"Come on, Albrek, we need to speak with Intelligencer Lesprade."
I disembark and say:
"Ivaanov, will you please lead the way."
Walking against the tide of departing clerks and buoyed along by the press of those arriving, Uriah, Ivaanov, and Ishmael find themselves caught in a veritable undertow of humanity. Ishmael walks ahead of the others, using his greater physicality to impose a path through the Administratum prols.
While negotiating the curiously silent and regimented mob, Uriah finds an opportunity to address Ivaanov out of earshot of the Redemptionist.
"Ivaanov, I have to inform you that until we know that High Arbiter Krade has not been compromised mentally or spiritually, may The Emperor protect him, under my authority as acolyte of My Master, you will work under my command."
Ivaanov continues on without a word, mounting the first of hundreds of steps that lead to the gleaming golden tower housing Vaxus District's central lift hub. Uriah considers for a moment that perhaps the tech-priest did not hear him over the thousands of footfalls from the Administratum clerks marching in lockstep with them. He turns his head and answers in his curiously officious manner, as if there was no lull in the conversation whatsoever.
"I am functionally familiar with the protocols of the Ordos, Uriah Trantor. My own master, the Magos Triskaedestes, served himself at one time as an acolyte of Inquisitor Anton Zerbe of the Calixian Conclave. I believe his familiarity with your own master and by extension of this fact, my assignment as his proxy agent to one of your master's interrogators is no coincidence."
He turns to look at Uriah, his mechanically consistent steps never missing stride.
"You have my loyalty. As the closest remaining temporal authority of Arbiter Krade, I am indentured to serve you. I have no choice in the matter, regardless. It is fortuitous for me that I respect High Arbiter Krade a great deal. He is a great man. Do not presume he will not be able to overcome the threats arrayed against him. For this reason, I would offer my services to aid you irrespective of this existing compulsion."
I nod to him, accepting his pledge of loyalty.
The Gear Box
I laugh and open the door stepping out Offering my hand to Sigmunt. "I know I am being shadowed. Otherwise your shadow would be in here already."
Sigmunt looks at your hand the way a person would regard a particularly repulsive insect, the disgust fading quickly as he struggles to maintain the proper decorum. You are not offended in the least, in fact, as much as anything the mistake was your own faux pas, given that Sigmunt Vendangio is well known for his obsessive compulsive tendencies. To forget such a thing serves as a reminder that you have been away for too long. The slender, middle-aged man before you has killed for less.
Just the same, you are his brother, a Wolf. He forgives the slight without a thought, giving a perfunctory nod to you in lieu of a handshake, his narrow eyes regarding what changes the years have made in you as well.
You can only imagine the abhorrence he must feel that you are meeting in a public restroom.
"Welcome home, Savalos Thul. I'm assuming you have come to commit suicide since wearing that pelt will only bring you death here now."
Sigmunt's face wrinkles into a grimace that might be mistaken for a close approximation of a smile, it seems his greeting is an attempt at humor.
"Just the same, my hope is that your martially inclined friend outside is astute enough to be aware of the two men who followed him while following me follow you."
He keeps his voice low so that the man in the second booth conducting his business does not hear your exchange.
Administratum Hub
"Come on, Albrek, we need to speak with Intelligencer Lesprade."
Johnnie watches the others become swallowed by the sea of humanity in the courtyard. Something about the image is unsettling to him.
Stroinigli is forced to wait until the two great armies of passing clerks are clear of the plaza before he can start the rickshaw on its way again. When he does, Johnnie is relieved to see the others mounting the vast steps of the hive-spine tower through the thinning crowd. When the vehicle backfires loudly, a scant few of the more attentive prols even bother to turn their heads to see where the commotion came from, but the majority simply continue on to their chosen destinations, apathetically oblivious to the world around them.
The rickshaw picks up speed quickly, barreling down the connecting lane leading to Precinct #77. The driver, like you, is probably enjoying the air blowing into his face now that you are clear of the oppressive crowd of sheep-like Administratum drones.
After a few more minutes of travel, the velocipede turns a corner and is forced to halt for another security checkpoint. Although the younger arbitrator on duty is not familiar to you, he seems to have received word from Sgt. Luthos presaging your arrival. After cursorily examining your credentials, he hand-waves the rickshaw through the brooding rampart wall surrounding the precinct house on to the access road leading to the basement sally port.
Precinct #77 is a brooding, monolithic building of dull gray stone that looks for all the world like monumental cinder block dropped from some great height. The narrow, vertically arrayed windows are designed more for their contingent use as functional gunports rather than to let light in. The portico entrance with its bulky and unadorned hexagonal columns and high granite steps looks more like an afterthought given over to appease the poor architect's need for some manner of aesthetic in the design.
As the rickshaw bounces to a halt, you realize for the first time that you will be entering the building as a visitor through this designated civilian entrance beneath the frowning, graven stone Adeptus Arbites seal rather than the sub-level's garage access. It is an odd feeling.
Being mindful of the man camping out in the second stall; I reply in a low voice. "Not fond of suicide myself." Gesturing to the furs, and the ink covering my skin. "But I am proud of my lineage. Not going to tuck tail between my legs to those belly crawlers."
I pause for a moment and smile. "Its good to see a friendly face Sigmunt. Don't worry about the other guy. He has a sharp eye."
"I am seeing alot I don't like. Alot rumors that doesn't make sense. I heard we were betrayed by our own kin? That alot of the Alpha's are dead?" My expression is of serious concern. The thought of being betrayed by ones own family disgusts Savalos. "Set me straight. What true, and whats smile girl chatter. My Kin still breathing or was she vented?"
As I talk with Sigmunt it would be apparent to him that I already declared a personal -Hunt- against the Yellobacks. If any other Wolves join in is up to them.
Johnnie pushes aside any other thoughts of nostalgia and focuses on the matter at hand. He asks for the directions to the intelligencer's office.
The Gear Box
Being mindful of the man camping out in the second stall; I reply in a low voice. "Not fond of suicide myself." Gesturing to the furs, and the ink covering my skin. "But I am proud of my lineage. Not going to tuck tail between my legs to those belly crawlers."
Sigmunt holds his hands out, turning his exposed forearms over for you to see the pale, unmarked skin.
"I would never be one to question your loyalty, Thul. We're just talking about discretion here. I'm entitled to all the ink I could ask for if my peculiar role in the gang was something different from what it is. This blank slate has served me well, particularly since the purge. Doesn't change the fact that the Wolf blood flows in these veins. You'd do well to remember that. Pride is one thing. Don't let your colors get you killed."
I pause for a moment and smile. "Its good to see a friendly face Sigmunt. Don't worry about the other guy. He has a sharp eye."
Sigmunt nods.
"Your friend is a trained killer. It takes one to know one. I just hope you know the same."
"I am seeing alot I don't like. Alot rumors that doesn't make sense. I heard we were betrayed by our own kin? That alot of the Alpha's are dead?" My expression is of serious concern. The thought of being betrayed by ones own family disgusts Savalos. "Set me straight. What true, and whats smile girl chatter. My Kin still breathing or was she vented?"
Rolling the sleeves of his one-piece coverall back down, Sigmunt Vendangio exhales a sigh. The closest indication to this point that he has any emotions to speak of.
"You'll see a lot more you don't like, too. Most of the Alphas perished. The Yellobouros hit hard. I've heard some accuse us of being complacent...but a betrayal from within? I can't speak to that. The old She-Wolf is alive and well, one of a handful of the Alphas that survived. It was her that set me watching. Few ever knew my face or my allegiances, and those that shouldn't have, well, let's just say that they won't be talking anytime soon."
As I talk with Sigmunt it would be apparent to him that I already declared a personal -Hunt- against the Yellobacks. If any other Wolves join in is up to them.
"We've been biding our time, Thul. 'Lurking in the ducts', so to speak. The Yellobacks are entrenched though. With our numbers diminished as they are, they would beat us in a straight up fight right now."
Sigmunt then pins you with his tiny eyes.
"Now my turn for a question. Where have you been?"
The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control
The supervisor behind the ornate desk in lift control substation twenty-one is a fat, officious troll of a man with a waxed handlebar mustache too small for his jowly face. He looks over your various idents again with an abject apathy that makes him seem something less than human. Scrutinizing his codifier in the dutiful way that civil servants and bureaucrats have perfected over the millenia as their own peculiar art form, he swipes the final ident, Ishmael's, through the scanner.
His attempt at small talk is a pitiful, fraudulent facsimile of human interaction.
"I trust your stay in the Grey Way was a pleasant one? If there is any untaxed property to declare it is required you complete form 117B-1A. If there are any casino or arena winnings to declare, the requisite form is 117B-1B. At this time do any of you require the aforementioned forms?"
Even the uniformed arbitrator standing guard at the desk seems like the redundancy of this process has driven him to a slack-jawed oblivion. He stares straight ahead out of the floor to ceiling, gold-illumined diamantine windows as if wishing he was anywhere but here.
The Administratum clerk pauses, one thick eyebrow rising slightly as he peers at his screen again following a quiet bleep of the codifier.
"Well, this is more irregular..."
"Good to hear that the old She Wolf is alive. She ought to know that her pup has come back home for a bit. Sorry to hear we lost so many. Family one and all." There is sorrow in my voice. Wondering who of my friends and family is still alive. "Sig, I know you deserve more than your share of ink. And we all have our responsibilities. Yours is to hunt in the shadows. Mine... Anyway"
"The snakes have already have me marked. That I am certain. Taking off my furs won't do me any good now. So you can use me as bait to lure the snakes out of there holes. Me showing up here in full colors is a challenge to them. They can't ignore it. Otherwise they loose face. They have to act. So take advantage of it."
"Where I've been eh. Off planet. Took the Long Walk like I said I would. You can tell the old She Wolf that I was right. There was something to those cards. Oh, and I found Johnnie."
"I am planning on holding up at the Mercy tonight with some associates. So if you need to reach me I will be there. They aren't fond of the Yellobacks either. We treat them fair and well. The family will gain some valuable allies. Trust me on this."
Precinct #77
Intelligencer Leprade's office is large, but spartan in appearance. His credentials sit in gold-limned frames, perfectly aligned on one wall. His polished stellewood desk is a perfectionist's masterpiece of stacked dataslates, collated paperwork and carefully arranged, multicolored Fulcusian droughtcrab shells lined up in perfect symmetry to serve as paperweights.
Leprade it seems, has not changed, even with his promotion. The fact that he is making you and Albrek wait for his arrival is likely not an accident either. His is a boundless ego. Your innate ability to read people told you long ago that despite his own exceptional skill as an investigator, he has always been jealous of your successes, particularly the way the rank and file among the street-level arbitrators always held you in high esteem.
From the raucous cheers your arrival brought from Precinct #77's open-floor offices on the level below the boys and girls in green and gold haven't forgotten you. You don't feel much like their savior though. For a mind obsessed with always finding the answer, too many questions run riot in your head. Too many worries. You think of Dove and your duty to the Inquisition seems a far away thing.
Leprade's administrative aide, a minor functionary named Prestin Scollo, cracks the heavy unduz-wood door and peers inside.
"I have made contact with Intelligencer Leprade via vox. He asked me to relay to you that he will be arriving shortly. He truly regrets making you wait and asked me to relay to you that he was following-up on a recent gang battle in the Ductside slums that resulted in a number of homicides. I apologize again for the delay, Mr. Rico."
You note that Scollo didn't address you as Investigator Rico. You sense this, too, was no accident.
"We do not need any of those forms you mentioned. What is irregular?"
I do not even attempt small talk, I know it will not do any good for me to try with groundpounders.
The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control
The functionary looks up from his codifier, glancing with barely concealed distaste at Ishmael.
"It seems your bodyguard's weapon registration paperwork was never forwarded by the Malfian subsector trade consortium to the proper Oremite authority. I am requesting the planetside licensing commission forward the appropriate documentation via codifier. This is likely just a minor delay from misfiled records. I must inform you however, if the record is not located, it will be necessary for us to confiscate his sidearm."
The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control
Ishmael stares daggers at the piggy little man.
"My sidearm?"
Precinct #77
Albrek coughs into his hand, rubbing his brow as he takes in the immaculate order of the office.
"Let me guess, you two don't like each other much, right?"
The Gear Box
As Iacton watches, the two Yellobouros gangers let their impatience get the better of them, they jaw at one another animatedly, then begin to move toward the restroom door. One casts a threatening glare in your direction, as if daring you to intercept them.
The gangers can't be allowed at Savalos, that much is certain. All Iacton needs to do is delay them long enough for them to finish their discussion, and then they will be back in the relative safety of the bar. If they decide to force their way past him, then security can handle the rest.
Iacton moves to intercept the Yelloboros, trying to keep himself between them and the restroom.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Precinct #77
"I have made contact with Intelligencer Leprade via vox. He asked me to relay to you that he will be arriving shortly. He truly regrets making you wait and asked me to relay to you that he was following-up on a recent gang battle in the Ductside slums that resulted in a number of homicides. I apologize again for the delay, Mr. Rico."
You note that Scollo didn't address you as Investigator Rico. You sense this, too, was no accident.
"I am sure that he will be here shortly."
Johnnie scans the area for the infamous 8-fold pattern.
Gear Box
The gangers can't be allowed at Savalos, that much is certain. All Iacton needs to do is delay them long enough for them to finish their discussion, and then they will be back in the relative safety of the bar. If they decide to force their way past him, then security can handle the rest.
Iacton moves to intercept the Yellobouros, trying to keep himself between them and the restroom.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
When Iacton steps in front of the two Yellobouros gangers, they halt their approach to the restroom doors. Both men easily have half a meter in height on the assassin and their slab-muscled bulk further augments their girth almost the same amount. Each of them is literally twice his size.
The ganger in the gelt-adorned vest looks Iacton up and down and gives a derisive little chortle that sounds piggish from between his bulbous, stud-pierced lips. While his bald and tattooed companion crosses his arms across his chest, he raises his massive forearm to point a blunted finger toward the restroom door and then waves the same hand to the side dismissively. A pantomime for a simpleton. 'Move aside'.
The thug with the crossed arms speaks, his voice a deep croaking bellow so you can hear it over the noisy patrons.
"You get one warnin' voidy freak, take a walk. We need a word with yer friend. He seems a might bit confused in his costumin' choice bein' that Masquerade Night was almost a season ago. We'z jus' gonna set him straight on a count what he's wearin' is way outta fashion."
You can almost smell the testosterone glanding going on in these two. They are far too stupid to see reason. Gang muscle in its purest form. Even with the rules of the establishment, you have little doubt that they intend to push past you for the door.
"Now, surely you can afford to wait for him to finish? I doubt anything you wish to say to him would be worth letting you past." Iacton stands firm, ready to step to the side of the thugs' blows.
The Gear Box
"Good to hear that the old She Wolf is alive. She ought to know that her pup has come back home for a bit. Sorry to hear we lost so many. Family one and all." There is sorrow in my voice. Wondering who of my friends and family is still alive. "Sig, I know you deserve more than your share of ink. And we all have our responsibilities. Yours is to hunt in the shadows. Mine... Anyway"
"The snakes have already have me marked. That I am certain. Taking off my furs won't do me any good now. So you can use me as bait to lure the snakes out of there holes. Me showing up here in full colors is a challenge to them. They can't ignore it. Otherwise they loose face. They have to act. So take advantage of it."
"Where I've been eh. Off planet. Took the Long Walk like I said I would. You can tell the old She Wolf that I was right. There was something to those cards. Oh, and I found Johnnie."
"I am planning on holding up at the Mercy tonight with some associates. So if you need to reach me I will be there. They aren't fond of the Yellobacks either. We treat them fair and well. The family will gain some valuable allies. Trust me on this."
Sigmunt's thin lips crease upward, going from amused grimace to the faintest hint of a smile.
"Long Walk, eh? Well it looks to me like you found some of the answers you've sought and maybe quite a few more questions. Life is so often complicated in that way, Thul."
Sigmunt Vendangio turns away, and begins to vigorously wash his hands in the sink, maintaining eye contact with you in the smudged metallic mirror.
"I will send word to the She-Wolf, she leads us now. The Mercy is familiar to me. I will find you there with an answer from her."
Shaking his hands dry, careful not to touch anything, Vendangio turns to face you again.
"In my line of work a flicker of hope is something to extinguish. I must admit, I now wonder at what the odd feeling in this old soldier's withered heart is. Hope, perhaps?"
"Hope is a powerful thing Sig. Its hard to stop a man burning with it."
"Go ahead, and leave first. I will follow about a minute after. If my seat is still there. I will roost back at the bar again before I head out. Be safe."
I watch as Sigmunt leaves the restroom. My mind spinning with the knowledge that my kin rules us all now. That alot of the families I knew are no more with that simple statement. Knowledge that it will be expected of me to be an Alpha.
Ishmael stares daggers at the piggy little man.
"My sidearm?"
"Ishmael, be calm, we will fix this before we leave this spire."
The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control
Following Ishmael's irritated, bordering on angry questioning of the Administratum clerk's intentions, the single guard present becomes considerably more interested in the interaction taking place next to him. Before Ishmael can answer Uriah's attempt to placate him, there is tiny plink sound from the codifier that mercifully pulls the clerk and guard's attention away from the simmering cleric.
The functionary smooths the ends of his tightly waxed mustache, and scans the screen, the green glow of it casting his features in an almost supernatural pallor. He pats the top of the codifier the way a particularly pleased dandy would his teacup-sized canine for performing an unexpected trick.
He harrumphs slightly.
"My apologies, gentles. It appears that my first supposition was correct. A break in the data transfer was in fact responsible for the information failing to download properly. The license is now displaying properly. Given that you have no property or currency to declare, you are now cleared for conveyance to your destination."
He angles his head slightly askew from center.
"I seem to have forgotten to query your ultimate destination. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience. Where was it again?"
The Gear Box
The moving sentiment shared between the two Duct Wolves is shattered by the comical sound of absurdly loud flatulence from the second stall. It is almost as if the patron inside waited for this precise moment to release his laden bowels to diminish this profound moment of brotherhood.
Sigmunt wrinkles his nose in disgust, squinting eyes slowly panning over to the stall door, hanging slightly askew on old, rusted hinges. Savalos can't help but smile a bit at the ridiculousness of the moment. Even the otherwise dour hitman appears to be about to make a jest when he is abruptly cut off from speaking.
A horrific ripping blat of more bodily eruptions comes from the stall, one of the figures boots scraping to the side with the effort. A low, gasping, grunt escapes the mouth of the occupant. The fluid surge of a waterfall like incontinence and the accompanying stench decides it for you. It is well past time to leave.
As you and Sigmunt turn for the door, shaking your heads, a hollow, half-mad laugh from inside the stall freezes both of you in your tracks before you can pass by the miasma of rotting stink wafting from between the seams in the stall's walls.
A final, staccato blast of farts actually vibrates the walls of the toilets and the thin reflective metal mirror stretching across the wall. When the fecal explosion ends, you are unnerved to actually hear the porcelain sinks ringing with the echo in your ears. Drips of some foul, dark brown ichor overflowing the commode begin to puddle around the jackboots, which are simply shaking with the effort of completing this epic act of defecation.
Another agonized groan.
The smell then hits you fully, physically driving you back from the source in a way that allows no reconsideration of the act. The almost supernatural foulness of the stench causes your eyes to water and sting, and the sound of Sigmunt beginning to dry heave makes your own gorge begin to rise.
This is followed by the clank of a belt, the sound of trousers being lifted, and the bang of the stall door being thrown open. The figure that emerges stands at the gagging epicenter of its own awfulness as if it scarcely can notice.
The man is tall, but also considerably overweight, making him appear shorter. As he fastens his wide belt around his sagging, black leather pants, rolls of scabby white flesh are driven up and cinched again into place. The heavy-looking leather stormcoat he wears is stained and spattered with all manner of filth, fungoid spores feathering the stains in places like downy hair. As awful as it appears, the figure used his own hands to wipe himself, and fecal matter, blood, and other filth are evident even at a glance. He runs one sausage-fingered hand through his thinning black hair, caked with the unthinkable, before donning a black commissar's cap riddled with holes. The pale jowls on his face ripple with the effort. Scabs, pock-marked scars caused by the some past fungoid infection of his facial epidermis, and stains from food or other less savory things cover his features. A great black-hued sty, inflamed and weeping yellowish pus like a sore dominates the man's left cheek. When he brings his arm down again, you catch a glimpse of the now familiar chit-sickle tattoo and the High Gothic numeral '7' below it. The repugnant commissar almost theatrically feigns noticing you and Sigmunt for the first time, and looks in your direction. Both eyes have a pale yellowish cast, embedded in the doughy rolls of his face like coins lost in couch cushions. He smiles broadly, revealing teeth that are yellow-brown with the exception of the many already missing.
His uncultured voice is boorish and echoes in the tiled bathroom, the overpowering reek of his breath so bad it actually carries over the terrible smell already present.
"Hurh. Ahum. Sorry fellas. But when you go to go, you....GOT....TO...GO!"
Something about the way he says the last bit has an unsettling finality to it. As if he was referring to mortality rather than a biological function.
He turns and walks to the door, slapping it open with one meaty fist and exiting. When it closes, it slams fast as if propelled by some other force, the door seeming to bulge and expand slightly in the frame, a faint grinding of wood on metal is audible, indicating your eyes aren't just playing tricks on you.
Stunned silence follows as you and Sigmunt try to get your gagging under control.
The taps then turn on of their own accord, pouring what seems to be piss or thin pus into the sinks, spraying over the edge with the force.
The toilets suddenly all flush simultaneously.
The rushing of water without the familiar hiss of its cessation suggests they are all about to overflow at once.
The hideous belching sounds of whatever is driven up from these odious clogs carries an impossible stink of decay and rot that cuts through the filthy commissar's own efforts in the way that vinegar cuts through the smell of wine.
The fear that grips you turns to terror when a gurgling, infantile giggling begins to issue forth from some of the stalls.
The Gear Box
Iacton follows the gangers eyes, turning when he sees how completely distracted they are, and sees a terrifically fat man with pale and blemished skin emerge from the restroom. He wears the hat and stormcoat of an Imperial Guard commissar, but they are stained and filthy by the looks of things. As he walks away, the crowd seems to part before him or the stench that is carried along with him and in his wake.
He waves his hands in front of his upturned nose, and looks you directly in the eye with his his own, sickly yellow orbs.
"Hurh, ahuh...I wouldn't go in there for a bit, hur, hur!"
Remembering what Uriah told us that happened to Krade in his office. A deep seeded and subconscious fear quickly grows in me. With one hand covering my nose and mouth. I grab Sigmunt, and run for the door. Not wanting to stick around or see what was making the giggling. Exspecially not without my Duct Sweeper.
Not since when I was a young pup. Chasing away the nightmares that hid in the dark places of the Underhive. Has a prayer to the Emperor passed my lips for myself.
Sigmunt staggers forward, pulled along at your side, as a frantic recitation of the homily of St. Trobriund stutters from your lips. The pair of you nearly collapse from the redolent reek that permeates the area around stall number two.
Iacton frowns as the man heads on his way before turning back to the thugs. "I suggest you take his advice." Although he remains as inscrutable as always, Iacton is troubled by the man, and why he specifically looked him in the eye.
The Gear Box
Sigmunt stumbles to a halt just before the door and vomits prodigiously all over his boots. Hacking and spitting to clear his plugged nostrils, a low groan comes from deep within him. Whether this is an aftereffect of getting sick or a lament that all the washing he will ever do from this day forward will not rid his mind of the filth he has been exposed to, you cannot say for certain.
You pound your shoulder into the scarred wooden door as hard as you can in an attempt to free yourself from the sewer-stench pervading the room, but it barely budges. Looking at the portal through watering eyes, you can see that it appears warped somehow, almost swollen. The edges of the door push up against and impossibly overlap the frame and lintel above as if grabbing for purchase on the wall. The edges weep the same sickly yellow pus that flows from the sinks. Something is terribly wrong.
From behind you, the snickering of many tiny voices grows more pronounced, the waste tanks of the Gear Box backing up and overflowing as a pungent brown tide cascading down the sides of the toilets. Clots of wiping paper, and small chunks of matter mingle in the pooling tide, seeping ever closer to where you stand as the sinks finally overflow with yellow sludge.
As you watch, one of the larger chunks of waste, improbably large and shaped like a swollen, rotten, melon studded with ink-black tumors rotates in the septic mess beneath the first stall. Striated bands of mold-green and deep umber pock the fleshy thing. With a wet sound that curdles the goop on one side of it, an eye opens in the lump and stares at you hungrily. All the worse, a wet maw nearly as wide as the staring turd is big, opens to reveal facing rows of filth-covered, needle-like teeth. It makes a greedy sound like some abominable infant, and starts to scuttle toward you.
More emerge from the widening mire behind it.
The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control
"I seem to have forgotten to query your ultimate destination. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience. Where was it again?"
"We are going to the Astropathic Choir for confirmation of trade negotiaions."
Iacton, Your head whips around toward the restroom door after warning the gangers again. Something heavy just slammed into it, but the door that opened outward just moments ago for the repellent commissar only shakes and rattles in its frame, unmoving.
Your sense of unease grows. Something is not right. Even the two thugs sense it. The faintest hint of a rotting smell drifts to your nostrils.
I will keep slamming at the door, til the little baby things get close. Then I will try to kick them to defend myself and Sigmunt. Emperor knows I don't want to touch the things.
I will continue on with my prayer St. Trobriund with the hope of his protection.
The Hive-Spine, Central Lift Control
"We are going to the Astropathic Choir for confirmation of trade negotiations."
The clerk nods apathetically, seemingly comforted by the return to his doldrums from the momentary 'excitement'.
"Duly noted. Please proceed to pedestrian lift 21C by following the blue line in the hallway to your left. Upon arrival confirm your idents with the designated lift attendant and state your destination. Have a pleasant day."
I nod to the clerk. We follow the blue line to pedestrian lift 21c.
Init Test (1d10=8) +4=12
The tiny little horror begins waddling toward you through the filthy mire of rippling excrescence. Seeing you frantically hammering at the door, the creature screeches, releasing a plaintive and hungry cry that makes your eardrums vibrate, filling you with overwhelming nausea that threatens to make the many churraptus wings erupt from your quaking stomach.
Sigmunt shakes the tears from his eyes, clearing the dribbling vomit from his nose by blowing out each nostril forcefully with his finger pinching either side. When he sees what is emerging from beneath the stalls, he goes rigid. The Duct Wolf points one shaking finger toward the squealing abomination, his voice gurgling and hoarse.
"Th-throne...what...what...are they!"
The hardened hitman uncharacteristically begins screaming uncontrollably, drawing in more of the fetid air to his lungs, his subsequent fit of vomiting complete incapacitates him.
Precinct #77
Albrek coughs into his hand, clears his throat of phlegm, and after a seconds worth of reflection, spits into a trash can adjacent to Intelligencer Leprade's desk.
He checks his chrono, sighing through his teeth.
"An hour waiting, an hour to go until the rendevous. Your old friend always this punctual, Rico?"
Seeing Sigmunt collapse defenseless in fear surprisingly steels my nerves. I say the prayer of St. Trobriund again. Louder, and with more conviction that even surprises me. These are my people, my home! What good is it to pray to a Saint if he doesn't answer?
Seeing that the door isn't going to give anyway. I stand between Sigmunt and the oncoming little terrors. "GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF MAN!" I can't let them get to grips with a man paralyzed by fear.
I plan on using the first Nurgling like a kickball, and punting him across the restroom. Since my gangers boots seem like the best defense I will have against these things. When it closes with me I will kick.
The Yellobouros thug with the studs ringing his lips steps forward to shove Iacton out of the way, beefy hands lunging toward the assassin.
The other Yelloback steps forward purposefully, with the intent of going around you to the restroom door. Both seem oblivious to the fact that something very strange is transpiring. You think you heard someone scream from inside the bathroom over the din of the patrons milling around you.
Sigmunt vomits all over himself and the floor, staggering back into the door with a thud.