Meanwhile, the world of Kerridan Wall spun on its axis of manufactured truths, its atmosphere thick with the metallic tang of industrial runoff and the electric buzz of propaganda. News feeds flickered across every available surface, their crimson warnings bathing sweaty faces in blood-red light as anchors with perfect teeth and empty eyes constructed heroes from the rubble of Verdantia. In her sterile office light-years away, Director Vern's decision to recall her agents rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water, perhaps the most catastrophic miscalculation of her career. Vern could not know how the battered cargo container, its heat shields still smoking from atmospheric entry, lay half-buried in a toxic sludge field three kilometers from the city's edge. Inside, two figures had survived the bone-jarring impact, their bruised bodies now dragging themselves across the caustic wasteland toward civilization. As twilight descended, they finally emerged onto the lowest tier of Kerridan's massive platform city, their silhouettes momentarily eclipsed by the towering OWTC troops whose power armor gleamed like freshly spilled blood under the emergency broadcasts that painted the sky. That night was restless while they tried to stay safe and get some sleep in shifts. Morning would be a new start. In the dawn, Doucette Ahstad and Tarja Rantala wandered slowly around the city platforms high above ground level, their boots clicking against the corroded metal and crumbling concrete walkways that swayed ever so slightly with each gust of toxic wind. The acrid smell of chemical refineries burned their nostrils as they moved through the haze, eyes down to the deck to avoid cameras and surveillance drones. They knew they were not wanted, not yet, but within the next 50 hours, the whole Confederation would be hunting them like animals. The Outer Ring Liberation Vanguard, with their signature rust-red armbands and encrypted comm units, had promised to help rebels hide while jump corridors to the Expanse remained blocked by Confederation cruisers. The only problem was that after the engine failure had sent their small craft spiraling through the atmosphere, Doucette and Tarja were lost in this labyrinth of pipes and platforms. Doucette's fingers kept brushing the worn grip of her sidearm, her emerald eyes constantly scanning for the telltale rigid posture of undercover agents. If she appeared in the sightline of even one of them, they would be finished; her face was already emblazoned across secure channels as the suspected mastermind behind the Ahstad-Sonos revolt, her family's blood still metaphorically fresh on her hands. Soon she would be much more, but the pirate broadcast that would change everything had not yet been shipped across the stars. In days like this, when the air hung thick with refinery exhaust and paranoia, it didn't matter if Doucette and Tarja were unknown strangers at Kerridan Wall. Their unfamiliarity alone was enough to draw sidelong glances from locals whose eyes glinted with suspicion beneath soot-stained brows. Two women with copper-flame hair, skin pale as Sonos moonlight, and the distinctive high cheekbones might as well have been wearing target markers. The denizens of this rust-pocked industrial hellscape had learned vigilance through generations of corporate oppression; three individuals wandering nearby casually adjusted their paths to intercept the women while their attention scattered. Doucette's focus locked onto a man slumped against a corroded drainage pipe, his clothes tattered and stained with the distinctive purple-black of refinery waste, reeking of synthetic alcohol. Yet beneath the performance of destitution, his bloodshot eyes tracked them with the calculating precision of a targeting system. She glanced at him, her fingers sliding down to brush the worn grip of her sidearm, its weight a familiar comfort against her hip. Meanwhile, Tarja's attention was captured by a massive display, where the usual corporate propaganda had been replaced by an emergency broadcast, its crimson borders pulsing like an open wound against the morning light piercing through smog. "Du haskats'ar Matani!" Tarja roared with heavy dialect, her throat raw from the toxic air, her accent thickening with rage as she jabbed a scarred finger toward the massive display. The projection flickered, casting harsh red light as the Confederation's official statement scrolled beneath footage of Verdantia's shattered remains. "Filthy Nerk'in still claims reactor failure! Synthetic images. The station was intact when we left." Her voice cracked on the last word, drawing startled glances from passersby who quickly averted their eyes, pretending they hadn't heard the dialect of Sonos. Tarja was unsure if the station had exploded after the bombing; they wanted to make sure production was stopped, but total destruction in reactor failure was not what she wanted. The latest fabricated narrative about Verdantia was already disintegrating at its edges, soon to unravel completely when the couriers' unencrypted data packets reached their destinations across the Confederation. Within hours, pirated broadcasts would slice through official channels like plasma knives, revealing truths that would make the stars themselves seem to flicker with rage. Doucette's throat clicked as she made a noncommittal sound in Tarja's direction. Still, her emerald eyes remained fixed on the supposed vagrant. His stench, a calculated mixture of synthetic ethanol and something medicinal that cut through even Kerridan's sulfurous industrial miasma, marked him as clearly as a uniform would have. "This place suffocates people," she whispered, her cracked lips barely moving. The sensation of being watched prickled across her skin like static electricity, raising the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Exhaustion from seventeen consecutive jumps had left her vision swimming at the edges, black spots dancing whenever she blinked too slowly. "Matani, they lie until we tell the truth," Tarja replied, her voice lilting with the cadence of someone savoring revenge long denied. Yet her face remained a death mask, hollow-cheeked, eyes sunken into bruised sockets, lips bloodless and peeling. "Nobody believes them after this." Doucette looked at her. Tarja didn't know what that message would say, and she didn't know what had happened in the last moments at Verdantia. She knew she had to tell it to Tarja before she saw that form on the screen, but Doucette was unable to open her mouth and tell the truth. Their objectives at Verdantia were very different. "Excuse me, Matani," came a voice like gravel over steel, and suddenly a broad-shouldered figure marched between them. The man's proximity triggered an immediate physiological response; their pupils dilated, muscles coiled, and hands instinctively sought weapons, their bodies betraying them with the unmistakable terror of prey animals caught in a hunter's spotlight.