The Nests
The refinery was a skeleton, its rust-red towers clawing at the grey sky like the grasping fingers of a corpse. Caelen lay prone on the highest catwalk, the cold, gritty steel a familiar comfort against his chest.
Down below, in the warren of pipes and tanks his people called the 'Guts,' life was a constant, close-quarters struggle for air, for food, for dominance. But up here, in the 'Nests,' the world opened up. Up here, he could breathe. Up here, he could see.
His world was the circle of his scavenged military-grade scope. For three days, his world had been the floating collection of junk and hope to the south. The 'Lifeline Cooperative,' according to the faded lettering on the blue barrel he'd tracked here.
He wasn't a raider. He was an analyst. Raiders were clumsy, noisy things. They saw a target and charged, fueled by desperation. Caelen saw a system, and his job was to find its breaking points.
The Observer's Art
He adjusted the focus, the image sharpening. The girl with dark, braided hair—the one from the barrel—was on the central platform, methodically sorting a pile of salvage.
Her movements were efficient, economical. He'd watched her for hours now, tracking her patterns.
She wasn't just piling junk; she was assessing, categorizing. A bolt would be tested for thread integrity before being placed in one container. Wire would be examined for corrosion before going in another.
She had a system. A mind that sought order in chaos.
Potential complication, he noted in his mental ledger. Engineer's mind. Problem-solver. Will adapt quickly to threats.
But more interesting was how others responded to her. The old mender—Niran, he'd heard someone call him—consulted with her about salvage priorities.
The severe woman who commanded their security—Jaya—had stopped twice this morning to speak with her, their body language suggesting she valued the girl's input.
Not just a survivor. Rising influence. Resource or threat?
Specific Observation - The Lantern Scene
Caelen panned the scope slightly, following movement on the eastern platform. A small boy—the girl's brother, based on their interactions—was examining a broken solar lantern.
The child's movements were careful, methodical, mirroring his sister's analytical approach.
A large man approached—their engineer, the one who maintained their generator. Caelen had been watching him too, noting his frustration with failing equipment. The man tried to fix the lantern, failed, and stepped away in obvious irritation.
But the boy didn't give up. Through the scope, Caelen watched him tilt his head, listening to something.
Then the child reached into the mechanism and made an adjustment Caelen couldn't quite see.The lantern flickered to life.
The engineer's reaction was interesting—surprise, followed by what looked like grudging respect. The man said something to the boy, then walked away, but there was a change in his posture. Less frustrated. Almost... hopeful?
They're adapting, Caelen thought. Even their children are learning to repair, to maintain. This isn't a refugee camp waiting to collapse. This is a community learning to survive.
That made them dangerous in a different way.
Scout vs. Warrior
Caelen shifted his position slightly, easing a cramp in his leg. Three days of observation. Three days of watching people go about their daily lives, unaware they were being studied like specimens under glass.
He'd been a raider once. Back before Voss had pulled him aside and told him his talents were wasted on smash-and-grab missions.
"Anyone can swing a blade," Voss had said. "But few can see patterns. Few can think."
It had felt like a promotion at the time. Scout. Intelligence operative. The person who made raids possible by finding the weaknesses others missed.
But lying here, watching a small boy fix a lantern while his sister sorted salvage, watching people work together to maintain their fragile home, he felt something uncomfortable settle in his chest.
If he were still a raider, he'd meet these people face-to-face. Fight them fairly, blade to blade. There was honor in that, at least. A cleanness to it.
This? This was watching them smile and laugh and solve problems, all while collecting the information that would be used to destroy them. It was efficient. It was smart.
It felt like poison.
Stop it, he told himself firmly. You're not a raider anymore. You're a scout. Voss needs this information to save the refinery. To save Elara and everyone else in the Guts. Sentiment is a luxury we can't afford.
He returned his eye to the scope.
The Community at Work
He panned across the flotilla, absorbing its rhythm.
Morning routine (0600-0900):
Maintenance crews checking tie-downs and platform integrityThe one-armed security leader (Jaya) conducting patrol briefingsSomeone he assumed was a doctor making rounds at the clinicChildren gathering for lessons on the school barge
Midday (0900-1400):
Communal meal served from a central kitchenWorkshops active—net mending, salvage processing, equipment repairThe girl from the barrel working with various groups, her role unclear but clearly valuedFishing skiffs departing on patrol/foraging runs
Afternoon (1400-1800):
More intensive work—the physically demanding tasksGuard shift changesEvening meal preparationChildren dismissed from lessons, many joining parents at work
It was disciplined. They had schedules, rotations, assigned duties. That made them predictable, which was useful for planning an attack.
But it also made them resilient. If one person fell, another knew their role. If one system failed, they had backups.
Strong, he thought. But not invulnerable.
Finding the Cracks
He zoomed in on the central platform again. The cluster of older men he'd noted earlier was back, their body language still tense.
The broad-shouldered fisherman—Tomas, he'd heard someone call him—was gesturing angrily toward the patrol skiffs.
The leader (Rupa, based on how others deferred to her) was listening, but her expression was firm, unyielding. Tomas's frustration was visible even from this distance.
Internal friction, Caelen noted. Resource anxiety. Tomas wants more aggressive foraging, probably long-range fishing expeditions. Rupa is being conservative, probably due to fuel concerns.
He watched the conversation end with Tomas stalking away, several other fishermen following him. The community was dividing into factions.
Exploit that, he thought. A divided community panics faster. Strikes at the residential section will force Rupa to make impossible choices—defend the families or defend the resources. Either way, morale collapses.
He shifted the scope to the eastern perimeter. Older platforms, less reinforced. The fishermen assigned there looked demoralized, their attention wandering. Tomas's faction, probably.
Entry point, he decided. Fast strike there, maximum chaos, minimal resistance.
The Report
Present day. Voss's command room.
The Leader's chamber was the refinery's old primary control room. Voss sat in the single, intact command chair—a relic of a lost world, its high back facing a bank of dead monitors. The air was cold, smelling of ozone and recycled air.
This was the mind of the refinery, and Voss was its cold, calculating brain.
Caelen stood at ease, his report delivered. Across the room, Rhys paced like a caged animal, his hand restlessly tapping the hilt of his heavy blade.
"Their power is out. Their water is poisoned. They are weak. We should have hit them last night," Rhys growled, slamming a fist against a rusted console. "A direct assault. We could have been feasting by dawn."
Voss's Strategic Mind
Voss's chair swiveled with a slow, deliberate hiss. He was not a brute like Rhys.
He was lean, his face sharp and intelligent, his eyes holding the flat, dead look of a man who had made a thousand brutal calculations and had no regrets.
"And we would have destroyed half of what we went there to get," Voss said, his voice quiet, yet carrying an absolute authority that made Rhys fall silent. "Your 'feast' would last a week. I am planning for the next ten years."
He steepled his fingers, a gesture Caelen had seen many times. It meant Voss was about to teach a lesson.
"Rhys, tell me: what happens when you kill a community's fighters?"
"They... can't fight back," Rhys said, confused by the question.
"Yes. And then what? You have corpses and empty platforms. You have structures built for salt water and constant maintenance that you don't know how to perform. You have systems—water filtration, power generation, food cultivation—that die within days because the people who understood them are dead."
Voss stood, walking to one of the dead monitors. He traced a line through the dust on its surface.
"I don't want to raid them, Rhys. I want to replace them. We move our people into their infrastructure. We take their engineers, their doctors, their farmers—alive. We take their knowledge. We let them show us how their systems work, then we decide who lives and who doesn't based on their usefulness."
Caelen felt a chill despite himself. This was Voss at his coldest—the man who thought five moves ahead while others were still reacting to the first.
"The Cooperative isn't food," Voss continued. "It's a machine that produces food. Destroy the machine, and you get one meal. Capture the machine, and you eat forever."
Rhys's Impatience Shown
Rhys had stopped pacing, but his frustration was visible in every line of his body. He was a man built for action, for violence, for the immediate satisfaction of combat. Strategy felt like chains to him.
"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "We capture instead of kill. But when? How long do we keep waiting while they get stronger? While they fortify?"
"They're not getting stronger," Voss said calmly. "Caelen's red tide deployment has ensured that. Every day they struggle with poisoned water is a day they're weaker, more desperate, more vulnerable. We're not waiting out of caution. We're waiting for them to reach maximum desperation with minimum capability."
"And if they adapt?" Rhys challenged. "If they find a way around the poison?"
"Then we've learned something valuable about their resourcefulness, and we adjust our timeline accordingly." Voss returned to his chair. "But Caelen's reports suggest they're close to breaking. The internal divisions are widening. Their generator is failing. They're rationing everything."
He looked at Caelen. "Your assessment of their timeline? When do they tip from desperate to collapsed?"
Caelen considered carefully. "Two weeks, maybe three. The generator will die completely—their maintenance chief can delay but not prevent it. Without power, their water filtration fails. Without clean water, disease spreads. They'll reach a critical decision point: stay and die, or abandon the flotilla and scatter."
"Perfect," Voss said. "We hit them at that moment. When they're panicked, divided, and weak. But before they scatter."
Rhys's expression shifted from frustration to predatory satisfaction. This, he understood. The moment before the kill.
The Blight
Voss nodded slowly, then rose from his chair. "Come."
He led them not to the armory, but to a small, sealed chamber off the main room. Inside, under a single, flickering grow-light, were their own hydroponic trays. The plants were withered, covered in a fine, grey mold.
The air in the small room was thick and metallic, recycled so many times it felt thin in the lungs. A constant, low hum from the air recyclers vibrated through the floor plates, a sound that promised life but also spoke of their fragile, artificial world. A fine layer of rust-red dust, the curse of the refinery, coated every surface. Voss ran a finger over a drooping, blackened leaf, leaving a clean streak.
"Our crop has a blight," Voss stated, his voice flat. "The filters are failing. The spores are in the air, in the water. Everything we grow now dies within a month." He turned from the dying plants, his eyes locking onto Rhys. "We are eating our seed stock. In two months, the vats will be empty, and the blight will still be here. We will starve."
He let the grim reality settle in the cold room.
"The Cooperative is not a meal, Rhys," Voss continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It is a lifeboat. They have what we have lost: the ability to grow clean food. Caelen's report confirms they have a seed bank—untouched by this blight. We will not raid them for a few sacks of grain. We will take their home. We will take their knowledge. We will take their future."
The red tide had been his opening move, a masterstroke of ecological warfare designed to cripple them, to break their spirit, to make them easy prey.
Daily Life in the Guts
Before they could discuss tactics further, a commotion outside the command room drew their attention. Shouting, the sound of someone being struck, then dragged away.
Voss showed no reaction, but Caelen knew what it meant. Another food line fight. They were happening more frequently now.
"May I?" Caelen gestured toward the door.
Voss waved permission.
Caelen stepped into the corridor. Two of Rhys's enforcers were dragging an older man toward the detention cells. The man's face was bloodied, his hands bound. Behind him, a small child—maybe seven years old—was crying, reaching for him.
"Papa! Papa!"
One of Rhys's lieutenants—a woman named Kara—held the child back, not roughly, but firmly. "Your father stole from the distribution line," she told the child. "He has to be punished."
"He was hungry!" the child wailed.
"Everyone's hungry," Kara said, her voice not unkind but implacable. "That's why we have rules."
Caelen walked past them, noting the details. The man's emaciated frame. The child's distended belly—early signs of malnutrition. The resigned expressions of the people in the corridor, who watched the scene with dead eyes.
This was what the refinery had become. This was what they were all running from, whether they admitted it or not.
The Cooperative represented more than food. It represented hope. A place where children didn't cry while their parents were beaten for stealing scraps. A place where there might be enough.
We're not raiders, Caelen thought as he returned to the command room. We're refugees trying to steal someone else's lifeboat. And I'm the one finding holes in their hull.
He pushed the thought aside. Sentiment was a luxury they couldn't afford.
The Order
"They believe we are simple raiders," Voss said, returning to his chair. "They will be expecting a frontal assault, a smash-and-grab. They will have hardened their obvious defenses." He looked at Caelen. "Your assessment stands?"
"Yes, Leader. Their western perimeter is now their strength. But their eastern flank, near the residential platforms, is older, less reinforced. And their people are divided. A hard, fast strike at their heart, where the families are, will create panic. Their command structure will collapse."
Voss nodded slowly. "A plan, you see, Rhys? Not a brawl." He looked from his strategist to his warrior. "Caelen will guide you. You will lead the main assault team. Your target is the residential section. Create chaos. Break their will to fight. But I want the core platforms—the clinic, the gardens, the workshops—taken intact. Is that understood?"
Rhys's feral grin was his only answer.
"Then the order is given," Voss said, his voice a final, chilling note in the dark room. "Take the lifeboat."