Rubilo & Zubilo
Nikopol - June 6, 2594
The Clique must act
In the dim light of Commando Prime Klaus’s campaign office, shadows stretched long. Surgeon Friedrich Voigt, Mechanic Aaron Partow, and Scout Sasha Volkov spoke in hushed tones, their voices weighted with the knowledge of what lurked in Lubos’ workshop. The ANSUMOs—silent, dormant, waiting. If Elder Ivan seized this power, the East would bend to his will.
Time was against them. The air carried the scent of rust and old promises. Commando Prime listened, eyes sharp, before nodding once. “Come back after dinner. We’ll speak tactics then.”
Outside, the world moved as if unaware of the storm brewing. Yelena and Detina walked past, fingers entwined, lost in a moment of fragile joy. A rare sight in Nikopol. A reminder that even in the filth and decay, love still bloomed—brief, defiant, and destined to be swallowed by the dark.
Elder Ivan waits
The office smelled of paper and spore tea. Elder Ivan, his face a tapestry of scars, greeted them with a rasp that scraped against their ears. Here, in the heart of Founders’ Square, power sat cloaked in patience.
The Elder probed, testing the edges of their knowledge, his words a game of knives. How much did the Clique truly know?
Friedrick’s voice was measured, his question precise: “Dr. Vasco—what was he to you?”
Ivan’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. “A friend to my father. A believer. Humanity must learn to live with the Primer, not against it. We ought to welcome the change.”
Aaron shifted, his words a deliberate misstep, a feint in the conversation’s deadly rhythm. He spoke of Zora’s companions, an attempt to lead Ivan astray. But the Elder was no fool. His silence was heavier than his words.
Burn, Baby, Burn
“The plan is reckless,” Prokhor muttered, rubbing the grime from his hands, “but it might just work.”
The Streltsys crouched on the ruined skyline, rifles ready under the rain. Below them, the spore field stretched out, a blight upon the land. Jorn Kal laid it out simple: fire would lure them. Rubilo and Zubilo, the Psychonauts, would come screaming for vengeance. Then we run. Six kilometres back to the ruined city.
Purifier Harlem, young Varvara Semyonich, and the others listened, the weight of the coming horror pressing into their bones. High spirits masked the truth: not all of them would make it.
The fuel was spread. The match was struck. The world ignited.
The dance of the dead
They ran.
Rubilo and Zubilo followed, gliding through the fire’s glow. To them, this was no hunt. It was a dance.
Harlem’s back split open under Rubilo’s axe, ribbons of flesh flaring like petals. Still, he mounted his horse, pain swallowed by purpose. But Rubilo turned, eyes alight, and drove an elbow into the Anabaptist’s spine. The scream that followed was not entirely human.
A kilometer in, Zubilo caught Jorn. The Psychonaut’s mouth latched onto the man’s shoulder, lips sealing like a lover’s kiss. A feeding. A bond. Friedrick pulled the splayer away, but something nestled on his brain—an old friend, a whisper in his ear. “Let us join now?”
Kilometers blurred.
Varvara and the trader had surged ahead, safe in the distance. Sacha granted the Anabaptist mercy, a swift end before the horror could claim him fully. Rubilo grinned and turned his attention to the fleeing scout. The chase was poetry, a lover’s waltz with death. Feet pounded the broken ground, the scent of blood and burning spores thick in the air.
A gunshot. Aaron’s piercer barked, a desperate call against the night. Friedrick’s mind reeled, trapped in a dream with his friend, his new master? Jorn stirred at the sound, reality crashing back in. His own flesh betrayed him. He tore himself free. His arm—his arm still hung from Zubilo’s mouth, fingers twitching in some grotesque farewell to his crawling body.
Aaron reached for Friedrick, but the past held him tighter.
A final movement. A synchronized step.
Rubilo struck Sacha, fingers sinking into his torso like a lover reaching for a heart. Zubilo took Friedrick, lips against his, a primal kiss sealing a fate long written.
Harlem fought. He tried to pull Sacha from the abyss. But the Cossack only smiled, his last moment wrapped in Rubilo’s embrace. A love found in death, reminding him of his wife and child in the cold Kiev.
Aaron took Friedrick’s Spitalian plate, fingers closing around the name. It was done. He catches up to Harlem.
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An expensive success
Nikopol’s ruins swallowed the night. The Streltsys had waited, rifles steady. When Rubilo and Zubilo emerged, drunk on love and death, the bullets fell mixed with the rain.
The dance was over. The Psychonauts lay still, their reign of terror ended.
But the cost was high.
Nikopol had won, but victory had stolen too much. And somewhere, in the broken tunnels of Nikopol, Yelena and Detina still walked hand in hand, oblivious to the ghosts left behind.