First Reply Just Shadows

[Sylor]

Umbara
Objective - Unknown​

Umbara was a unique world in its own right. The sun's rays rarely pierced its perpetual cloud cover, earning it the name Shadow World. For Sylor, it was a place where he could blend into the darkness with ease, allowing him to accomplish the task that had brought him here. He was a soldier, but first and foremost, he was a protector of House Verd. Moving unseen and unburdened came naturally to him. When difficult work needed to be done, he was one of the ones that would volunteer.

His vessel touched down, the landing gear settling against the durasteel platform with a muted shudder before everything fell still. He powered down the craft, secured it with practiced efficiency, and descended the boarding ramp. A slow, measured breath escaped him, carrying a faint crackle through the vocal modulator of his helmet. Without hesitation, he moved through the hangar with quiet confidence before disappearing into the sparse evening traffic of Umbara's capital city.

There was much to be done.

 

[Tiber Fel]

TIBER FEL

Regent · General · Architect of Obedience

:: Transmission Classification: Dorn-Obsidian // Authority Confirmed // Compliance Expected ::
:: Objective: Complete the Mission ::
:: Targets: Sylor ::

The blade died, and with it the red glow withdrew from the room. Darkness reclaimed the apartment, broken only by the distant streetlights of Umbara's capital filtering through the windows in thin, pale cuts. The Brotherhood agent of the Diarchy lay dead behind him, body and severed head separated after a brief and final contest. Another remnant of Bastion's occupiers had been removed. Another stain washed from the old Imperial world.

Tiber Fel knelt beside the corpse without ceremony. His gauntleted hands searched the dead man's vestments with methodical precision, discarding what held no value. Comms. Ration packs. Minor utility gear. Nothing that mattered. From an inner fold he recovered a datacron, small and hard-edged, and studied it for only a moment before securing it within a pouch at his belt. Whatever answers it contained would be extracted elsewhere.

He rose, leaving the body where it had fallen, and passed from the room into the corridor beyond. The apartment, the block, and the kill site disappeared behind him in sequence, each threshold crossed without hesitation. Minutes later, he emerged onto the busy street below, where the city continued around him with the indifferent motion of a world long accustomed to occupation, fear, and compromise.

His armour seemed made to devour light. On Umbara, beneath its bruised shadows and artificial glow, the black plates did not stand apart from the environment so much as merge with it. Even the dark red relief of the Imperial cog upon his chest caught little from the streetlamps, its shape more implied than displayed. Tiber moved at an unhurried pace, each plated step steady, deliberate, and heavy with purpose. Civilians passed around him or away from him, leaving his path open without the need for command.

He looked like trouble.

Not the loud kind. Not the desperate kind. The kind with direction, authority, and no need to explain itself.

The datacron rested against his belt as he continued through the capital's walkways, searching for a quiet place away from the press of bodies and surveillance. He would review its contents before moving on. If the dead man had carried anything of use, it would serve the next stage of the reclamation.

If not, then the corpse had still served one purpose.

Order is not negotiated. It is enforced.