Johnnie finds that a frag grenade exploding in close proximity does wonders for clearing the mental cobwebs caused by blood loss. Shaking his head, things come starkly into focus again as the debris rains down all around. Although the pain in his foot is still pronounced, the arbitrator grits his teeth and levels the shotgun once more, waiting for one of the machete wielding punks harrying Iacton and Ivaanov to expose himself to his aim. Putting pressure on his foot seems easier this time, and Rico tries to convince himself that perhaps his injury is not as awful as he initially feared.
To Johnnie the concussive report of the shotgun is barely heard and mostly felt with how badly his ears are still ringing from the grenade.
As the twin on the right raises one tattoo-tapestry of an arm above his head to bring the top heavy blade down on Ivaanov's skull, Rico fires, the blast from the muzzle blowing back the swirling cloth of the tech-priest's expansive cloak and ripping into the right arm of the surprised ganger.
The unlucky ganger's arm, machete in hand, is blown clean off, pinwheeling away through the air in two separate pieces, spattering blood through their awkward trajectory before skidding across the cobbles some three meters away. The ganger spins around like a top and falls dead, the machete clanging to the ground in front of his corpse.
The gangers behind the shattered bench pull theirs heads up, stagger-stepping through the debris cloud, wounded, shellshocked and trying to find their bearings. Then they see Ivaanov advancing at a brisk walk in their direction, exhorting them, seemingly without any semblance of fear. They waver in their conviction that this is a fight worth continuing.
"Sod This! Raucho's 'effin dead and the crazy preacher 'ere brought grenades to a gun fight...run, Bozzy, run!"
The other ganger, completely deafened by the blast does not hear his companions 'conversational' yelling and merely squints in confusion, his wet eyes standing out in stark contrast to the mask of stone-dust coating his face.
"Wot? Wot, Terko?"
Terko runs. Bozzy comes to his own little epiphany and begins to lurch after him, dragging his shredded leg behind him.
So focused is the remaining twin on Iacton, he is blissfully unaware of his brother's sudden demise. Whipping his machete around in a double-handed chop centered on the assassin, he puts all his mass into the blow, hoping to split Iacton from neck to crotch.
The machete slices through Iacton's bodysuit and into his flesh. He then attempts to slice him in kind.
Watching the flakboard kiosk get chewed up by lasfire while hiding behind it is not how the Yellobouros gangers contending with Albrek want to go out. Nodding to one another, they both step out, blazing away with their guns in an attempt to finish the guardsman.
The machete slices deep into Iacton's right arm after scraping down the length of his blade when he unsuccessfully attempts to parry it off.
, 2 Wounds damage, as 3 of the damage is mitigated by Iacton's Toughness Bonus.
His riposte narrowly misses ripping through the Yellobouros thug's ribcage, and both combatants leap backward to gain separation and adjust their stances.
"Dammit!"
Albrek drops prone and tries to dodge away from the gunfire, cradling his lasgun in both hands as he rolls across the cobbles.
, fully mitigated by Albrek's 4 AP Flak Armor and Toughness Bonus of 3.
The round hits the guardsman in the center of the chest, but the heavy flak armor he wears stops the bullet cold, eliciting only a muffled grunt from Albrek.
As the pair of gangers flee for their lives, Ishmael raises his pistol again, tracking their heads like a target shooter tracks a pair of clay pigeons, and settling on the faster one, depresses the trigger gently.
The sharp report of the ornate revolver is followed by the cleric yelling after his quarry.
"Run? Run? You begat this gunplay cowards, at least have the courage to finish it like men!"
The round whizzes over the ganger's head, causing him to flinch and piston his legs all the faster in his attempt to escape.
I will attempt Inflict Pain on the ganger fighting Iacton.
I make it, make a wp test for ganger.
I will attempt Inflict Pain on the ganger fighting Iacton.
1d10+5
I make it, make a wp test for ganger.
The ganger brings the machete to his chest to ready it for Iacton's next advance, but suddenly his head nods downward and his eyes wince under the psychic torment inflicted by Uriah.
Ivaanov seizes the advantage created, and swings his metal staff at the distracted ganger.
The blow lands solidly on the surviving twin's right leg with a crack just above the kneecap. His psychic agony is compounded with some physical agony.
, two Wounds sustained, two damage was mitigated by his Toughness Bonus.
From his newfound prone position, Albrek balances the lasgun's head on his wrist and fires a burst at one of the Yellobouros enforcers rushing at him.
Two of the lasfire blasts immolate the ganger's left arm while the final one punches straight through his throat, leaving a gaping, burning hole. He drops to the ground and smacks face first into the cobbles with a wet crunch.
"Yeah I know things have changed." I stop just before the room with the shower. "I will see if I can get the Yellobacks off your rear. Your place is neutral ground as is all the Grey Way. I'm not going to let anyone rattle you for protection money." I enter the shower room.
I take a quick shower. Always keeping my weapons within arms reach. I let the blood wash off my body as well as my clothes. Wringing them as clean, and dry as I can. I need more answers. The Gearbox is the best place for that. I have a bad feeling I will be wearing more blood before the day is over. I get out of the shower and redress.
As I pass Emrits office. "So has the Eviscerator only targeted those not allied with the Yellobacks?" Deep down I already know the answer; but I wait for Emrits response. Then I head down toward the Gearbox. This Wolf is on the prowl, and he is ready to bite.
Emrit considers this question for a moment and shrugs.
"The Eviscerator doesn't seem to be that picky anymore. It used to be he only targetted wealthy Uphive women that he dragged back to Vaxus when he was killing some years ago. But, come to think of it, I haven't known of a case where the Yellobouros lost someone to him. Then again, I don't profess to understand all that much about how serial killers think, either..."
You say a final farewell to Emrit as the two of you check on Quincus from the threshold of the surgery's door, and then turn to the burly ogryn who has crept up behind the both of you to peer in as well. Reassuring him that you will return as soon as you can, Druuther nods slowly in understanding, his large, somber eyes still looking upon his wounded mistress. Patting him on the arm, you conceal your weapons beneath your furs and head downstairs for the street.
When you pass the under the time-worn statues flanking the entrance, you look up for Kalaziel, but find her nowhere in sight. The Gear Box is perhaps only a ten minute walk from here, so you set off to the south in the direction of the Grey Way.
I smile seeing that Sunshine is still breathing. She will probably be asleep for awhile. Hopefully I can bring Johnnie back before she wakes.
I keep alert as I walk down the road toward the Grey Way. I pay close attention to the scrawl written on the walls. Seeing if old gang alliances still hold. Seeing if the graffeti is telling any stories or warning. Remembering the tagger marks of street artists. I also eye a careful eye on anyone taking a special interest in me.
Rico pops of out of cover to survey the situation for a moment, noticing that a lot of the gangers are fleeing. He resolves then to capture one of them.
"Stop! In the name of the God-Emperor!"
Johnnie aims his weapon at the head of the ganger, "Go ahead punk! Make my day!"
Rico pops of out of cover to survey the situation for a moment, noticing that a lot of the gangers are fleeing. He resolves then to capture one of them.
"Stop! In the name of the God-Emperor!"
Johnnie aims his weapon at the head of the ganger, "Go ahead punk! Make my day!"
The tattoo-covered ganger spins to face the new threat, and when he does, he happens to glance down at Johnnie's feet where his twin brother lies dead, missing an arm, and staring up at the sky in that angelic manner only the profoundly surprised dead can express.
Were it some other gang-mate and not his own flesh and blood, the Yellobouros thug might have taken stock of the situation and realized that the odds had changed rather quickly and they were now stacked against him.
So, even as Rico shouts his command, the veteran arbitrator knows that it will go unheeded, watching as the machete wielding gang-tough's expression goes from surprise, to confusion, and then to rage, all in the space of a few heartbeats.
Knowing what is coming next, Rico tilts his head to one side and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, 'Yep, I may have killed your brother, sorry about that'.
The ganger charges, machete overhead, and Rico fires. Perhaps one of the other fleeing Yellowback scum will be more amenable to reason.
With no armor except for his oversized black leathers studded with gelt-scales, the ganger's midsection and abdominal cavity are blown out his back by the entire discharge of the shotgun. His fervent desire to harm Rico allows him to stagger a few steps closer before his mortality reasserts control. He drops to the ground on his brother in a heap, dead.
As the derogatorily nicknamed Yellowbacks, perhaps appropriately so given this situation, flee, the last of their number in spitting distance stops his maniac charge toward Albrek, and stumbles to a halt. The reality of the present situation abruptly comes clear to him now that the hovering cloud of grenade-blown debris has begun to settle. Shouts and screams still sound from the bystanders that are within audible range, but the gun and lasfire has ceased. When he sees all of the weapons trained in his direction, he tosses his autopistol to the ground in a genuine if desperate placating gesture, backing away slowly with his hands held high overhead.
The ganger can't be much more than eighteen, with swept back blond cornrows held in place by scavenged wire-twists. His face is long and sullen, with large, protruding teeth flashing in his chagrined smile.
He doesn't bother with bluster or begging, merely looking quizzically in your direction.
"Hey 'biter, I'm all fo surrendrin' if'n ye still makin' the offa!"
"Do what you need to, Rico, but let us get going before the arbites show up.
"That is Mister Biter to you! Now hold up your hands!"
Johnnie keeps his weapon trained on the ganger, ready for any sign of treachery.
"What is your name ?"
"That is Mister Biter to you! Now hold up your hands!"
Johnnie keeps his weapon trained on the ganger, ready for any sign of treachery.
"What is your name ?"
The Yellobouros soldier holds up his hands, higher than before, as the shotgun has done it's job well and is very persuasive.
The ganger's smile droops, the smirk disappears and one look in Johnnie's eyes shows him that perhaps he should have run when he had the chance.
"Em...urr...the name's Fergus, sir, but me friends call me by 'Gus..."
The ganger's wits seem to be impaired somewhat by whatever narcotic he has taken to get high, although enough of his sense remains for him to realize that you are no normal arbitrator.
Iacton wipes off and sheathes his blade before walking across the courtyard towards Kalaziel. "Remember why we're here, Rico.", he says as he passes by Johnnie.
"Let us go on. Rico, The prisoner is yours to deal with."
"Now, punk, listen well. In the old days, I would not hesitate in bringing you in. But I am in a hurry and in no mood to deal with you."
"Go."
For Rook
"Now let us go. Everyone move out now, and follow Kalaziel."
I walk towards Kalaziel, not looking back to see who follows.
"Now, punk, listen well. In the old days, I would not hesitate in bringing you in. But I am in a hurry and in no mood to deal with you."
"Go."
As the others file away, moving toward the motorized velocipede-rickshaw upon which Kalaziel roosts, Rico looks the gang tough up and down before sending him on his way. The ganger smirks, eyes Rico warily, and then utters:
"Thanks 'Biter...I'll put a good word in for ye fa when yer debt comes due with the Yellobouros..."
As he turns, the shotgun roars and blows a fist-sized hole through his chest. He stumbles, staggers, and looks back with an expression that isn't even surprised, only hateful. He tries to mutter some appropriate, damning oath to Rico, but only blood wells up from his mouth. He drops to the ground, kicks his feet spasmodically for a second or two, and is still. Rico racks another round and turns to follow the others. No one so much as glances back at him.
The final retort of Johnnie's shotgun echoes through the almost deserted courtyard like a stern reminder to all who witnessed the violence.
Stay back.
Uriah reaches the rickshaw first, peering up quizzically at the enigmatic cherubim. Albrek walks a few steps behind the voidborn, scanning the roundabout court, looking for threats amongst the sparse collection of destitute indigens that remain. Dregs without the desire or the sense of self preservation to flee from the violence that defines their very existence mutely watch him. Iacton sheathes his blade, eyes never leaving the small child that stands defiantly in the mouth of the narrow alley across the court, the same one that tipped off Raucho and his thugs to your presence. Ivaanov trots behind him, muttering to himself through his vox, occasional bursts of binary noise squealing from his mouth-grill as he adjusts and normalizes the devices settings again. Shock would best describe his demeanor as he wipes compulsively at the spatters of shotgun-carried blood that stain his robes. Ishmael methodically replaces bullets in his antique revolver, looking left and right, as if eager to see another ganger foolish enough to wander into range. Johnnie comes last, dragging his injured leg slightly, limping, but alive with adrenalin. He knows it will be not be long, minutes at most before the Yellobouros return with reinforcements. This is no longer Duct Wolf turf, it seems. He and his fellow acolytes won't be able to scare this bunch off, of that he is certain. The damned cherubim turns to him as he arrives near the rickshaw, eyes him judgmentally, or perhaps, blankly. It is hard to tell for him. He can't seem to help ascribing human traits to the eerie little flesh-puppet.
The arbitrator's shotgun flies up, pointing toward the tendril faced twist who just lifted his head from the cover of his dented and rusty velocipede. His eyes bulge theatrically, almost comically so, and you think he is truly frightened until you realize that this is their normal size. They remain focused on the black, staring eye of the weapon's barrel. He licks dry, wrinkled lips, raising both of his thin, withered hands placatingly. His nervous, rapid-fire hive pidgin takes a moment to register in your ears, so quickly does he speak.
"Stranjur-frens, stranjur-frens, Stroingili want'in no trubble from ye, so pleased-be ye stow yer shooters, as I meanin' on bein' no harm to ye and yers. Stroingili jes be motorin' along if'n it please ye!"
Kalaziel speaks to no one in particular, her sing-song voice even causing the rickshaw driver to turn and stare.
"Directive: Rendezvous."
"I agree, lead the way."
Iacton turns his gaze to the rickshaw driver. The cherubim has lead them towards the other acolyte thus far, and there's no reason to believe she isn't now. Perhaps this man knows where they went. "Have you seen a man with a seriously injured woman today?"
Hearing the assassin, the rickshaw driver gradually turns his head away from the disconcerting cherubim, huge, staring eyes never leaving Kalaziel where she is perched atop the canopy of the carriage until the very last moment. When he settles upon Iacton, he regards the voidborn warily, chin tendrils lashing nervously from side to side.
The twist's well-honed self-preservation instincts vie with his loyalty to Savalos and his earlier, generous offering of gelt. Not surprisingly, the six menacing-looking men who just gunned down a street gang of Yellobouros wins out in the end.
"Yes, yes, Stroinigli e'members 'dis one! Picked up not far from 'ere. He 'ad withem the gut-hurt Uphive lady and de giant wit de hurt arm. Stroinigli motored 'em along to the 'ospice on Torn Angel Lane."
Ishmael looks back at Iacton, his face drawn back in the familiar sneer that you have grown to know so well. The contented, almost exalted calm his visage carried such a short time ago while his revolver brought death to the gangers is long gone. He points at Kalaziel.
"What does your master see in this ill-omened thing. It haunts our every step like some leering, malformed, child-like gargoyle. Can it really be wise to follow it's vague cues?"
"Because it is better than relying on His will alone." Iacton turns back to the driver. "Can you take us where he went?"
"Leave her alone, she is taking us to Savalos. So let us go. What is wrong with relying on the Emperor's will?"
When he is certain the arbitrator isn't looking his way, Albrek coughs into his hand, clearing his throat. He forces eye contact with Uriah, speaking softly through parched, pale lips. The guardsman looks ill.
"Uriah, Savalos will follow protocol. Our rendezvous was the Gear Box in the Grey Way, and whatever else may have occurred, Savalos will head there eventually according to the agreed upon plan. I think it is more than coincidence that the cherubim found us, but I can see no benefit in deviating from the mission. The Grey Way is also neutral ground, if we stay in the Vaxus Ductside slums we make ourselves an easy target for the rest of this gang."
He risks a sidelong glance look at Rico again, then whispers:
"There is also the matter of how Rico will react if the clerk is dead. The wound was a bad one, it may be best if we avoid that complication altogether for the time being."
Ivaanov draws near, adding his own thoughts without preamble, apparently having picked up on the gist of the conversation.
"Although even the thought of it unsettles me, it is imperative that we view the remainder of the hololith recording from Master Krade's office. There is an additional stream of footage that is especially pertinent to our investigation."
Stroinigli looks from on face to another, trying to make sense of the banter among this eclectic band. He slowly rises to his full height, anxiously watching the side streets and alleyways connecting to the roundabout court.
"Stranjur-frens, there is rooms enough for all, but Stroinigli mos' 'fatically recommens we get motorin' soonish. The creepers be watchin' from the windas agin' an'it won be longish before the Yelloboys be back!"
He takes the initiative of turning the ignition on the velocipede, and the rickshaw backfires with a loud bang. Everyone flinches, and the twist shrugs his shoulders apologetically.
"Trust Stroinigli, it gettin' a lot louder agin' if'n we don be motorin' stranjur-frens!"
"You two know this city, so lead the way to the Gearbox. If you are willing to take us, I thank you. If we do not find him there, we will try the hospital."
"Although even the thought of it unsettles me, it is imperative that we view the remainder of the hololith recording from Master Krade's office. There is an additional stream of footage that is especially pertinent to our investigation."
"So, this is as bad or worse than the other? Then we will meet Savalos, and find somewhere private to look at it"
I will get on the vehicle.
Albrek looks at Iacton, his quiet diplomacy belies the single-mindedness in his gaze and his resolve.
"The Gear Box. Then the hospice if Savalos doesn't show. Johnnie's wound will need tending regardless, and we should find medicae help there according to what Sav inferred. I'd just prefer we follow the decided upon protocol before improvising."
"Are we in agreement?"
Rico just now limps into the conversation.
"Yes. Now let us be off."