Catalin led the trio deeper into the ruins, boots crunching over shattered tiles, twisted metal, and the occasional ork corpse. The broken city around them was a maze of collapsed skybridges, half-burned trade halls, and scorched apartment towers — shadows that seemed to breathe. The wind whistled through fractured windows and jagged walls, carrying a faint smell of ozone, oil, and long-dead fires.
The streets were silent now, but the silence wasn't empty. Every loose panel, every toppled billboard, every rusted pipe could hide a threat. A pair of squigs — crude beasts with bombs strapped to their torsos — skittered from under a collapsed scaffold, squealing and snapping. Catalin's chainsword roared to life, and a clean swing sent one tumbling into rubble. Daniel's heavy bolter caught the second mid-leap; green blood and metal fragments flew into the fog.
The trio advanced in tight formation, eyes scanning, ears straining. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and the smell of melted ceramite. The ruins felt alive — groaning steel, echoing screams from collapsed corridors, the soft scuff of debris settling under its own weight. Shadows moved just out of sight, tricking the eye.
Then the vox crackled — a ragged, desperate voice cutting through static:
> "—supply drop! Immediate! Repeat! Supply drops now! Repeat! Supply drops! Immediate! Priority one! We cannot hold! We cannot hold!"
Catalin froze, hand tightening on the chainsword. The voice wasn't human — or not fully. It had the clipped, precise cadence of Mechanicus augmetic operators but frayed by stress, panic, or long isolation. Every few seconds it repeated, overlapping with itself, looping endlessly:
> "Supply drops! Immediate! We cannot hold! Supply drops now! Repeat! Supply drops! Immediate!"
The trio pressed against the wall of a half-collapsed hab-block, peering down a street littered with debris. Faint, flickering lights hinted at broken vox relays and half-functioning machinery deep within the Manufactorum — somewhere beyond the ruined skyline ahead.
Catalin tapped his repeater's clamp, letting it hum quietly. "Sounds like the garrison's still alive… somewhere inside the core. But they're pinned," he said. His voice was low, harsh, measured. "And desperate. Could be traitors. Could be orks. Could be both."
Daniel let the heavy bolter's barrel sway, scanning rooftops and collapsed corridors. "Either way, they want supplies… and fast. Whatever's left of Graias V's PDF is counting on it."
Silvius gritted his teeth, scanning the broken avenues. "The longer we linger, the more they notice us. We move fast, Catalin. Garrison or no, orks or no, we make that lane before anyone—or anything—sets a trap."
The city ahead yawned like a fractured maw: jagged towers, burning pits, and half-collapsed skybridges forming tunnels of shadow. The echo of the repeated vox signal bounced between walls and overturned vehicles, making it seem everywhere at once.
Catalin advanced, chainsword humming and power fist crackling. Each step through the ruinous streets was careful but relentless, dodging twisted metal and stray rubble. Broken barricades, smashed supply crates, and scorched machinery littered the way. Somewhere far off, a distant ork warcry echoed, but it felt muted — as if the city itself swallowed the noise.
The path to the PDF camp remained unclaimed, the streets a gauntlet of uncertainty. Behind every fallen sign, beneath every collapsed doorway, a threat could wait. And ahead, the vox of the trapped Manufactorum garrison repeated the same desperate plea:
> "Supply drops! Immediate! Repeat! We cannot hold! Supply drops! Immediate! We cannot hold!"
Catalin's visor flared as he scanned the next intersection