captain, that ‘garbage’ can be exchanged at our city for two blocks of high-quality anthracite coal, or enough electricity to light your home for a week, or...” He snapped his fingers. Brad tossed a Skyreach Windproof Lighter to the captain.
The captain flicked the thumb lever. A stable blue flame erupted. In Rust-Water, such a mechanical toy was an aristocratic collectible.
“Look closely,” Jasta’s voice turned cold. “I have five thousand of those lighters. And I have five million of those coins. Now, tell me. Is your gold valuable, or is my ‘garbage’ the future?”
“OPEN THE GATE!” the captain shrieked, his dignity evaporating as he scrambled to gather the aluminum Sky Credits. “Hurry! Move the barricades!”
The "Rusted Shroud" was shredded by the weight of absolute kinetic force and economic gravity.
Jasta sat back in his cabin. “Well handled, Jasta,” Brad smirked. “But wasn't paying them a bit too generous?”
“That wasn't payment. That was bait.” Jasta watched the mercenaries greedily fighting over the coins. “Once they grow accustomed to our currency, they become our assets. That is the rule of Rust-Water Port: Whoever holds the ledger, holds the leash.”
Back in the cabin, Jasta smoothed his suit. “Well handled,” Brad smirked, repressurizing the cabin. “But wasn't paying them a bit too generous? Aluminum takes electricity to make.”
“That wasn't payment, Brad. That was Bait.” Jasta watched the mercenaries greedily fighting over the coins in the rearview mirror. “Once they grow accustomed to our currency, they become our assets. That is the rule of Rust-Water Port: Whoever holds the ledger, holds the leash.”
Question of the Day: Now that they've reached the city, where should Jasta set up the first "Sky-City Trade Hub"?
?? A) The Slums: Target the masses with cheap essentials.
Result: Populism. You gain a massive information network and loyal followers, but you provoke an immediate, violent response from the local gangs.
?? B) The Central Plaza: High-profile luxury boutique.
Result: Prestige. Hook the nobles on your tech and medicine. High profit, high political leverage, but easy for the Guild to blockade.
?? C) The Industrial Docks: Sabotage and takeover.
Result: The Engineer's Choice. Control the logistics. If you own the docks, you own the city's throat. Direct confrontation with the Golden Gear Chamber.
Follow and Rate for more industrial madness!