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It was a breathtaking sight, yet Seagrove’s mind was racing with worries. The truth was that it was a miracle they made it this far. His combat leadership combined with Sokolov’s contacts brought them here, but the near future depended on Blackwood’s ability to secure the passage in a city full of hostile corporations that now considered them outlaws. Direct violence was prohibited within the city limits and the city itself acted as a safe haven to all but the worst of criminals, but Blackwood’s and Sokolov’s skills would be tested to the limit to keep them from obtaining that particular brand.

He nearly jumped in surprise when Sokolov suddenly sat next to him with a cup of coffee in his hand. A wide grin appeared on his face as he noticed Seagrove’s discomfort.

“You should not let anyone sneak up on you, my friend.”

Seagrove frowned.

“We’re friends now?”

Sokolov grinned again.

“No. It’s just something people say.”

The grin faded as he patted his pockets. Finally he found a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Methodically, as if it was the most important thing in the world, he pulled one out and lit it with a lighter he stored in the same pack. The acrid smell of low-quality cigarette smoke filled the air. Almost as an afterthought, Sokolov offered the pack to Seagrove, who just shook his head.

The silence dragged on with both men just admiring the view. Seagrove finally turned towards the other man.

“Why?”

Sokolov raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Why did you join Blackwood? It wasn’t just for the credits.”

Sokolov turned away, gazing towards the horizon, the cigarette limp on his lips. Seagrove was about to pick himself up and leave, not expecting to receive an answer, but Sokolov gestured for him to stay. When he finally started talking, his response caught Seagrove off-guard.

“Tell me. What is history?”

Seagrove frowned, unsure as to what to reply.

“History is history. Everything that happened.”

Sokolov smiled.

“No. History is just a collection of stories people tell. And I happen to like stories. I was there when the Hellhounds fell and when the Remnant took their revenge before retreating east. Good stories, those.”

“But what does that have to do with us?”

Sokolov finished smoking his cigarette and looked up, exhaling the last breath of smoke against the ruby sky.

“I have a feeling your story will be a good one.”