The torchlight in Commander Otunba's tent cast deep shadows on the canvas walls, distorting his figure into something monstrous. The air inside was heavy—thick with sweat, ink, and the iron tang of dried blood. In the center of the room, kneeling on cracked knees, was a man whose eyes held more years than his face could bear. Biden—a once-proud Forun merchant reduced to rags and bones—trembled as the barrel of a pistol rested against the side of his head.
Commander Otunba towered above him, his uniform immaculate, his voice devoid of empathy.
"You will go to Sector 12," Otunba said coldly. "You will pretend to be just another starving rat crawling into Asa's nest. But you will watch. You will listen. And you will report."
Biden tried to speak, but only a rasp came out. Otunba crouched beside him, his voice dropping to a whisper that slithered into Biden's ear.
"You hesitate? Understand this: your wife and daughter—they will not die quickly. I will make sure they cry your name before the end. Refuse, and their screams will haunt what little life you have left."
Biden closed his eyes, pain and dread crashing over him like a wave. He gave a slow, bitter nod. "I'll do it."
Otunba stood, satisfied. "Good. A man's loyalty can always be measured by what he's willing to lose."
---
The journey to Sector 12 took three days on foot, through dust-covered plains and half-burned outposts. Biden was allowed no escort, no food—only a half-empty canteen and the clothes on his back to make his story believable. When he finally reached the outskirts of Sector 12, the sight nearly broke him. The once-industrial zone was being reshaped by the rebels: watchtowers built from scrap, fortified barricades, and above all—people. So many of them. Forun men, women, and children wandered through the streets, their eyes hollow, their clothes torn.
He staggered into the sector just as the guards were rotating shifts. One of the sentries, a broad-shouldered young woman with a bow slung across her back, raised a hand to stop him.
"You from the lowlands?" she asked.
Biden nodded, lips parched. "My village… burned. I've got nowhere left."
The woman's gaze softened. "You're not alone. Come on. You'll get food. And maybe a bunk, if any are left."
Just like that, Biden was in.
---
The following morning, Biden wandered the refugee quarters, watching. He listened to hushed conversations, studied the armed patrols, and observed the subtle discipline of an organized force. Sector 12 wasn't just surviving—it was preparing. But for what?
He got his answer later that day. While sharing a small bowl of broth with another Forun refugee, he asked, "They all seem to be on edge. Soldiers packing things up. What's going on?"
The young man shrugged. "Most of the main fighters are pulling out. Asa himself was here yesterday. They're moving out to take another region."
"Who's staying behind?" Biden asked, feigning casual interest.
"Just Zeke and the commander's son… Gad, I think. They're taking charge here now."
The blood drained from Biden's face. Asa was leaving. Only two would remain to oversee the sector. This was the kind of intelligence that could shift the war.
---
That night, under cover of darkness, Biden slipped past the watchposts and headed east. He traveled through the hills and scrublands, his breath shallow and legs failing him, until he reached the designated drop site. A lone Greenland scout waited under the old tree marked with ash.
"Tell Otunba," Biden gasped, "Asa has left. Sector 12 is in the hands of Zeke… and Asa's son."
---
Commander Otunba received the message by dawn.
He stood alone in his command tent, the note trembling in his hand. Then, slowly, a wide grin spread across his face—a grin devoid of warmth.
"So Asa has moved his pieces off the board," he whispered to himself. "And left his son to guard the gate."