Warhammer 40k:The Lone Star

Chapter 7: The Seeds of Annihilation

Location: Medium Bandit Camp

Leon crouched atop the skeletal remains of a ruined hab-block, his augmetic eye whirring softly as he peered through a pair of scavenged magnoculars. The building before him was an unfinished construction site, its steel beams jutting skyward like the bones of a long-dead titan. The camp sprawled within its half-formed husk, a patchwork of crude barricades and ramshackle defenses that the bandits clearly thought sufficient. Fools.

Scouting had been treacherous. The wide-open spaces made stealth a difficult endeavor, forcing Leon and his team to move with extreme caution. They'd had more than a few close calls navigating the crumbling ruins, but through sheer perseverance, they had established a hidden bivouac within a derelict structure—too barren for the bandits to bother fortifying, and thus overlooked by their sentries. Concealed beneath scrap metal and debris, the kill-team now observed their prey from the shadows.

Beside Leon, Varn steadied his long-las, its barrel wrapped in dark cloth to prevent the gleam from betraying their position. The weapon was a prize taken from a previous raid, a precision instrument in the hands of a seasoned marksman.

"There are at least one hundred and thirty hostiles within," Varn murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Possibly more in the deeper recesses, but their inner defenses make confirmation difficult."

Leon gave a sharp nod before shifting his gaze to Goss, who was adjusting his custom-built augmetic lenses. The old trapmaster was a squat, broad-shouldered man, his frame hidden beneath a heavy trench coat bristling with tools of death—lockpicks, detonators, and vials of insidious toxins. Yet what truly commanded attention was the pack at his side, a grotesque thing easily twice his height, packed to the brim with an arsenal of traps, poisons, and unspeakable horrors.

Goss grinned as he lowered his lenses, his voice carrying a rough pride. "Aye, I got a good look at their setup. Emperor's teeth, my half-blind grox could do better."

Leon exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "Goss, I need an assessment from the perspective of a soldier, not a madman."

Goss scoffed. "Tch. Fine, fine. But I want all salvageable traps once we take this place."

Leon gave a curt nod, and Goss leaned in, unrolling a crude map of the site.

"The outer defenses? A scrap wall nailed onto wooden beams, barely holding together. They've lined the perimeter with a mix of landmines, electrified wiring, and rotating saw blades rigged to tear through any who get too close. No cohesion, no pattern—just a desperate attempt at deterrence. Their walls are manned 'round the clock by sentries, but they're not automated turrets—just looted stubbers mounted on rickety scaffolding."

Leon absorbed the information, his mind already crafting potential infiltration strategies. He signaled to Goss for further insights. The trapmaster's smirk widened as he jabbed a finger at a secondary location on the map—a medium-sized bandit encampment to the south.

"Me and Varn came across a little…dispute," Goss explained, his voice thick with amusement. "Two groups of scum tearing each other apart. We hung back, let 'em bleed each other dry, and when the dust settled, we bagged one of the survivors. Had a little chat, you see. Used a few of my old master's techniques."

Leon suppressed a shudder. He had no desire to imagine the horrors Goss had inflicted. The man had been an assistant to an exiled Tech-Priest whose specialty was the art of torture—an obsession that had seeped into Goss like a malignant rot.

Shaking off the thought, Leon pressed on. "What did you learn?"

Goss chuckled darkly. "Turns out these bastards have a long-standing feud. Years of bad blood, small skirmishes here and there, but neither side has had the spine to go all-out. No one wants to risk full-scale war—not with the hive in chaos."

Leon folded his arms. He understood the reasoning. Even in the anarchy of the Underhive, an all-consuming battle was a death sentence. Resources were scarce, and prolonged conflict would bleed both sides dry.

Goss tapped the map once more, this time at the southern bandit camp. His grin widened.

"Now, here's the interesting part. The boss of this camp? Loves his wife more than his own life."

Leon's eyes narrowed. A plan was beginning to take shape. One that would turn this gang war into a weapon.

He smiled coldly. "Then let's make him suffer."