ENFORCER FIELD REPORT // PATROL 197-W4 Origin: 197-W4/Outer Defence Line, Western Rim Clearance: Internal Use Only Reporting Officer: Captain Mara Vex Date Stamp: [REDACTED — DATA CORRUPTION DETECTED] Subject: Status Report BEGIN TRANSMISSION To Proctor Eryndal Syth, Enforcer Precinct, Sector 197 This is F-713 Captain Vex, Patrol One Nine Seven West Four. We are still holding the line at the 77th Causeway, though “line” is generous at this point. The barricades are half dust, power’s intermittent, and comms flicker every few hours. The lawlessness continues to move inward - slow, deliberate, like it knows where we are. We’ve had no resupply in thirteen cycles. No orders either, unless you count the screaming from Sector 327. I don’t. Current roster at the Causeway stands at six officers. My two Subjugator Sergeants - R-482 Holt and M-037 Raddan - are still operational. Both veterans. Both running on spite and stimms. Holt’s keeping the heavy shield line running; Raddan’s been coordinating outer patrols with the surviving manufactoria crews. They know the drill. The three Juves - recruits you sent, barely out of the training pens - are still breathing, for now. T-591 Kellan, cocky as a hive-spire noble, the only one still smiling when the guns jam. K-824 Tarn, nervous to the point of shaking, though hasn’t run yet - I count that as courage in these conditions. J-209 Drix, quiet and sharp-eyed. Doesn’t talk much. Reminds me too much of myself at that age, and that’s not a comfort. They’re scared, but so’s everyone. The difference is they’re still listening to orders. That’s more than I can say for half this sector. We picked up fragments of a transmission last cycle - something about a ridge hauler crash at the breach, a single Orlock survivor named Flask. The message degraded before we got a location, but the vox-tech swears it came from inside the infected zone. We’ve logged three civilian encounters in as many days. None coherent. One kept saying “the West is dead” over and over until Holt put him down - infection signs in the mouth, lungs, and eyes. The phrase is spreading faster than the rot itself. No further contact with the precinct, no supply drops, no replacement patrols. We’ll hold what we can until you tell us otherwise. If you don’t - we’ll still hold. For the Emperor. For Helmawr . - Captain Mara Vex Precinct 197-W4, Western Line END TRANSMISSION [Signal loss: 97% packet degradation] Recovered Addendum (Partial Vox Scramble) “Raddan says he saw something in the smoke — a man walking the breach, calling names like he knew us. Holt says it was just the heat. …I think it was real. …He said my name.”

Mid-thirties, scar across her brow, voice like a snap-lock. Precinct commandant by temperament, soldier by trade. Vex is all economy of motion - makes decisions fast and accepts waste later. She keeps the roster together by force of will and the quiet promise that she’ll never leave someone behind. Carries the psychic weight of every life she couldn’t save; uses it as discipline, not pity.

Lean, hawk-faced, always watching the skyline. Raddan coordinates patrols and the precinct’s limited recon network; he’s the tactician who can read a ruined map with one glance. Where Holt strikes, Raddan probes - and he’s the one who noticed the pattern in the smoke. Stoic, but prone to sudden, hushed anger when civilians are sacrificed for “order.”

Broad-shouldered, a walking wall in battered armour. Holt is the blunt instrument - close, violent, and predictably steady. He runs the barricade teams and loves the clang of shields; his humor is short and dark. Rumour says he lost an entire squad to a manufactoria collapse and never stopped blaming the walls.

Quiet, observant, moves like a shadow between crates. Drix speaks little, but notices everything: a loose bolt, a boot print, the smell that doesn’t belong. She’s deadly accurate with scavenged pistols and unnervingly calm in cramped spaces. Where others shout, Drix watches and acts. They call her “old-soul” because she seemed born to keep secrets.

Lithe, dark-eyed, hands that tremble more when he’s nervous than when he’s angry. Tarn is raw, forever replaying training drills in his head. Fear makes him cautious in ways that sometimes save lives - he’s the kid who checks the corners three times and questions orders that feel wrong. Terrified of failure, resolute in small, surprising ways.

Too bright behind the visor, grin like somebody paid him to be hopeful. Kellan’s cockiness is a thin armor - he jokes to keep shaking hands from betraying him. He’s quick on the trigger and quicker with a quip; he also still believes in medals and good reports. He’s the squad’s morale spark and the one most likely to take an unnecessary risk.