They chose a private room at the back of the manor, one of the smaller ones that had been built to suggest discretion rather than luxury.

  It had once been a study or a sitting room for quiet conversations, the sort of place where a man like Meechum would reassure partners without witnesses. Now it held only a narrow table, two chairs, and the lingering smell of old cigars soaked into the wood. The door closed solidly behind them, shutting out the low murmur of work from the rest of the house.

  Otwin remained standing.

  Grump took one of the chairs, eased himself down, and let out a slow breath. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with age. This was the fatigue of a man who had just finished threading his way through politics that pretended not to be politics.

  “The bounty will clear some debts,” Grump said at last. His tone was flat, almost conversational, like he was discussing the weather. “Not all of them. But enough to take pressure off.”

  Otwin inclined his head slightly, visor catching the lamplight. The Stormtrooper armor gave him a real presence, plates humming faintly as systems idled.

  “And what we get from Meechum,” Grump continued, “will do more than that. A lot more.”

  He rubbed a hand across his jaw and glanced toward the closed door, as if making sure the walls were still doing their job.

  “There are inspectors going over the turret fort now,” Grump said. “Rail Authority types. Paper men with clipboards and polite smiles.”

  Otwin said nothing, waiting.

  “I doubt they’ll really want it,” Grump went on. “It doesn't meet the military standard. More than likely, they’ll sell it off to a civilian company. Quietly.”

  Otwin’s brow rose a fraction.

  “Maybe the bank?” he asked.

  Grump snorted softly.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “If they do, there’s a chance we see it again.”

  Otwin turned that over. “As an escort,” he said.

  Grump nodded. “Exactly. Same iron. Different paperwork.”

  Silence settled between them for a moment, thick but not uncomfortable. Outside, the manor creaked as someone shifted furniture or opened another drawer. Inside, two men weighed a future neither of them had planned for when the Ol’ Five Seven first rolled out.

  “So,” Otwin said. “We’ll be going privateer then?”

  Grump looked up at him.

  “Looks that way,” he said. “At least for a while.”

  “Abandoning the Cocoa Road?” Otwin asked.

  Grump shook his head slowly. “Not abandoning. Delaying.”

  He leaned back in the chair, eyes unfocusing slightly as he replayed the earlier conversation in his mind.

  “The administrators I spoke to had already gotten word of the other Steam Forts,” Grump said. “Not just one or two. Enough to matter. They’re tearing things up all along the border.”

  Otwin’s posture did not change, but something tightened in the air.

  “They’ve flattened a few villages,” Grump added. “Killed a lot of people.”

  The words sat heavily between them.

  Otwin’s voice, when he spoke again, was level. “Will we be arming up better?”

  Grump nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now.

  “I’ve got a full energy cannon sitting in the warehouse,” he said. “Been there longer than it should’ve been. Too much firepower for a civilian run, too valuable to sell.”

  Otwin’s head tilted slightly. “They’re going to let us mount it?”

  “They’re going to offer us a commission,” Grump replied. “Help repel the raiders. Provide an escort. Act as a stabilizing force where they can’t or won’t.”

  Otwin considered that.

  “And in return,” Grump went on, “we get permission. Legal permission. Papers signed by people who matter. The kind that keeps inspectors from asking the wrong questions when they see a cannon where a cargo crane used to be.”

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  Otwin let out a quiet breath.

  “The Ol’ Five Seven has the energy for that?” he asked, surprised despite himself.

  Grump smiled faintly, not with pride but with appreciation for good engineering.

  “The power stone is robust,” he said. “Better than most civilian forts get. It can handle the load.”

  He paused, expression sharpening.

  “Though if we go off rail for too long,” Grump added, “it could cause issues.”

  Otwin nodded once. “Power draw. Stability. Wear.”

  “All of it,” Grump said. “Short runs are fine. Prolonged off-rail operations start eating into margins we can’t replace easily.”

  Another quiet stretch followed.

  Otwin looked at the door, then back at Grump. “So this is the line,” he said. “We stop just hauling cargo.”

  Grump met his gaze.

  “We stopped the moment we captured a military fort,” he said.

  Otwin absorbed that without comment.

  Outside the room, Meechum’s world was being stripped down to ledgers and routes and leverage. Outside the manor, Rafborough was still telling itself nothing had changed.

  Inside the small private room, the future of the Ol’ Five Seven was being decided quietly.

  Grump stood, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor.

  “We’ll take the commission,” he said. “We’ll mount the cannon. We’ll play privateer as long as it keeps people alive and pays better than dying on a road that isn’t safe anymore.”

  Otwin inclined his head.

  “And after?” he asked.

  Grump’s mouth twitched.

  “After,” he said, “we’ll see what kind of world we’re still in.”

  ***

  They did not wear armor.

  That alone made the walk feel different.

  Otwin moved through the slum street with his hands visible and his posture relaxed, the way men did when they did not want to be noticed but also did not want to look afraid. The red?light district was awake even though the hour was late. Windows glowed with cheap lantern light. Music bled through thin walls. Laughter carried down alleys, sharp and brittle, the kind that came from drink and desperation rather than joy.

  The warehouse squatted at the end of the block like it had given up pretending to be anything else.

  Once, it might have been a legitimate depot. Now its brickwork was stained dark with soot and age, loading doors warped and patched with mismatched boards. A faded sign hung crooked above a side entrance, the paint long since flaked away to nothing. If you did not know what you were looking for, you would walk right past it.

  Otwin stopped across the street and studied it.

  “You sure this is the place?” he asked.

  Jordy did not even look up from adjusting the wraps on his knuckles. He grinned as he finished tying them off, teeth flashing in the low light.

  “Sure am,” Jordy said. “Black Dragon gang runs their fight club out of here. Been hearing about it for years. Tonight’s fight night.”

  Otwin glanced at the warehouse again, then sideways at Humbert.

  “You ready for this, Humbert?”

  Humbert stood with his arms loose at his sides, broad shoulders filling the space between two shuttered storefronts. Without armor, he looked almost smaller than usual, though the illusion did not last long once you really looked at him. The man was built like something that should have been forged, not born.

  He nodded once.

  “Always ready for a fight, boss,” Humbert said.

  They crossed the street together.

  Up close, the warehouse was louder than it looked. Not from the outside, not yet, but Otwin could feel the vibration through the soles of his boots, a low rhythmic thrum that carried through brick and mortar. Someone opened the side door as they approached, and noise spilled out in a rush.

  The calm of the street died instantly.

  Inside was chaos.

  The warehouse interior had been hollowed out and repurposed with brutal efficiency. The center of the space was dominated by a large fighting pit, circular and sunken, its floor packed with sand darkened by sweat and old blood. Thick timbers ringed the pit, reinforced with iron bands, scars gouged into them from years of bodies being thrown against the edge.

  Hundreds of people packed the surrounding floor and makeshift stands.

  Crude wooden bleachers had been bolted together along the walls, rising in uneven tiers that creaked under the weight of shouting spectators. Others stood shoulder to shoulder on the ground level, pressed in close to the pit, fists raised, coins already changing hands. The air was thick with heat and smell. Sweat. Spilled beer. Grease from frying food. The faint copper tang of blood that never quite went away.

  Lanterns hung from chains strung across the ceiling, their light harsh and yellow, casting deep shadows that danced as the crowd moved. Somewhere overhead, an old ventilation fan rattled uselessly, stirring the air just enough to spread the stink evenly.

  A concession booth had been set up along one wall, a crude counter hammered together from scrap planks. Behind it, a woman poured beer from dented metal taps into chipped mugs while a man next to her turned skewers of chicken over a sizzling grill. The smell of roasted meat cut through everything else, making Otwin’s stomach twist despite himself.

  Music thumped from a corner where a pair of battered drums and a screeching stringed instrument tried to keep a rhythm over the noise of the crowd. It was less a song than a heartbeat, fast and relentless.

  Otwin took it in with a soldier’s eye.

  Exits. Elevated positions. Blind spots. The way the crowd flowed and where it bottlenecked. He noted the men who watched instead of cheered, the ones whose hands stayed free of mugs and bets. Enforcers. Spotters.

  As soon as they stepped fully inside, someone moved to intercept them.

  The guard was broad and thick-necked, wearing a sleeveless vest that showed off a pair of dragon tattoos crawling up his arms. A cudgel hung from his belt, polished smooth from use. He looked Humbert up and down, eyes lingering with open interest.

  “Watching or fighting?” the guard asked.

  Humbert stepped forward, looming.

  “What does it look like to you?” he asked.

  The guard grinned, teeth stained yellow.

  “Fighting it is, then.”

  He jerked his chin toward a side passage that led down toward the pit.

  “Name?”

  “Humbert,” Humbert said.

  The guard’s grin widened.

  “Good,” he said. “Crowd likes big ones.”

  Otwin felt Jordy shift beside him, energy coiling tight.

  “Any rules?” Otwin asked.

  The guard laughed.

  “Don’t die in the pit,” he said. “Makes cleanup annoying.”

  He stepped aside.

  They moved forward, swallowed by noise and heat as the crowd surged and closed behind them. Somewhere in the pit, two fighters were already circling, sand kicking up around their bare feet, the crowd roaring for blood.

  Otwin watched Humbert roll his shoulders as they approached the edge, watched the huge man’s breathing slow and steady.

  This was not a raid.

  This was an introduction.