Oaths Are for the Obedient

[Fab]

At the far end, a reinforced double door stood framed in heavy steel, its panel glowing an inviting green. The light pulsed faintly, catching their eyes like a signal beacon.

They approached in silence, noting the solid frame -- the kind built for something valuable, or dangerous. Weapons cache. High-grade lab. Secure evidence vault. Whatever was behind it, it was protected for a reason.

Dagger-2 tapped the console. The door released with a deep hiss, grinding open as if reluctant to give way. Beyond it waited… another reinforced door.

An airlock.

Their instincts flared. No “abandoned” refinery had this kind of security, not without a reason someone didn’t want public.

Still, they stepped inside, and Dagger-2 engaged the inner console. The second door rumbled open, revealing a vast space bathed in warm, almost theatrical amber light.

Crates -- dozens, maybe hundreds -- formed a haphazard barricade across the bay. Their labels were either stripped or painted over, but the stenciled numbers hinted at something organized beneath the chaos. The smell reached them before the sound: the thick, rich bite of a premium Bretonian cigar, impossible to mistake for anything else.

They wove between the stacks, funneled through narrow gaps that seemed less like coincidence and more like design.

The passage ended abruptly.

Waiting at the mouth of the clearing, framed by the haze of his own smoke and the contrasting colors, stood a man in a coal-black suit. Immaculate, tailored, and utterly out of place in a place like this. His smile was practiced, confident -- the kind that spoke of control over the next several moves of the game.

The cigar smoked in his hand like a signal flare...

Mysterious Man:
"Gentlemen. Welcome to Red Hills."

He stepped forward with the easy composure of someone who’d never once been made to hurry. His gaze lingered on each man in turn, as if measuring more than their faces.

Mysterious Man:
"My codename… is ORATOR. And I’m here because we share the same enemies -- though yours may wear different faces than mine."

He rested one hand on the edge of a steel table, as casual as if they were discussing the weather instead of survival.

ORATOR:
"While you’ve been stamping out fires lit by syndicates, militants… Kusari mercenaries-for-hire… something far older is working its way through our defenses. Patiently. Quietly. The alien."

Crossing to a draped object, he drew the cloth aside with deliberate care, revealing a reinforced crate. Dagger-2 would know it instantly from Serrano’s footage.

ORATOR:
"We are under attack. Humanity… all of it… is being nudged, piece by piece, into submission. You two have seen enough to know I’m not being poetic."

He paused to draw on his cigar, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke toward the lights above.

ORATOR:
"I need your help. To prepare. To be ready for whatever comes next."

His hand tapped the crate. A hiss escaped, and the lid split open, bathing the room in the artifact’s otherworldly glow.

ORATOR:
"Work with me, and you help everyone. And… as a small courtesy -- your chests will shine with medals, and your division will have the ear of every power that matters."

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