The surface of Drinax IV is not a pleasant place in the best of times. This was not the best of times. A raging wind pummels Senior Tech Gregory Tuval as he attempts yet again to breech the ancient facilities security. The bulky gloves of his vacc suit do not make the task easier, but the suit is a necessity to avoid the hot, poisonous , and radiation strewn atmosphere that surrounds the planet below his home. He’s seen pictures of the once green planet, with it vast fields of grains and forests whose mighty trees towered hundreds of feet into the air. Great green towers reaching for the clear blue skies. Pictures of great cities with floating gardens, grand music halls, casinos to make any gamblers heart skip a beat. A thriving, vibrant, world full of life and vigor. Tuval glances away from his work to quickly scan the drab sickly yellow and terra cotta landscape. Baked hard and scoured by the constant blowing sands that circle the planet. With a sigh that merely echoes within his glassteel helmet, he returns to the task at hand.
”How’s it coming Tuval?” The comm is filled with static.
”Slow. The entire panel is shot and I feel as if I’m trying to work with donuts rather than bloody fingers.” He replies, finally managing to make the last connection to the portable power unit.
”Well, try to pick it up a bit. We’d all like to get the hell back home as soon as we can.”
”Going as fast as I can sir. Probably all a fraggin’ waste of time anyway. Nothing left down here but sand and lost dreams.”
”You’re likely right Tuval. But the King believes otherwise and he pays the rent, so work faster.”
”Aye sir.” Checking the power unit again, he initiates the connection. For a moment nothing happens. The panel embedded in the rock is blank. No sign of life at all. Tuval curses. If he couldn’t get the panel working, they’d have to try and cut through the heavy blast door that secured whatever facility this used to be.
”I’m not getting anythi….wait a minute.” A flutter of light on the hard screen and then the Imperial logo. Tuval whistles softly. ”I’ve got something. Did the anyone say anthing about this being an Imperial facility?”
”Imperial. Sure, the old Sindal empire still ruled Drinax. That’s Oleg’s claim to fame and comfort. Where you been Tuval?”
”No, Mendel. I mean THE Empire. Third Imperium. Imperial Navy to be precise. Because that’s what’s up on this panel right now.”
Several moments of silence. During the interim, Tuval can’t help but dream of what might be hidden beyond that thick blast door. Imperial traders still occasionally came through the system but they only brought basics or the occasional luxury good. Actually finding an old Imperial Navy facility, that could be a game changer. Did the Mad King know? Tuval’s thoughts are interrupted as the logo disappears and is replaced by a red emergency lockdown icon. The technician grins. The emergency is a few hundred years past. And I know just what to do.
Most systems had standard emergency overrides so that rescue personnel could get through quickly. Tuval had spent several years as part of the fire brigade for his sector back on the City and even did a tour with the deep space rescue crews.
He taps a few codes into the panel. The fourth works. The logo flashes green. Moments later the blast door starts to grind open and air several hundred years old hisses free.
”Haha! Hey Mendel. We’re in!” He says stepping through into the dark narrow tunnel.
”Torpol Control this is Agatha’s Bounty reporting a successful jump in system and expected arrival on station in four days, five hours, and seventeen minutes. Please acknowledge.”
Agatha’s Bounty this is Torpol Control. We have you on screen and you are cleared for planetary approach route Delta. Welcome back Captain Macguire.”
”Route Delta. Acknowledged. Dex, tell the Station Master we’ve got some of that Imperial Peach Schnapps he likes so much.”
”Will do. He’ll be thrilled to hear it. Torpol Control Out.”
Captain Alfred Macguire spins around toward his first officer. ”You heard Control, Stanley. They’re swinging us around the long way. Set the Delta course.”
”Aye captain.”
KLANG! KLANG! KLANG!” Alarm klaxons erupt on the bridge and throughout the vast 200 ton bulk that is the free trader Agatha’s Bounty.
”What the hell! Rodger’s what’ve we got?” The Captain yells, spinning toward the young woman sitting at the scanners.
”New contact sir.” She shouts, an unusual bit of panic in her voice. ”Bearing coreward 202 mark 65. They’re on an intercept course and weapons hot! I’ve got a visual.”
The oncoming ship is about twice the size of the old freighter. A sleek ship, built to enter a planetary atmosphere as well as the depths of space. Twin platforms stretched out from the main body to give the ship a manta ray look. Macguire couldn’t help but stare at the multiple weapons batteries mounted upon those sleek wings and just above and below the bow. Then a chill runs down his spine as he catches a glimpse of the blue and black logo painted along the midsection of the ship. The Laughing Jackal. Notorious across the entire reach as one of the most ruthless and deadly pirate raiders in the entire sector.
”Emperor’s Light! Get Torpol Control back on the line!”
”Trying sir, but the signal’s being jammed.” Stanley’s hands fly across the communications panel trying to break through the blanket of white noise stifling any signal that might reach another ship within the Torpol system.
”Sir! I have missile launch!”
”Full strength broadcast Stanley!” Macguire orders. ”All bands, all spectrums!”
”Aye sir!”
”This is the Free Trader Agatha Macguire! We are under attack by the Laughing Jackal. Request immediate assistance and rescue operations. I repeat we are under attack by….”
The first missile strikes amidships. The impact of the military grade high explosive warhead easily cracking the freighters civilian hull. The bridge crew is tossed about like ragdolls in the hands of an angry toddler as the ship shudders and heaves under the assault and the sudden decompression of several sections of the ship. Three more missiles hit in quick succession.
By the time the glare from the explosions clears, the Agatha’s Bounty has split into three pieces, each tumbling dead in space. The raider slows to deploy salvage and scavenging crews. The action is quick. It is performed with precision and little sense of urgency. Given the lack of warning and the distance to any inhabited station or patrol route, they’ve plenty of time to shift the remains for goods and any survivors to trade on the slave markets.
The beer is swill, but it washes down the sushi, or whatever the gap toothed proprietor of the Gritty Grouper thinks passes for fresh fish. The dingy little dive in the bowels of Drinax station has been your home away from home ever since your arrival. The rent old man Tsing charged for his back room was cheap enough and the food was edible, as long as you didn’t think about it too much. But living cheap was still expensive without work or credit to your name. And with the loss of the Archangel Beth prospects had been grim for much too long.
But finally, the dim dawning of hope brightened Myron Prophet’s horizon. He’d been able to follow up on those rumors he and the others caught wind of the other night cycle. It’d cost him a night in the cage and the last of his credits, but he’d confirmation. The higher ups on this piss water station were looking for spacer crews. Any and all were welcome to apply. Just had to show up at the King’s Promenade in a couple of hours to have a chance. All that needed to happen now was getting Blood sobered up enough to walk upright and that he’d actually lost who ever had been following him earlier.
Tsing comes shuffling his way up to the table where Prophet and Blood sit. The old man bows his head and smiles. ”Emperor’s Blessings good sirs.” He says in his soft, slightly trembling voice. His mechanical hand hangs at his side. Bits of fish and plant matter sticking to the various blades used to prepare the fine cuisine severed within his luxury establishment. ”Must ask about last three week’s rent for room?” He says. ”If you no can pay, then Tsing must ask you to leave, so can give to another.” The old man’s eyes watch you each carefully, waiting for an answer.
Blood slowly came to consciousness; his eyes open and sitting upright, still holding a glass of... something green. Whatever it was it was alcoholic and strong enough to make Prophet's eyes water across the table.
He blinked his eyes, trying to focus...
"What? Oh. Yes Master Tsing. I'm afraid I've been focused on drinking lately..." He answered, still a little sloshed. He glanced at the litter of bottles on his table. "...so I don't have your money right this moment."
"But Master Tsing, you know my skill with cards," He said persuasively, producing a deck of cards from a pocket and making the Joker dance across his knuckles. "You should have no fear I'll be able to get your money by tomorrow or the next day, casino permitting."
He turned his attention to Prophet and he frowned, noticing a tension in his crewmate.
Tsing's brow furrows and his smile droops into a frown. "Pardon me, good sir. While I am sure your skills at the casino are most...um...admirable." He says, clearly struggling to find an appropriate word that doesn't share his true beliefs about the drunkard's hopes of having any success in the lower deck gambling parlors. "However, I am afraid I must bring the time for promises to a close." His eyes drift away from the intoxicated gaze of Blood toward those of Myron. "Still, I am a fair man. If you would be willing to do me the service of delivering a small package to an associate at his home on Upper Deck Six near the Pastoral Gardens I would consider the debt paid."
Prophet looks up, interest piqued.:Welllll, sure. I'll run it up there, but y' know, truth in advertising, How big is Small? and what would be the cost of replacement is it was, Y'know, lost stolen or damaged, y'know, is it wort more or less than a weeks room and board?"
Tsing bows his head again and the wrinkles around his eyes grow a little tighter with his thin smile. "Ahhh...it is wise to understand value of what you carry." He says casually. "Package itself is of little consequence. Merely a special blend of tea for an ill associate." His hand brushes away any of your concerns.
"Loss of the package would be unfortunate, but it has little value itself. Half a dozen credits at most. Payment is in time I save for delivery."
Blood stood up from the table, still a little weaving.
"I understand Master Tsing, your tea package is in good hands now!" He said, sloppily buttoning his old uniform tunic.
Dotting
"Ahhhh...yes. Indeed, I believe so. I am most grateful for you assistance." Tsing says with another bow of the head to Blood. "One moment."
He claps his hands and the familiar, old battered servitor that has kept the captain's glass filled throughout your stay rattles its way from the empty bar. The squeak of a failing bearing in its wheels piercing the relative quiet of the dimly lit restaurant.
The dust covered vidscreen hanging in the corner of the room displays scenes of a broken free trader floating in space. "Pirates Destroy Free Trader in Torpol System, Imperial Authorities Vow Increased Patrol" reads the headline. The eerie images of the shattered ship disquieting reminders of the Archangel Beth's recent fate. The scene then changes to some pompous looking official standing in front of the Imperial logo answering questions and for the various infotainment bots and a few actual reporters.
From a compartment within the servitor's core frame, Tsing pulls a light weight, rectangular package about twenty by ten by eight centimeters in size. It is wrapped in simple brown paper. An addressed scrawled in Tsing's own shaking hand across the front next to a standard thumb print register for the recipient to acknowledge receipt.
Handing the package to Blood the old man smiles and bows again. "Your eagerness to get started is most commendable. I will see your things remain undisturbed until you return."
"Yes, of course Master Tsing..." responded Blood absently as he leaned slightly to one side, eyes focussed on the viewscreen of the wrecked ship until it cut away.
"Upper deck six, Pastoral Gardens, got it." He repeated, stuffing the package in a coat pocket absently. "Well then, let's shove off Mr. Brackenn. Sooner begun, sooner done. Etc. etc.."
Unaware of whatever concerns or suspicions his companion might have about Tsing and the package, Blood accepts it and starts to weave his way toward the door.
The lower levels of the massive Floating Palace of Drinax are much like the lower levels of any orbital station throughout the Imperium and beyond. Only worse. Trash and filth fill the edges of the corridors, gathering in larger accumulations in any available alcove or nook. The rattle and hum of air circulators and recyclers is ever present except when the equipment breaks down which is more often than not. Rust and coolant stains mar many of the walls or ceiling panels from leaks and malfunctions to numerous for the handful of maintenance crews to manage. The air, if it can truly still be called such, almost always feels stale and overused, smelling of smoke from illegal grills, drug dens, rot, garbage, and simply too many people in too small of an area.
The corridor outside the Grouper is home to a pawn shop (where several of Blood's personal items have been stored off and on over the last few months), a third rate market selling whatever foods and goods trickle down from the upper echelons of the city, two illicit drug dens, a rundown bot repair shop that's really a front for a gambling and prostitution outfit, and burned out Drinaxian eatery which now houses a dozen or more vagrants.
A glitchy infobot trundles past advertising cut rate deals on air and water rations for those interested in joining the newly reformed Drinaxian System Security Service. "Fly to the stars for king and glory!" The slogan prattles from the bot's static speaker to a jaunty marketing tune. Just as it rounds the corner a piece of rotten synthfruit spatters the bot's screen covering it in a sickly ochre ooze.
Standing in the flickering florescent light of the corridor, Blood blinks several times before finally recalling the way to the lifts is to the left.
Blood paused in the corridor, attracted by the display the pawn shop had holo displayed. Several of the things displayed there, like the deluxe wrist multigraph and his academy class ring, evoked the memory of his desperation when he had landed here after the destruction of the Beth. With no money, he'd had to trade away the few things of value he had left. The ring especially. Of his class, he was the only one he knew still alive.
I'm wandering around looking for work and pissed off about the fricken 1800 page report High Command is going to make me do when I report back.
While Blood stands outside the pawn shop star dreaming about his lost mementos, he and Myron sense a disturbance rumbling down the corridor. Indeed as they turn, they see the sea of rabble parting around the tall, broad shouldered, fur covered humanoid scowling its way through the crowd. The slow moving infobot isn't nimble enough to slip out of the gormelite's path.
"....Contact Howe, Dewey, and Cheatham, if you've suffered any side effects from the following list of pharmaceuticals manufactured by the Starblazer Pharma Corp, please contact us. You may be entitled to compensation..." Is the message blasting from the bot's speakers when the gormalite's big fur covered fist slams into it. The blow adds to a number of dents already marring the bot's metal frame and knocks it aside and out of the Shaggy's immediate path. Several locals nod approvingly or openly applaud the attack before scurrying away.
"Warning! Please be advised that it is a Class C misdemeanor to assault or tamper with station property or automated personnel." The bot squawks in response.
Having spotted Captain Blood and Myron coming out of the Grubby Grouper, Achooie leaves the annoying bot behind. Like an icebreaker he plows through the crowd toward his two crew mates wondering what could have possibly pried Blood's drunken butt out of Tsing's dingy bar.
I looked across the street just as Brakken and Blood were leaving a local watering hole. Brakken leaving didn't surprise me. If he didn't leave he couldn't find something to steal. Blood was a shock to see before 3 am. Usually the only thing that would make Blood leave a bar was cheaper whisky and dirtier whores.
I thought about following them to see what BS they were up to but, I'm an effin Gormalite so not really an option. I just walked up behind them waiting for them to notice.
The former Sailing master leans over to his
Skipper's ear, "Dija see how tense Tsing was when he handed over the tea? There is more to it than we're be'in told. I sense, revenge, maybe?" He follows Blood's sight-line to his ring on the shelf, "Never fear, Skipper, we'll get it back."
Blood seems lost in his reverie and rather than waiting for the captain's response, all deem it best to move along before attracting any unwanted attention. Myron glances about checking for his earlier shadow, but doesn't spot him. He does spot the two bored security goons working their way through the crowd toward the battered infobot. Shoving the captain along, you all manage to escape the notice of security as they ignore the bot and step into 'repair shop' with eager looks upon their faces.
Achooie clears a path through the throng easy enough, allowing the weaving Blood and watchful Myron to follow in his wake. That is until even the gormalite can't make further progress. The crowd comes to a complete, babbling, angry halt a hundred meters from the main lifts. Apparently they aren't working, yet again. Shouts and shoving ripple through the restless and pressed crowd. A half dozen harried but armed guards stand watch outside the central lift access. One keeps repeating warnings to stay back and clear the area. The warnings go unheeded.
A pair of mechanics can be seen just beyond the entrance. They seem hard at work, but there's no way to really tell when the lifts will start operating again. At least not from your vantage point at the back of the crowd.
Jolted out of daydreaming, Blood frowned at Prophet.
"Tsing? Revenge? I don't get it. We have managed to pay him, even if late." He replied.
"Hey Chewy," He greeted the Gormelite. "Can you see what the problem is?" He asked, stuck in the crowd outside the lifts.
Command: Great: +4
Deceive: Fair +2
Fight: Good +3
Notice: Avg +1
Persuade: Avg +1
Planetary Survival: Fair +2
Will: Avg +1
Gormalites are strong!
I don't want the Gormalite to punch me!
Trouble: No troops to command.
What I'm Attempting: The crowd in front can't move back because of the idiots where I'm at keep pushing forward. I command everyone back imitating an actual official hoping that by repeatedly telling the crowd to move back they will. I tell Blood and Prophet to watch my back then begin grabbing beings and physically moving them back. Anybody that refuses gets punched in the face. Since I have no troops to command there might be a trouble as I'm trying to command. Once we're first in line we hold the rest of the rabble back with the help of the armed guards so we can be the first ones on the lift.
Okay but I'm going to try and scam you with a loudspeaker in my wristcom if that will be possible. Just to give my voice range. Lol. I have no idea what -8 means on fudge dice. Do I remove 8 pluses?
- + + + (+4 for command) -8 is -2, I think. Do I need fate and will that result in a nul?
The former Sailing master leans over and lowers his
voice, "Follow my, guys, I know a secret shortcut"He gesture his head to a nearby panel, "If you guys block for me,I'll 'ave us mov'in up-decks in no time attoll."
I don't get this game. Even if I had rolled all pluses I still would have failed and I'm using my best skill. So if I get all pluses and my stat is 4 then I subtract 8 my best roll is a zero. I can only succeed if I spend a fate point with a max roll.
"OK Chooie, just... don't get us kicked off the station." Blood hissed at Achooie.
"Follow my, guys, I know a secret shortcut"
"What? Myron, what are you doing?" Said Blood, looking around to see if anyone noticed Prophet messing with the panel. He positioned his body to try to mask what Prophet was doing.
"OK, look you guys, don't mess this up. We don't have any other place to go now; had to sell the life pod we came in on. Except the surface..." He said with a shudder.
I'm obviously accidentally creating a diversion.
Achooie shoves his way forward a few steps and starts to bellow commands and directions to the crowd. At first, most people are too surprised and too intimidated by the big shaggy alien to argue or do anything other than as he says. Slowly a bit of room opens up within the section of the corridor nearest his companions and freeing a path to Myron's maintenance hatch. With all eyes focused on the shouting Achooie, Myron and Blood use the distraction to slip through the hatch and into the empty side corridor.
Despite the initial success, it is a big crowd and not everyone is quite so malleable as those nearest the Gormalite. In fact, not everyone is there to simply try and get the lift. Some appear to be there simply to stir up trouble.
"Who in da thirteen dead gods are you to be in charge, Shaggy?!" Shouts one voice from further up toward the lifts.
"Tryin' to cut in front 'ee is." Shouts another.
"Blurp, gloop." Vocalizes...something Achooie has never seen before. From what he can see, the thing has two long trunks and more tentacles than anyone wants to try and count undulating at the base of a giant, pumpkin body.
"Down with the mad king's fascists!" Calls out another voice, this time from somewhere back up the corridor.
The security guards at the lift grow more nervous and agitated as a bottle flies over the crowd to shatter against the wall not far from their position. One frantically speaks into a collar mic, while the others raise their stun rifles and activate riot shields.
Myron leans out of the Maint hatch, and tries to wave down the Big guy."Archoo! Over here." to the Captain "It's not the safest route, but this should be a good way up to the upper levels. Be careful, the is a lot of . . . Shenanigans that go on back here. Watch yourself."
Blood glanced back at Achooie and tried to waive him over to the maintenance hatchway.
"C'mon Chooie, we're not waiting on a broken lift. Let's go!" He said, pitching his voice low.
With that he stepped through the maintenance hatchway Prophet pointed out.
Dim red lights flicker to life as you step into the maintenance corridor. The air smells of sickening blend of coolant, oils, trash and what ever else is floating the thick layer of ooze that squelches beneath your boots with each step. The walls are lined with all manner of conduits, some blackened and slowly dripping to add to the mess on the floor.
The passage stretches forward a dozen meters before branching at a T intersection. Muttering, complaining voices can be heard in the distance along the left branch while nothing but silence greets you down the right hand passage.
An ripped and water damaged safety and maintenance poster is pasted on the opposite wall of the intersection. Its battered edges curling away from the metal surface. Next to the poster is a maintenance map, also filthy, also partially torn. Fortunately there's enough to tell you that going right leads to the lifts and the hydroponic and sewage reclamation systems. Going left will take you to cargo and the lower machine shops for this section of the station.
There are also two prominent markings on each side of the map. To the left in bright green paint is a grinning goblin head. To the left in purple paint is a shabbily drawn double bladed axe.
You've heard less about the Gobbo's. Mostly made up from the local Ogh population. The short, squat aliens from Oghma IV make up a sizable minority of the population in the Floating City. Most are refugees from the ongoing strife on their homeworld and suffer a second or third class status among the locals. Some have started to band together for both protection and to get back a bit of their own according to recent rumors.
I follow
Prophet looks at the Graffiti, scratches his chin. . . "I think. . ."
Blood grimaced as he squelched through the accumulated muck. A drop of something or other plopped onto his left jacket sleeve, hissing as it left another burn scar collecting slowly over time since he arrived at the station.
Coming to the T intersection he examined the old and partially obscured maintenance map. The drawings to either side look newer somehow.
He shrugged at the nonsense graffiti and glanced at Myron.
"Mister Prophet, where exactly are you guiding us?" He asked.
At first the graffiti is just a bunch of blurry nonsense, but the stench in the corridor does have the useful effect (or annoying depending upon your point of view) of sobering you up. A second glance at the two symbols has you swallowing nervously. First you remember the gang significance of each. Second, you recall the recent 'accident' you had in one of the Gobbo's gambling dens. How you staggered into Whackknee, one of their chief enforcers. He'd been lighting a cigarette at the time and in your drunken stupor managed to splash an entire glass of Antarian Fire Whiskey on the little alien. It's called Fire Whiskey for a reason. As soon as the liquid hit the hot tip of the smoke, the little Oghman went up like a flare. The creatures screams and cries for a rather brutal form of revenge echoed down the corridors as you high tailed it out of there. You've been hunkered down in Tsing's ever sense.
Staring blearily at the graffiti, Blood's eyes suddenly open wide.
He looked to the left where the voices are, the to the right where the silence is.
Abruptly he about faced and stepped towards the mainenance access port they cam in.
"You know; suddenly I don't mind going back and waiting for the elevator to be fixed." He said quickly.
Blood tries to push past Achooie, whose furry mass takes up most of the narrow passage. It take several moments of shifting, cursing and more than a mouthful of hair, but the captain finally manages to squeeze by.
*WHUMP*
The maintenance hatch groans as several prominent bumps materialize in the metal with the muffled sound of a blast from the other side. Alarm klaxons blare to life. Barely heard over the alarms are muffled shouts and screams coming from the corridor you all so recently vacated.
At the sound of the blast, Captain Blood dove back and hit the deck behind a stand pike, hands over his head.
When the noise died down to muffled shouts and screaming, he opened his eyes and stood up again. He looked down at his now muck covered front.
"Frak."
Should have worn the brown pants, Blood.
Blood wiped what he could of the muck off his front before he gave up.
"OK, I don't know what's going on back there, but we clearly can't go back right now."
He turned to look at the T intersection sign again.
"We need to find a way up.
"Which means going right.
"Which means going through Gobbo Gang territory."
He turned back to his crew.
"Now, in the interest of transparency, I may have... TOTALLY accidentally!... lit one of their chief enforcers on fire.
"Thus, I MAY be a little unpopular in this section. Fair warning shipmates.
"So we need ANYTHING that will get us up off this level. A lift, a stairway, a gym rope, a teleport pad... ANYTHING."
He looked at all of them one at a time.
"We all ready?"
Another bass *BOOM* rumbles from the other side of the maintenance hatch leading back into the main corridor following Blood's revelation. Pipes rattle and ping as the entire area lurches and vibrates for a few moments. Seconds later the high pitched squeal and pop of metal breaking fills the tunnel where you all stand.
*PING*
One of the larger, already dripping, pipes finally succumbs to years of poor maintenance and whatever current punishment is being handed out on the other side of the door. A foul, black, wretch inducing liquid sprays forth like a demonic fire hose pumping straight from the pits of the abyss soaking each and everyone of you in the filthy stuff. The torrential flow from the broken sewage line quickly starts to fill the narrow passage and another local alarm starts to sound as emergency systems kick in. Yellow warning lights flash at the entrance to the T-Intersection indicating the imminent closure of the airtight section hatches.
What do you do?
"Agh; god, I got some in my mouth..." Said Blood, covered completely in crap now and his gorge rising.
"Come on! We've got to MOVE!" He shouted over the noise, trying to get his crew moving again.
Suiting action to words, he staggered forward, taking the right hand branch of the "T" intersection.
Myron upchucks undigested Vargur beer and sushi onto the floor, stumbles and leans against the wall, "We're better off go'in left . . " He stumbles after the Skipper.
Being taller, and having his mouth open to yell something at the indecisive Blood, Achooie is in a truly unfortunate position as the pipe burst immediately in front of him. The foul black liquid sprays directly into his open mouth as well as coating his thick, luxurious fur in the sticky, slimy, reeking goo.
Head spinning from the fumes and sudden urge to lose the entirety of his large lunch, the gormelite staggers after Myron and Blood as the Captain does yet another about face and then clearly takes the direction not leading to the cargo lifts.
The narrow passage stretches in an arc for fifty meters following a series of conduits and pipes before opening into another intersection. Standing in the intersection are a couple of grizzled, looking men carrying stunners and a chip on their shoulder. As you approach, they wrinkle their noses and frown in disgust. Waving you back down the corridor.
"Crap on toast!" The first exclaims, bringing up his weapon. The hum of it charging echoes down the passage. "No bloody sewer rats allowed in our sector. Get yourselves outta 'ere before you stink up the whole place."
"Howdy boys," Greeted Blood. "I don't suppose you'd know a..." He hesitated, racking his brains for someone he might know down here.
"... Hangdog Hamish? 'Cause I'm in the market to buy a couple of barrels of sanitizer and am willing to pay full price." He said, trying to sweeten the deal.
"Even a shower would do."