The basement of the 'Rusty Anchor' was less a room and more of an open tomb.
Moisture beaded on the exposed stone, a slow, rhythmic salt-water bleed that joined stagnant, oily pools on the uneven concrete floor. The foundation of the building was old, predating the Great Collapse, and it groaned under the weight of the Commercial District above.
Every few minutes, the pump in the corner would kick and rattle, doing little more than moving the sludge from one corner to another.
Even the air was rotten. It smelled of unwashed bodies, cheap tobacco, and the sharp, chemical burn of substandard Fire Dust.
Above, the distant, muffled thud of footsteps from the bar patrons provided a rhythmic heartbeat to the silence of the underground.
Kael stood by the rusted pump, his grey wolf-ears twitching at every clank of the machinery. He wasn't looking at the rising water. He was looking at his hands, calloused things with scars earned from thirty years of hauling crates for the port.
"The sensors went up an hour ago," a younger man whispered beside him. His name was Jax, and his voice was breaking. "North Gate. A Task & Treaties drone just... hovered there. No pilot in sight. It welded the array to the arch and flew off toward the high-rises. It looked like an eye, Kael. It sat there watching us till we clocked out."
Kael didn't look at him. "They aren't just taking the berths, Jax," he rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "They're taking the air. You can't breathe in the fucking docks now unless a Task gives you permission."
In the center of the room, Sunder stood over a table made of reclaimed driftwood. He was a doll of white and red. His porcelain mask was a chalky white, the jagged Grimm markings catching the flickering overhead light in a way that made the painted eyes seem to shift. "Liora," he said.
Liora, perched on a stack of ammunition crates, didn't look up from her holographic display. The blue light reflected in her feline eyes, making them glow. Her fingers moved in a blur, dancing through maps and thermal sensor nets.
"The noose is tightening, Sunder," she said, her voice tight with frustration. "I tried to bounce a signal through the Port Authority's relay. I wanted to see if we could scramble the North Gate array. It was intercepted within seconds. Not by a bot. By a person. They didn't even block me; they just... followed the signal back. They watched me work. I had to dump the hardware into the harbor before they reached the terminal."
She looked up, her tail lashing irritably against the crates. "It's the Tasks. It has to be. They turned the district into a digital web. They are playing with us."
"Where is Mal?" Sunder asked.
"In the back. With the rifle," Jax said, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. The flame of the lighter jumped in the damp air. "He hasn't spoken since the sun came up. He just cleans it. Over and over. He's got Koda's cleaning kit out."
As if summoned by the name, Mal emerged from the shadows. The rabbit Faunus was lean, his ears pulled back tight against his skull. The heavy sniper rifle slung over his shoulder was a brutal piece of engineering, its barrel gleaming with a lethal, obsessive polish. He didn't look at Sunder. He looked at the empty seat at the table where his younger brother, Koda, should have been sitting.
"The Father is the head," Mal said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Andrew is the eyes. Heylel is the hand. You can't hide from the eyes, and you can't fight the hand. But if you take the head... the body doesn't know what to do. It just thrashes."
Sunder leaned forward, his mask inches from the table. "And that is why we move today. Before we are completely fucked."
He pulled a small, battered datapad from his belt and slid it into the center of the light.
"The Port Director is a coward," Sunder said. "He's terrified of the Tasks, but he's still greedy. He sold me a copy of the final arbitration schedule for a crate of refined Dust and a promise of a way out of Vale."
He tapped the screen. It flickered to life, showing a clean, clinical calendar.
10:00 AM. SITE WALKTHROUGH – NORTH BERTHS. ATTENDEE: THE PATRIARCH.
"He's coming himself," Kael breathed, his ears pricking forward. "The Old Man? To the docks? He hasn't left that tower in three years."
"He has to," Sunder whispered, a manic light dancing in his eyes. "To seize a port of this size, the legal documents require the physical presence of the signatory. He's arrogant."
Sunder's hand slammed onto the table, the sound like a gunshot.
"He's walking into our backyard. He's walking into a construction site filled with blind spots and cranes that we still control. He's bringing the 'Hand' as his guard, but even Heylel can't be in ten places at once."
Liora looked at the tactical map of the North Berths. Her eyes traced a narrow passage in Sector Four.
"The Canyon," she murmured. "Shipping containers are stacked four high there. It's the only path from the site office to the arbitration podium. It's a kill box. If we move the cranes, we can drop the 'Plug' container behind them. We isolate the Father from the main security detail. No one gets in. No one gets out."
"I'll take Crane Four," Mal said. His grip on his rifle tightened until the leather of his gloves creaked. "I want to be the one to show the Tasks what it feels like to lose a piece of their soul. I'll take the Father. The rest of you... you take the sons."
"And the workers?" Jax asked.
"The union knows," Kael said. "They'll be 'off-site' for a safety meeting. The only people in that canyon will be the Tasks and us."
"Move," Sunder commanded, the red markings on his mask looking like fresh blood in the flickering light. "Rig the canyon. Set the spotters. We aren't just fighting for a dock today. We're proving that even a Task can bleed."
The basement emptied in a flurry of movement. Boots stomped up the wooden stairs, and the sound of weapons being checked—the click-clack of bolts and the hum of Dust cartridges—filled the damp air.
———
——
—
In the cold, silent monitoring suite of the Task estate, Andrew Task sat before a panoramic array of liquid-crystal screens. He wasn't looking at a camera feed. He was looking at a high-resolution thermal ghost.
On the central monitor, a jagged, orange-and-red heat map of the 'Rusty Anchor' basement flickered. Twelve silhouettes were huddled around a central table.
Then they scattered.
He picked up a stylus and cross-referenced the silhouettes with the files he'd been building for months.
"Sunder. Mal. Kael. Liora," Andrew murmured, checking them off a list.
He opened a private channel to his brother.
"Heylel," Andrew said. "They moved."
The screens shifted. Heat signatures scattered.
"Sunder has the schedule. Crane Four is active."
A pause lingered as leather stretched and metal clicked into place. "I tried remembering," Heylel said. "Which ones?"
Andrew closed his eyes.
"Dockside group," he said. "You handled them."
"Ah."
Another pause. The faint click of a strap being adjusted.
"That it?"
Andrew exhaled through his teeth.
"Mal," he said. "Brother of the rabbit faunus. The one from last night."
Silence.
When Heylel spoke again, his voice hadn't changed.
"So that's what Father meant. With the trees, I mean."
"Yes."
"How was I supposed to know?"
"You could've."
Another adjustment. Half an inch tighter.
"I'll make it clean," Heylel said.
Andrew didn't answer.
———
——
—
[A/N: A bit of an interlude. A lot of action next. Thoughts?]