Business As Usual

"Money, of course," John replied, smirking. "Why snitch for free when you can sell the info?"

Bary scoffed. "Greedy cowards."

"Exactly. And that same greed works in our favor," John said. "We've been infiltrating their ranks, trading pigment for information. It's a messy game, but it's paid off. And now, we're taking the Hammer Factory—Pal's crown jewel—by week's end."

The room erupted into murmurs. Harry banged the table to restore order. "How?" he asked.

John's eyes gleamed. "Pal's too busy defending his sPaller factories. He doesn't suspect that his own workers at the Hammer Factory are ready to turn. That's where you come in, Brother Bary."

Bary stiffened, eyes narrowing. "What are you implying?"

"You and your priests will infiltrate the factory, spreading the faith and rallying the workers for an uprising. I've left this crucial task to you because I trust in your courage and devotion."

The barely-veiled taunt worked. Bary shot to his feet. "Are you questioning my resolve?!"

"Not at all," John replied smoothly. "You're perfect for this mission. Meanwhile, I'll lead peripheral offensives to distract Pal. Our newer… less devout recruits will serve as the front line. With the right whispers and a little scarlet courage, they'll charge in like zealots."

"You mean cannon fodder," Harry muttered.

John shrugged. "Sacrifices for the greater good. Also, we'll have five Sentinel Walker mechs to back us up."

Harry blinked. "Where did you…?"

"Oh, I borrowed them from Pal. Let's just say they're part of his reparations for hijacking our pigment shipment," John said with a wink.

Even Bary's outrage faltered at that. Harry sighed deeply. "Fine. Let's do this."

John's grin widened. "That's the spirit, brothers. Now, let's show Pal Hammer what true faith looks like."

Pal Hammer was in a foul mood—a mood so dark it could blot out the sun. Losing three factories in two months was absurd, even by his standards. The boss of the Hammer Gang stormed down the pedestrian street above the abandoned mine, his heavy boots striking the cracked pavement like a war drum.

The place was a ghost town. The once-thriving uranium mine beneath Victoria—a monument to the planet's heyday—was now a pit of decay and forgotten dreams. Centuries of progress reduced to a derelict husk. The irony wasn't lost on Pal, but he wasn't here to reminisce. Sentimentality didn't pay bills or rebuild factories.

He was here for an appointment—a peculiar one.

Pal followed the winding road, the ancient scars of heavy-duty truck tires still etched into the crumbling asphalt. The past's ghosts whispered beneath his boots, but none of it compared to the figure waiting for him. Behind an observation deck railing stood Silver Snake, leaning casually, her gaze fixed on the massive, tiered crater below. She radiated an unapproachable coolness, her mask hiding her expressions but not her aura of authority.

Pal approached, his mechanical arm flexing as he leaned on the railing beside her. His grin was crude and toothy, a perfect match for his rough demeanor. "Miss Silver Snake, this place ain't much of a date spot. You could've just come to my bar. I'd have poured you a drink or two. Maybe we'd talk business, maybe not."

Silver Snake chuckled softly, stepping back with deliberate grace. "I'm not the one you're meeting today," she said, her voice smooth but edged with amusement. 

"You," Pal growled, his mechanical arm transforming with a series of sharp clicks. A laser gun emerged, aimed squarely at John's smug face. "Give me one reason not to fry you right here."

John opened his coat, revealing an empty holster. "Relax, Pal. No weapons, no tricks. Just a conversation."

"Oh, sure," Pal sneered, not lowering his arm. "What's next? You tell me you're here to bake me cookies?"

Silver Snake sighed, clearly bored of the theatrics. She snatched the bottle John had produced from his coat, lifted the corner of her mask to take a quick swig, then passed it to Pal.

"Drink," she said. "It's not poisoned. Probably."

Pal hesitated, his narrowed eyes darting between Silver Snake and John. Finally, he took the bottle, downing a gulp before retracting the laser barrel back into his arm. "Fine. Talk. But make it good. My patience is about as thin as a paper shield in a bolter fight."

John's grin widened. "Glad to see you're in the spirit. Here's the deal: I'll help you get rid of Montana and his scarlet pigment operation. Burn it to the ground. Just like you want."

Pal blinked, stunned into silence. "Why? What's in it for you?"

"Montana's in my way," John said simply. "And when someone blocks my path, I tend to remove them. Permanently."

Pal crossed his arms, his mechanical fingers tapping a rhythmic warning. "You've got nerve, Constantine. Stealing my factories and now offering to play hero? Why should I trust you?"

"Because it benefits both of us," John said smoothly. He outlined his plan with the confidence of someone used to betting big and winning. Montana's arrogance, the riot he'd incite, the strategic chaos—every piece fell neatly into place.

"And the best part?" John added. "After Montana's out of the picture, you can pin the destruction of the scarlet pigment factory on him. A little torture, a forced confession. The Emperor's blessing and all that. You come out looking like a hero to your men, and the scarlet pigment trade grinds to a halt."

Pal stroked his chin, his lips curling into a reluctant smirk. "You've thought this through."

"Always," John replied. "And just to sweeten the deal..."

Silver Snake produced a recording device, handing it to Pal. His eyebrows shot up as he examined it. "This… this could bury you."

"If you handed it over, maybe," John said with a shrug. "But you won't. Because I'm your best shot at getting out of this mess with your Imperium intact."

Pal stared at the recorder, then pocketed it. Without another word, he turned and strode away. "Fine. I'll play along. But if this backfires, Constantine, I'll personally tear you apart."

John chuckled, watching him go. "Looking forward to it."

Silver Snake glanced at him, one eyebrow raised beneath her mask. "You're a gambler, John. One of these days, it'll bite you." He grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Not today. Speaking of gambles, how about another date? Hammer Factory, three days from now. Bring your charm."

She sighed but didn't pull away. "A factory date? How romantic."

John's communicator lit up, and he spoke into it. "David, prep for deployment. Keep it quiet."

The reply came in the form of distorted, upbeat music. Silver Snake shook her head with a chuckle. "You're impossible."

"That's why you like me," John quipped, his grin as unshakeable as ever.

Factories in the Human Imperium have a singular defining characteristic: they're massive. Gargantuan, even. Imagine a sprawling city crammed under a single colossal roof, where gigantic boilers puff away and casting lines stretch endlessly into the horizon. That's your average imperial factory for you.

Beneath this enormous artificial metal sky, the constant roar of machinery and the rhythmic pounding of spindles echo ceaselessly. The colossal workshops, corridors, and halls vibrate with a relentless symphony of industrial cacophony, churning out countless creations on conveyor belts that have been running for generations. Nothing unusual about that, right? It's just business as usual for the Imperium.