Roachaline's people did not linger in the depot.
They stripped it fast. Soldiers hauled plasma munitions, ration crates, fuel cells, and medical supplies through the broken keep and into the skiffs until the repulsor engines complained under the weight. Nobody catalogued anything. If it could feed, shoot, patch, burn, or open another door, it went into a crate.
Elias watched men steal surgical packs with blood still wet on their sleeves. He watched two soldiers argue over coolant cells while a third dragged a dead Federation guard out of the path by the ankle. The depot had been a fortress an hour ago. Now it was a carcass being emptied before bigger teeth arrived.
Elias carried the medical bag up the ramp of the final skiff and took a place near the rear bulkhead. A blood-spattered soldier sat beside him with a rifle across his knees and both hands shaking around the grip. Stolen ration crates pressed against Elias's other side.
