Chapter 8.2 - Englene Station

Hank and Corbin crept forward, skirting the edge of the bay where cargo crates and machinery provided patchy cover. The Stellar Express workers were following, but the path ahead was teeming with Revelation Choir zealots. Even from their position, Hank could hear their fervent chanting, punctuated by the occasional crash of metal as their makeshift weapons clashed with obstacles—or other people.

They had barely covered ten meters when a loud clang echoed through the bay. Corbin froze mid-step, glancing down at his boot, which had caught the edge of a loose metal rod. The offending pipe clattered loudly, rolling in a semicircle before coming to rest against a crate.

Hank froze, wincing. "Well, that’s subtle," he whispered, throwing Corbin a teasing glance.

Corbin winced but didn’t reply, his ears straining to hear whether the zealots had noticed. For a moment, it seemed like they were safe—the chanting continued uninterrupted. He exhaled slowly, gesturing for Hank to follow.

But as they resumed their careful progress, Hank’s foot found an uneven grate. It shifted under his weight with a low, grating screeek, the sound carrying like nails on a chalkboard.

Corbin turned to glare at him, but the damage was done. Shouts rose in the distance, and a handful of white-robed figures began moving toward their position, their eyes scanning the shadows.

"Well, so much for stealth," Hank muttered. "Now we match."

"Yeah, not exactly a highlight," Corbin replied dryly, his knuckles tightening on the baton.

The first zealot to spot them—a wiry man with wild eyes and a brandished wrench—let out a triumphant cry. "Intruders! The false ones are here to desecrate our holy ship!"

The shout galvanized the others, and more zealots began moving toward them, their footsteps echoing ominously against the steel flooring.

"Time for Plan B?" Hank asked, already taking a step back.

"Plan B is running!!!" Alaya shot back, mobilizing the workers.

Douklan is confident, even though he has no particular ability at sneaking.

For the record, Hank would not be mean or nasty about the failure, given he sucks at it, too. He would tease, though. Particularly to try and reduce the tension.
We run.

Hank calls back to the ship, "Things are going sour. We might need some help in force to get back to the ship. We're running with cultists on our tails!"

---

The priest opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, a heavy presence made itself known. A figure swept into the corridor with deliberate, measured steps.

The Inquisitor was impossible to miss—a tall man cloaked in crimson robes that billowed with every step. His hood was drawn low, but his angular face was partially visible, a mix of sharp features and an unsettling calm. A gold sigil, depicting wings encircling a blazing star, adorned the chest of his robes, gleaming under the flickering lights of the damaged docking bay.

"Who dares question their place within the fold?" the Inquisitor asked, his voice a deep, resonant boom that seemed to reverberate through the corridor. His piercing gaze fell on Mercer and the priest, and Mercer could feel the weight of it as if the Inquisitor were stripping away his armor with sheer scrutiny.

"Ah, Inquisitor!" the priest said, straightening and bowing his head deeply. "These… men…" He faltered, casting a glance at Mercer. "Well, this one claims to seek understanding, but—"

"I see," the Inquisitor interrupted, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet. He stepped closer to Mercer, his crimson robes pooling around him like liquid fire. "You, armored one, understanding is meaningless without action. Devotion is proven through deeds, not empty thought. Follow me."

---

Meanwhile, Douklan jogged alongside the mob, carefully letting the more zealous and faster believers pull ahead. The cries of "Stop the blasphemy!" and "Protect Heaven’s Wing!" echoed around him as the white-robed zealots surged toward Bay Five, their fervor carrying them like a tide.

Douklan kept his head down, muttering vague agreements as he moved with the crowd, looking for a chance to slip away unnoticed. But every time he slowed, another zealot shoved past him, bumping him forward. He grumbled internally, keeping his frustration in check.

"Stay focused!" one of the zealots barked, barely sparing Douklan a glance. "We’re almost there!"

Douklan groaned quietly, but remained confident. He let himself be jostled forward, his mind racing for another way to separate himself from the mob.

But before he could make a move, the crowd parted ahead of him, and Douklan’s breath caught in his throat.

Another Inquisitor in crimson robes appeared, stepping out from a side corridor like a specter. This one was shorter than the first, but no less intimidating. Her face was fully visible—sharp cheekbones, narrow eyes, and a thin mouth set in a permanent frown. She carried a staff topped with a glowing orb, and her robes rustled with an almost supernatural grace as she stepped into the center of the mob’s path.

"Stop," she commanded, her voice icy and authoritative. The crowd skidded to a halt, their fervor momentarily cooled by her presence.

Her eyes scanned the group like a predator surveying prey. They locked onto Douklan, and she tilted her head slightly, her frown deepening. "You," she said, pointing the staff directly at him. "Step forward."

Douklan hesitated, but the zealots around him turned to look, their expressions a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

The Inquisitor’s gaze burned into him. "Who are you, and what is your purpose here?"

Can I see the main group? How close are they? (I want to know how long we need this charade)

Mercer will put just the edge of the palm of his hand on his Vibroblade hilt, not gripping, just ready.
What do you want? Because what we want is less bloodshed. You look like a rabble right now.
Let us hide the workers of this station away on our ship. Separate the let everyone settle. Let your presence be the beginning of finding clarity and peace, not fearful anger.
Please.

Assuming Hank can hear what is going on, "OK, we are really going to need some fully armed security to get our distractors back. Please also have weapons ready for Erin, Corbin, and myself when we get there."

Hank will keep working with Corbin to get the workers to the CV as quickly as possible.

Oh yeah, we run, but Corbin will shift to the back of the group and run along behind everyone.

Well, crap! Another unskilled check. :-( Here goes ...

Holy ...

Well, nice knowing you all. I think he broke an ankle and will soon be sacrificed by cultists. I hope everyone else makes it!

::I sure hope the others are making good use of this time...:: From long experience of the military, Douklan knows that certain types of people in authority like to see people meek and cowering. He also knows that the best misdirection is based as much as possible on fact. Douklan straightens up and replies deferentially, making sure to tell only the truth. "My name is Paravides, ma'am. I work here at the docks, but when I heard that they were going to try to investigate the disappearance of the Heaven's Wing, I knew something had to be done. So we all have been going to Bay Five to put a stop to it."

"Time to move," Corbin said. He waved to the workers. "Stay close, single file. If anything happens, follow my lead, got it?" He then turned to take the rear position.

Erin, who had been tending to the injured worker, tightened the strap on her med-kit and took up a position near the middle of the group.

Hank also ran, doing his best to keep pace despite his desk-job physique. The adrenaline was helping, but only so much. He glanced back to make sure no zealots had got to them yet—and that was when it happened.

His boot caught on the edge of a loose floor panel. The metal plate shifted under his weight with a jarring clang, and Hank’s foot twisted awkwardly as he stumbled forward. Pain shot up his ankle like a jolt of electricity. He bit back a shout, hissing instead as he braced himself against the wall.Corbin was on him in an instant, hauling him up by the arm. Hank tapped his comms:
Valeria’s voice crackled back through the comms, calm but firm. "Acknowledged. I’ll send the crew to set up a defensive line near the cargo ramp."
"Will do." - Valeria answered - "And Hank?"

"Yeah?"

"Don’t die."

Hank chuckled weakly despite the pain. "Working on it, Captain."

The first zealot appeared at the far end of the corridor, his eyes wild and his makeshift weapon gleaming in the flickering light. He raised a shout, and the rest of his group poured in behind him.

---

Mercer shifted subtly, his hand resting on the edge of his stun baton—not gripping it yet, but poised. His stance radiated calm, but his eyes flicked toward the Inquisitor, measuring every movement and word.
The murmurs of the surrounding zealots were uneasy, a few glancing between Mercer and the Inquisitor. For a moment, Mercer thought he might have pierced through the tension. But then the Inquisitor took a deliberate step forward, his robes billowing around him like a crimson stormcloud.

"You speak of peace," the Inquisitor said, his voice deep and resonant, carrying an edge of menace. "Yet you stand here, armed and armored, defying the faithful and meddling in divine matters. You are no shepherd of calm—you are a wolf among lambs." His gaze burned into Mercer, unflinching.

The Inquisitor’s hand rose by then, gesturing sharply toward the zealots. "Arrest him! He will stand trial for his sacrilege and face judgment for his deception."
The mob surged forward, emboldened by the Inquisitor’s command. Their chants rose in fervor, their makeshift weapons at the ready as they moved to surround Mercer.

Then one of them—a younger man with wide, fervent eyes—rushed ahead of the others, emboldened by the Inquisitor's command. His movements were clumsy but determined as he lunged for Mercer, hands outstretched to grab the stun baton. Mercer stepped smoothly to the side, pivoting on his heel. The zealot’s hands closed around empty air, and his momentum carried him forward, off-balance. Mercer allowed the man to stumble past him, his movements fluid and precise.

---

The Inquisitor’s sharp gaze flicked over Douklan’s armored form and the stun baton at his side, her frown softening into something that might have been approval—or, at least, acknowledgment.

"Paravides," she repeated, her tone assessing. "You’ve taken action, armed yourself, and shown the courage to join your brothers and sisters in defense of Heaven’s truth." She stepped closer, her crimson robes brushing the floor as she studied him further. "You may not wear the sacred robes, but your conviction and readiness to act are commendable."

She gestured sharply with her staff toward the corridor leading to Bay Five. "The true faithful have no need to cower in mobs. You will come with me, Paravides, as part of my personal retinue. Together, we will ensure that this blasphemous investigation is brought to a swift and holy end."

Before Douklan could respond, a sudden clamor erupted from a side passage. Shouts of anger and defiance echoed through the metallic halls, interspersed with the unmistakable sound of fists and boots striking against metal. The Inquisitor’s head snapped toward the commotion, her eyes narrowing.

"Heretics," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. She gripped her staff tightly, the orb atop it flaring with a red, ominous light.

The zealots behind Douklan began murmuring anxiously, some clutching prayer beads, others gripping improvised weapons with white-knuckled hands.

The Inquisitor turned to Douklan, her expression expectant. "Paravides," she said sharply, "prove your devotion. Come with me to confront these infidels." She pointed her staff toward the source of the noise, her crimson robes billowing as she strode forward.

I hope you remember you left your pack astray when offered peace. Mercer pulls out his Stun Baton and activates his Shield.

Douklan nods, drawing his pistol in one hand and the baton in the other. "Lead the way, Inquisitor. I pray that violence will not be necessary, but if any is needed, I stand ready to strike with righteousness."

Yes, Hank burns an Effort to win initiative. He will draw his pistol and fire if needed to keep moving. The primary goal is still to get the workers to the ship, not to have a mass fight.