"Unless you want to stay here, follow if you want."
"The probability that you will find Savalos Thul here, waiting in this alleyway, is negligible. The odds that the cherubim leads us to him are substantially higher. I recommend you accompany us as well."
Ishmael sighs, looks down at his duct wolf scat-stained boots, and looks back up as the others quietly file out of the alleyway to follow Kalaziel. Unholstering his revolver, he flips open the oversized cylinder and double checks that each is occupied. Satisfied, he flips it closed, and slides it back in.
"Fine. But by the smell of this district, I don't like our odds of walking out of it dressed like a Malfian Commercia delegation!"
He removes the brocaded vest and cloak he has been wearing since the Void Needle and tosses them to the ground in disgust as he stalks out into the thoroughfare.
Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy
At the very moment that Emrit Kirsch's hands remove the already bloodied bandage and the packed gauze, they stop shaking.
With deft alacrity, he slips a plastic head on a metal cylinder that is routed to a nearby tank, and begins a steady suction of the wound, the blood slurped hungrily up into the machine. A great deal more is missed, and it begins to pool in an unsightly stain on the disposable bedding that covers the stainless steel table.
Cocking his head to one side, trying to get better light from the pollutant-stained windows, the medicae extends one hand behind him in order to grab a small pressure hose, attached to another tank on the small cart. He aerates and then cleanses the wound, and you feel Quincus' body flinch and tense with the application of the high frequency sonic energy coupled with the flowing water. A low groan escapes her lips as Emrit methodically passes it back and forth, never sacrificing thoroughness for haste.
"Alright, Sav, now the ugly part. Hold tight."
Faster than your eyes can follow, he picks up the strange coagulant gun, and sprays a foamy white substance into the wound. It must burn, for after a heartbeat, Quincus bucks for the first time, her back arching beneath your hands, legs kicking out against the restraints, while a guttural sound comes from deep in her throat.
As soon as he clears away the excess coagulant with a sterile cloth, he grasps the suturing device, checks the load of plasteel staples in the base, and begins to knit Sunshine back together again. He is almost on the fifth, halfway across, before Quincus moves again. This time her arms begin to convulse, and her head swings from side to side, a cry of sheer agony escaping her lips. Beads of sweat begin to stand out in almost orderly rows across her pale brow. You feel it on your face as well. Once Kirsch is done, he dabs away as much of the blood as he can to inspect his work. Satisfied he reaches for a final object. The cauterization implement.
Holding tight, wanting to avert your eyes, you watch as the medicae clicks a nodule on the device, activating it. A dull red glow, almost disarming in it's dimness slowly comes to life on the end of the instrument. Making eye contact with you, he nods, presses one hand against Quincus' breastbone, and pushes down, rather forcibly. You almost object, but as soon as he begins to cauterize the wound you understand his reasoning. There is a searing sound, as of a hot fry pan dropped into a cold sink, and the smell of something burning. Quincus nearly sits bolt upright on the table, she propels her shoulders forward with such force. Cursing, irritated with yourself that you were caught unawares despite Kirsch's warnings, you try to force her back down.
"Dammit, hold her Sav!"
Opposed Strength Roll (1d100=78)
Being caught by surprise I almost loose her. My bloody hands slipping, slipping on her naked shoulders. Fear of her ripping the wound open gives me the strength to just hold on.
"I know it hurts Sunshine. Hurts something awful. But you need to lay down and trust me. Otherwise you will bleed out before the Doc finishs patching you. Just a little longer. Then you can rest. Okay Sunshine? Trust in ol' Savie."
At the last moment, your hands manage to find purchase again, and you force Quincus back down to the table, pushing with all of your weight as her head whips back and forth, eyes open, but staring into nothingness.
"Good. There, there, Sunshine, is it? Rest easy."
Kirsch smiles, and you can't help but be bolstered by his obvious relief. Taking what appears to be a paint brush of all things, he waits for Quincus to breathe evenly again, and then dips the brush in a glass jar, painting a yellow-brown stripe of antiseptic across the closed wound. A few minutes later, and he has rebound and bandaged the area with sterile tape. Finished, he places a thick blanket over her, checks her vitals, and steps back, rubbing one gloved hand across his brow.
You can't help but notice the thin stripe of blood at the base of his scalp that the relieved gesture leaves behind. It makes something tense in your gut and passes just as quickly for you to see it.
"She's in the Emperor's hands now. Let her rest."
Kirsch removes his gloves and tosses them toward a bin on the other side of the room as he walks toward the door, holding it open for you to follow him.
I am relieved when Emrit is finally done. Now the hard part...waiting. When he mentions she is in the Emperors hands now I almost laugh. For two years I have been listening to a Priest yammering. Emperor this, and Emperor that. Now that when a real prayer is needed there isn't one in sight.
Guess I will give one. Emperor let her live. There isn't enough Sunshine in this dark pit of a hive. Let her heal and shine. "Hang in there Sunshine. Remember your a fighter."
"You got a towel Emrit?" As I walk toward the door. In reality I need a shower. Covered in Sunshines blood. But the look Emrit gave me when I asked about Maia put a chill in my heart. Fueling my fears about Kalaziel. "Guess its time we had a drink and a talk eh old friend?" I exit the room after Emrit.
I wonder if she was even aware of what was going on.
The Oremor Underhive, Vaxus District, Level -119
As soon as Uriah seems to notice Kalaziel again, she takes wing and flutters down the cobbled street, a few meters above the heads of a circle of indigens fussing and squawking to one another over a poorly bundled pallet of scrap metal that has fortuitously fallen to them to scavenge. Not one of them looks up at the bizarre sight of the cherubim, and their attention is further diverted when a pair begin to push and shove one another, hurling Underhive cant invective with genuine venom in their voices. It is almost comical until one of them pulls a thick, triangular plastic shiv and drives it into the gut of the first. Not stopping there, he plunges it in, over and over again, until his rival falls to the ground. Oddly enough, the rest of the group do not shy away, they merely give their more savage contemporary a bit more room to sort his prizes while the other man convulses on the ground.
Fluttering above this ugly scene, Kalaziel flies another thirty meters or so down the road, and alights on another lamppost, this one bound in a sort of web of electrical conduit that runs between three of the larger half-ruined buildings on this block. As you pass the scavs and a few more alleys while heading in her direction, a ganger lookout, a boy of no more than ten standard years, peers out from the burnt out hulk of ground car. His too-old eyes watch you warily, filthy hair matted above them to his forehead. Upon seeing Uriah, he makes the sign of the aquila, before making another, cruder gesture in the direction of one of the crumbling buildings.
A roundabout of sorts, centered around one of the vast reinforced stone and duralloy pillars that act as essential support to the vaulted Underhive is ahead. Milling dregs and street vendors mingle with strung-out obscura addicts and opportunistic dealers around the spoke-like intersection, creating a crowd of sorts.
The most vicious and feral of the street scavs from back near the alley passes you on the other side of the street, waving an old compressor like a martial trophy brought back by Drusus from the Angevin Crusade. He cheerfully descends into a pack of junk vendors, makes a quick sale, and struts off to the nearest drug dealer, who almost seems to be expecting him. A well-oiled machine of vice and savagery permeates this portion of Vaxus District, and you feel yourselves wandering close to the teeth of it's gears.
Scrutiny=
The Oremor Underhive, Vaxus District, Level -119
Suffering the prejudices of the dirtborn is nothing new to voidborn who must make his way amongst all strata of Imperial Society, such as Uriah, but something about the child's purposeful stare clearly indicates more than a superstitious interest. Surface thoughts flash on the psyker's mind, images of currency in a small hand, warm food, and a cruel man's face, followed by the man passing a a familiar string of wooden beads to the boy. A possible, unnerving future.
Iacton notices the child as well, but instead follows his eyeline to the gutted ruin across the street. The boy seems to be focusing on a crumbling Low Gothic tower in a former municipal building. From this distance it is hard to make out, but a figure leans out from the narrow, stone buttressed pentagon-shaped window long enough for the assassin to notice a heavily cloaked figure who steps away quickly after noticing the boy's second, less offensive gesture.
Johnnie makes the boy on sight. A gang runner, your typical street urchin snitch commonly employed by the more organized gangs and narco-traffickers in the Orcut VII underhive, and underhives sector-wide for that matter. A shred of pity manifests itself for a moment in the arbitrator at the child's bony physique, but it is forgotten and displaced by concern for he and the others when he watches the quick flash of the hand signal. The boy is marking them for someone else. A bad sign given that you number six and are obviously armed. Gangers generally don't like even odds...
Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy
Kirsch walks across the hall, stops, and retraces his steps to one of the indigen's rooms in the boarding house. He lifts a small glass bottle leaning against the door, examining it before unscrewing the cap and taking a deep sniff of what is inside. Satisfied, he leaves the door, taking it with him to the room across the hall from the surgery.
Opening the door without preamble, he walks in and sits behind a notched and pitted faux-shellwood table covered in empty food containers, wire bound copies of medicae journals, and the other assorted dross of an untidy bachelor. He pulls a stool out from the other side, and points to another set aside in the corner of the room. Other than a flat pallet bed, a number of shelves containing more medicae books, and a small food warmer the room is spare and spartan.
Kirsch places the bottle of rotgut hive-brewed liquor on the table and pours himself a shot into a dirty cermaic mug with pronounced caffeine stains on the rim. He flips a foam food container aside and pulls a smaller, cleaner-looking glass from beneath and pours out and equal measure for you.
"Here, you look like you need it. Throne knows, I do."
"He was motioning to someone in that tower." Iacton nods slightly towards a crumbling municipal building. "Emperor guide me, for a sinner's blood will soon be spilled."
"Look out for ambushers, We do not want a repeat of the shuttle bay."
if needed, awareness=
"Aye I drink does sound good." I accept the drink and take a swig. I continue to stand. Not wanting to get blood all over Emrit's chairs.
"You might want to let the Ogryn know how she's doing..."
I stick my hand in my pocket, and feel my wooden beads briefly wondering what the vision means.
"We have been marked," Johnnie whispers. "Someone has taken an interest in us. That means a lot of armed opposition, seeing as gangers don't like even odds."
"Heh, reminds me of a prayer: 'Praise be to the Emperor that the odds are stacked in our favor.'"
"Shall we find cover?"
"We should find some cover. That should help stack the odds in our favor."
Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy
"Aye, a drink does sound good." I accept the drink and take a swig. I continue to stand. Not wanting to get blood all over Emrit's chairs.
"You might want to let the Ogryn know how she's doing..."
Kirsch mimes looking out past Savalos where the ogryn waits in the hallway, and shakes his head, chuckling.
"No, I think not, I'll leave that to you. He seems pretty attached to that pretty young lady, and I wouldn't want my head ripped from my shoulders for what will amount to me explaining a cautious outlook on Sunshine's prognosis."
Kircsh then frowns because you are standing.
"You can sit, that chair has seen far worse stains than a little blood if it was used by some of my clientele."
The Oremor Underhive, Vaxus District, Level -119
As your band draws close to the roundabout courtyard dominated by the gigantic, duralloy-reinforced, hive-supporting pillar structure in it's center, you notice that some of the meeker denizens have begun to clear out, as if somehow sensing things are about to take a turn for the worse in their makeshift marketplace. Surprisingly, many others; obscura dealers, the murderous scav from near the alley, and at least a score of curious and callous denizens of Vaxus district merely look on as you approach, eagerly expectant for the violence to come. With your guard up already, their various uncouth, apathetic, and chagrined expressions carry much more sinister weight.
After crossing the choke-point from the roadway you were traveling upon and entering the circular court, a burly ganger and five like-minded associates separate themselves from the milling throng where they were waiting by the pillar, the obvious menace they exude parting the dense crowd until they stand before you. The jeers and chattering voices of the citizens in the courtyard cease abruptly.
The lead ganger is a sight to behold, well over two meters tall, and possessing a slab-muscle enhanced girth that makes him appear nearly as wide. Shirtless, his bulk flexes and ripples, two staring snake-like eyes tattooed over his nipples. His scarred arms, like constrictor snakes, flex theatrically and threateningly as he approaches. Despite his augmented size and prolific accumulation of scars, his boyish facial features mark him as younger than you suspected at first. Small, snake-like teeth have been derm-grafted in a circular ring around each yellowish eye, and his otherwise handsome mouth is marred by a pronounced harelip. In one hand he casually holds a hand-cannon that makes Rico's look like a toy in comparison.
His fellow gangers, sycophants and hangers-on, by their posture and attitude, are armed as well; mostly with pistols or revolvers, but at least one brandishes an autogun of older manufacture. Most of them wear dark vests or leathers stitched with golden throne gelt representing the scales of various serpentine designs.
The lead ganger's oddly inflected voice is like an amplified vox-horn, you are certain he speaks this loud to heighten the arrogance and drama of the threat he represents to the onlooking dregs and dealers, almost theatrically so.
"Lookee, lookee, wot 'ave we 'ere? Uphivers with fancy shooters walkin' bold as brass into Raucho's turf? Yer balls are big, that I'll grantcha. Just so we 'av ourselves an understannin' ye'll be given over all thatcha got if'n ye wanna walk outta 'ere with with just a beatin'. Ye pay the taxxy-tithe if come downhive to wot I rule all unnannounced, and the like."
Looking beyond the ganger, you can see that Kalaziel has alighted upon the tattered canvas roof of wide rickshaw carriage attached to a velocipede near the middle of the courtyard. The driver, a twist with a chin full of mutant tendrils, looks on curiously, but his body language shows that he is ready to bolt at a moment's notice if things happen to get ugly.
Initiative=
I will spend a fate point to get a initiative of 13
I will hold my action. As far as I remember, I never put away my compact laspistol.
I will let the hivers of our group handle the talking, since voidborn and hivers do not get along.
I take a look back at Druuther. "I'll be back in a minute." I walk over to the Ogryn. "Well Doc did his part. Best medicae down here. He did a damn fine job stitching and patching her. All we can do is wait. So get yourself some rest. Its all up to her now." I wish I could give Druuther a better answer, but there isn't one. There's never a good answer. I give Druuther a smile. "She's a strong one. She still has some fight in her." With that I turn and walk away.
I head back into Emrits room, and slump into the chair. Taking another drink from the glass. Feeling the burn go down my throat warming my chest. Realizing how exhausted I am; and the day is far from over.
"Once your sure about Sunshine the Ogryn's arm is going to need stitching. He took a nasty bite as well. No where as bad as her though."
"So you were going to tell me about Maia, and the others?"
"Five more in the crowd and a sniper in the tower." Iacton whispers to the others before placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting to see how this unfolds?
1d100
I will hold my action. As far as I remember, I never put away my compact laspistol.
Ivaanov moves toward the center of your group and activates a sublingual communique heard over your respective microbeads.
<<Should violence commence, on my mark, block your ears.>>
Ishmael moves to the left flank of the group to start a protective ring around the tech priest and psyker. His ornate Gunmetallican revolver is already in hand.
He whispers:
"Emperor guide my hand, it looks like Mount Thollos will soon erupt"
Initiative:
Albrek flanks to the right, on the side of the sniper, completing the defensive circle. The stock of his lasgun is in hand.
Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy
"So you were going to tell me about Maia, and the others?"
Kirsch takes a moment to refill his mug, this time nearly to the brim and takes a deep draught. He winces as the liquor flows into him. Removing his spectacles, he rubs at the center of his brow with one hand, further smudging the streak of dried blood. Placing both hands flat, on top of the table, he looks you in the eye.
"The little girl, Sav, Maia. I killed her."
His eyes grow watery and red.
"But that isn't the worst of it..."
My head snaps up at Emrit's words. " You what! " My voice lowers. "What do you mean Emrit? She got hurt and you couldn't heal her?" Thoughts flood my head of the similiarities between Maia and Kalaziel. Why didn't she come inside the hospice? "So what the hell happened?" I finish my glass. "What about her old man and the elder daughter? Trust me I am all ears."
Realizing that they aren't going to be getting out of this peacefully, Iacton draws his sword.
Saint Trobriund's House of Worldly Mercy
My head snaps up at Emrit's words. " You what! " My voice lowers. "What do you mean Emrit? She got hurt and you couldn't heal her?" Thoughts flood my head of the similiarities between Maia and Kalaziel. Why didn't she come inside the hospice? "So what the hell happened?" I finish my glass. "What about her old man and the elder daughter? Trust me I am all ears."
Emrit visibly starts when you yell. Tears trace tracks down his face.
""She was sick, Sav, real sick. Aebena, her sister, brought Maia to me."
The medicae tries to clear his throat, coughing loudly.
"The old man, their father, had died earlier in the year from the Stagnant Ague; there was a bad patch a few years back during spore season, and it hit the hab-blocks in the poorer parts of the district pretty badly. I treated him as best I could, but he had had a hard life as it was before that. The girls were lost without him for a while, but Aebena took a job waiting tables in the Gear Box and they scraped by for a time."
Kirsch swallows hard, as if trying to keep down his gorge.
"When Maia came down with her illness, I treated her as if it was the Ague, and even managed to locate some vaccine on the Grey Way. It cost me almost three months supply of the painkillers from my supplies, but if it helped, it would have been worth it for those poor girls. I think I just wanted to do something for them after they lost their poor father. The awful part is that when I began the course of treatment, whatever Maia had, it didn't effect it, not at all. It wasn't the Ague. Her fever grew worse, her breathing weakened to the point that I had to put her on a respirator, and she began to waste away, even with the fluids I was giving her. I was lost. Nothing made sense, It should have worked! I consulted journals, old colleagues from Uphive, all of my training wasn't worth a damn. Things grew grim, neither I, nor Aebena would leave her bedside. We knew the end was close. We just tried to make her comfortable. Then something amazing happened."
Emrit Kirsch looks you in the eye intently, speaking slowly as if he needs you to believe what he is about to say, as if he doesn't quite believe it himself.
"She woke up. She spoke. I took her off the respirator, and her vitals were good. It was like a miracle had happened. Aebena wept with joy and I was overwhelmed with relief. I meant to keep her under observation for a night, make certain she was truly well again, and then offer to let them stay at the hospice for a time."
The gravity of what Kirsch is about to say seems to fill the room like the unfathomable weight of the upper levels of the hive pressing down upon Vaxus district.
"She died that night. I had come in to check on her. I felt she needed the rest after all she had been through. When I felt her head, it was ice cold. When I checked her vitals, there was nothing. When Aebena came in, she lost her mind for a time, I think. The moment was so cruel, so...inexplicable. Her sister wouldn't leave her side. When I finally convinced her to rest. I sat over Maia myself and wept."
Emrit Kirsch seems wrung out, like a man who has emptied his soul and watched it run off the edge of the table you share. The blood glistens brightly on his forehead, his spectacles seem dark in the dim light of his room.
"Then, He came."
The Oremor Underhive, Vaxus District, Level -119
The towering ganger looks almost amused as Johnnie checks the ammunition in his pistol and Iacton draws his blade. Leaning forward toward the arbitrator, his deformed mouth takes on a sour, almost irritated set.
"Perraps ye dinna 'ere me currect. Give over yer 'kit, or ye gunna die!"
How close is the one talking to us?
I listen to Emrits words. Listening as they stab me like a dull knife into my chest over and over again. "Thats a bad way to go... Not fair at all." My mind fumbles over the words. Then, He came. He who? Bringing more light, fear that Kalaziel is Maia. "Wish I would have been there. Maybe I could have done something. At least be some comfort 'Bena." Being alone with the loss of her Father and Maia both wasting away. I wonder how jaded and bitter she has become. Wonder if she hates me for not being there. "How has Bena been? She ever mention me?"
Ivaanov moves toward the center of your group and activates a sublingual communique heard over your respective microbeads.
<<Should violence commence, on my mark, block your ears.>>
Through the microbead, "On your mark, Ivaanov, go. they obviously not going to listen."
Over the microbead, "Ivaanov, Give me a few seconds warning, I want to concentrate on using a power.
Invocation= made it by 11
Inflict Pain= +5 for my wp and another +5
for invocation
Johnnie will dive for cover at the first sign of trouble. He will fire indiscriminately in the direction of their enemies.
Once combat begins, Iacton charges the leader.
The more I think on Emrit's words. The more the anger in me rises. "So who is this He?" My voice having a slight quiver to it. If Emrit sold Maia's body to a chop doc for parts... Then again maybe it was Krade. "Go on Doc. Finish your story."
"You also mentioned having a bad week. Like to hear about that after your done telling me about Maia, and 'Bena." I wait for his words.
The Oremor Underhive, Vaxus District, Level -119