The gangers were already having a hard time.
They hauled in someone from the Hive Spires, one soft enough o make every ganger in the settlement stare. Not only that, but they also looted plenty of gear. A recent raid that followed had brought back crates of ammunition, weapons, and enough loot to keep the workshops busy for months. This has significantly increased their standing.
Their boss particularly liked the Spire-skin's red jacket. He walked taller because of it. The red leather trench jacket became a trophy stripped from the Spire-skin. He wore it wherever and whenever. No one gave a thought as to why he shouldn't.
The hideout was secure, a belief that only extended to the boss and to themselves— and only themselves.
Their base occupied the hollow carcass of an ancient manufactorum buried beneath layers of collapsed transit tunnels and forgotten industrial ruins. Rusted catwalks crisscrossed the darkness overhead. Cargo containers served as homes. Scrap-metal walls divided the territory. Flickering lumen strips painted Everything in a sickly shades of yellow and green.
Three routes, all held varying degrees of difficulty upon point of entry. Trapped, guarded to the best of their abilities. All known to the members of the gang— and only their members.
They all told themselves that.
The truth was rather uncomfortable. That remains true when told, that remains true even when held from recipients.
This underhive held six major gangs. All but one shall remain unsaid for one is currently in a predicament— the rest will be told in time.
Turbine-77— 77s for short.
Many gangs were known for gorilla warfare. Most don't survive without having the tactic within their baseline strategic lean-in. Most move out of it after awhile, preferring other forms of warfare.
Turbine-77s did not hold territory through brute force. They lacked the manpower for that. Instead, where manpower and raw strength waned, speed and dexterous attacks where their strong suits.
Every member owned some manner of bike, crawler, scrap-rig, or jury-rigged transport. Engines were placed higher in their minds eye, above that of guns. Food was lesser than fuel. Deceased gang members were mourned less than dead generators.
A rusted turbine wheel painted white where found sprayed across tunnels throughout the district. Most were false markers meant to confuse rivals— or, for those in the know, acted in ways to impose hesitation. But true routes were held within the gang themselves.
The 77s were like storms. Sudden strikes weren't what gave them the description. It's what vanishes after that makes them like storms: they leave nothing unturned and taken empty.
Stockpiles missing from workshops.
A vanished convoy.
Rival ammunition crates replaced with scrap metal and empty promises.
77s wouldn't be found— and stealth wouldn't be why.
They never stay long, not enough for a proper fight to start.
While others adapt gorilla warfare as a start for their gang hive, the Turbine-77s molded it to be their philosophy.
The gang's leader like to say that dead heroes fed corpse-starch. The cowards were labeled so because duty and honor bleed in the battlefield whilst they got fat.
But their tactic strived when they were the aggressors.
One should question how they pit up against being the oppressed.
The answer lies within the roaring guns.
The symphony was structured. No wild barking of autoguns. Randomness wasn't in the hidden lines of fire like those of thunderous chatter of rival hive scum spraying ammunition in every direction and praying it hit something.
Measured bursts is where they come from. Controlled and disciplined, every volley was followed by screams. Silence followed every explosion.
The Turbine-77s had spend years mastering the art of disappearing. Strike hard and fast. To leave before retaliation arrived.
It works effectively against rival gangs, bounty hunters, even guild security. Enforcers, however, held a metaphorical bulwark upon their name.
A lookout never returned from the eastern tunnels. Should've been the first warning the 77s picked up. Alarms halted all transmissions. Then, a breaching charge.
Second and third warnings for the 77s to realize what's to come.
The blast peeled open three layers of scrap barricades and turned a firing position into molten debris. Through smoke, a barrage came through, the smoke parting as rounds flashed light.
Heavy caliber rounds punched through cover, too thin to stop them. Men hardened by time in the Underhive lay dead, never to see those that reaped them.
"WHAT IN THE VOID IS HITTIN' US?!"
A ganger leaned around a corner one second—
— CRACK-SPLAT!
— another second, his vary head vanished, along with it the question of who. His answer never reaching him in hell. His headless body took two steps before collapsing.
Panic spread faster than the saturated gunfire.
"FALL BACK!"
"TO WHERE?!"
"I DON'T FRAGGIN' KNOW!"
Defenders scattered like rats. Some fled deeper into the manufactorum, others mounted bikes and attempted escape through maintenance routes. Several never made it past 65 feet. Patient volleys tore through engines and riders alike.
The Enforcers advanced without urgency. Like machines, they held no anger in their fingers. Instead, hate spread upon the release of their muzzle. Their black armor emerged from the drifting smoke. Their shotguns raised, their visors glowed in malice— fear non-existent behind them. Relentlessly they chased, methodically they pursued.
One of the gang lieutenants stared as another barricade exploded inward.
"They ain't here fer loot..." his confidence finally cracked.
What answered was silence. It came from everyone because they knew already.
Instead a flash came rushing. His question did have an answer. It came delayed, dramatic was it's entrance, and in a lovely form of lead. The answer was truth, and truth did more than hurt the man— it rendered him asunder, turned to soup some would say.
To those that lived, within their remaining time they all had a single thought:
— they had stolen something.
Something important enough that the law had descended into the Underhive to retrieve it—
— and the law was not leaving empty-handed.
◃───────────▹
The first thing I noticed was the silence. How it was a lie. How my chest heaved from my breathe. The pin drop sound that came from crimson liquid. Sounds of distant gunshots somewhere deeper in the hive.
Yet, it felt silent despite how untrue it was. My eyes closed and opened, a blink that made the world return.
The revolver sat heavy in my hand. Its rusted look drenched in warmth that also slid down my fingers.
Foreign blood, all of it. I counted how many times I looked over myself, checking for injuries. All times I found none. Each time reinforcing the words hidden between the lines.
I followed the trail with horrid eyes. Their leader, the one I dubbed Scum Sergeant, knelt before me. Or rather— what remained of him.
My left hand had buried itself in his greasy hair. His neck bent at an angle that looked painful enough to kill a man twice over.
Grabbing him, the angle his neck was bent, this extreme violence— I remembered none of it.
I released him immediately; out of disgust. The body collapsed like wet laundry, a haunting ragdoll.
A system panel hovered nearby. Ignored; my attention preoccupied elsewhere. Five bodies littered the corridor, the one I shot earlier twitched occasionally.
The other didn't; their heads... I couldn't stare, not long for it to matter as I twisted my head away. The walls behind them looked worse, enough to make my stomach turn.
"Wha—"
My word died in my throat.
Twelve: one leader-like, the rest were normal scum. A simple count, a track I kept count of ever since leaning around the corner.
My eyes shifted, counted as they laid upon one body after another.
One... two... three... four-five... six... seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—
"And twelve," I whispered the last, almost at a whimper.
No mistakes, no survivors, no wounded. Some looked dragged, as if they tried to crawl away. The trail came towards me, I did not miss the implication.
Dead, the lot of them. The realization struck harder than any bullet could.
I stood, motionless. The revolver felt wrong in my hand. It felt heavy— small— insufficient.
I gaze at them again, looking for an answer different from the truth. The man's autorun remained clutched in rigid fingers. He didn't have the liberty of firing before he came to by the looks of it. Another had his knife half-drawn. A third lay folded across a crate as if someone had interrupted a thought. All of them looked surprised, none were given time to prepare. Death had arrived faster than they could comprehend.
My throat felt dry. I swallowed, hoping to rectify that.
I searched my mind for any memory. Anything to recall in hopes of content. Nothing surfaced. The struggle, the firefights, close-quarter fighting. The closes thing I had were of a hand reaching, then a scream. Something warm splashing across my face— then nothing. The fragments giving me more questions than answers. Made a hole in me dig deeper, darker than a void.
In distraught, my eyes wandered toward the walls. Regret hitched my breath.
The corridor looked less like battlefield and more like an industrial accident involving human beings. Rusted metals draped in fresh red paint, prolly a fresh coats since decades. Crates bore dents I don't remember making. One cargo container had a hand-shaped impression pressed deep into its thin metal plating. I stared and stared, the harder I did the harder the realization grasped my chest.
I couldn't offer a word, instead I walked over. Slowly, one foot after another, dragging the ground leaving marks. A hope in me surfaced. At each step, I hoped the hand print was an illusion. For it to disappear.
The imprint remained. All five fingers— a palm— the metal folded inward. In self doubt, my hand rose. I neither willed it nor did I stop it. In the end, the measurements lined up perfectly.
"Damn," a chill ran through me.
My pulse hammered inside my ears. I knew my limits, what my body could do. But not like that. Not even close to my approximate strength.
The imprint mocked me, an evidence realized into the world of the impossible. I turned away, only to see more signs. Broken jaws, shattered ribcage. A corpse twisted in ways joints weren't meant to move. A mixture of bruising and bullet holes. Several looked as though they had been struck by machinery— or worse.
My stomach churned, either to the seen before me or to the fact that my hunger is creeping in— neither answer confirmed.
The system panel still floated patiently nearby. It waited, watched as my attention crept towards it.
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
Exploit acquired:
Overkill
You solved a gunfight.
Then continued solving.
Reward: Hyper Card Draw ×1
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
I stared, then another appeared—
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
Exploit acquired:
Witnesses Unavailable
Potential witnesses remaining:
0
Reward: Hyper Card Draw ×1
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
My eye twitched as another panel appeared.
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
?????? is laughing.
Hard.
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
The laughter wasn't audible yet I heard it anyway; somehow.
My grip tightened around the revolver. I should feel afraid.
Instead: I feel relieved.
I sighed in acceptance, "at least..." I paused in thought, "I'm still me".
I looked around again. The twelve corpses haven't moved.
'Why would they,' I reprimanded myself for a dumb thought.
My stomach twisted after. Not from guild, this place doesn't give me time for any remorse. Instead, the hunger that crept broke open the flood gates.
The realization felt Insulting— almost.
To have just came to from a black out. My sanity returned into a hallway of slaughter. My body decided now wat the perfect time to remind me I hadn't eaten.
A resolute breath escaped me, "right," I muttered.
A list formed automatically. Mentally, I needed food, water, ammunition. I made it quickly. The thought of how quickly I did should make me hate myself. Instead, I busied myself.
"I'll have time to hate myself later, when I'm strong."
The nearest corpse wore an autogun that was slung across the corpse's chest. My eyes drifted over it. A damaged stock, had poor maintenance, magazine half-full. None matter as long as it was functional.
The assessment came to me instantly, it left me frozen. Experience wasn't the one that told me. I simply knew it.
I shifted my gaze. Three spare magazines attached to his belt. Along with it was a crude knife, a water flask, and two ration bars. Minor rust on the weapon receiver.
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
Threat level: deceased.
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
I blinked, "...threat level?"
The words should sound wrong, but to me, it felt gratifying. I know it's wrong. The act of killing, I moved on from that. The act of a massacre, wasn't much different. But the mental strain was something I couldn't ignore. This... made it easier. To think life was a game made it easier. From people to targets, emotionless, less of a hassle to my mind.
Still, have to remind myself that it doesn't apply to all. Only to most should this apply, to be treated nothing more than a means to my growth.
I kneeled beside the corpse, the dead ganger's pocket were emptied with efficient movements. The rations and water, a handful of stub rounds, scrap currency whose value I couldn't determine. Everything disappeared into my inventory.
Then repeat.
Body after body, none stayed on their corpse. magazines, knives, ammunition, anything useful. I ignored their faces. Simply is disgust really, these guys were ugly fuckers.
I formed a routine, disturbingly fast if some civilian not used to strife and conflict were to see me.
To me, I'd say necessary.
By the fourth corpse, it became secondary.
Then, I moved on to metallic crates. They stood motionless near the rear of the convoy. It's lid had burst partially open during the fighting.
More ammunition. The conclusion came before I reached it. I traced the markings from sight. The weight, the packaging, the shape. It was military-grade storage.
My hand rested against the container. The answer surfaced immediately. Stub rounds, lots and lots of stub rounds.
Greed surfaced in my eyes. I wanted them, needed them. So much so that I felt the crates cold skin and became protective of it knowing that no one around could stop me from taking it.
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
Acquisition Specialist activated.
Ownership remains a philosophical concept.
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
"...You're absolutely right," I smirked at the panel.
Another panel appeared almost instantly.
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
?????? giggles.
I'm always right.
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
I gave no answer, my attention shifted toward another crate. Then another. Food, water, fuel cells, medical supplies. It then dawned on me that this convoy wasn't carrying frontline equipment. All of it was survival. The kind many would kill for.
My eyes narrowed, this was transported with armed guards. The explosions that were in no doubt an attack from someone. The desperation they expelled in their hurried actions.
A strange feeling settled in my chest. Neither relief nor excitement: it was possession.
The supplies weren't mine, I knew that. But they weren't bolted down. By the looks of the slaughterhouse I somehow created, I find no one in needing it.
All of it still held use, and I'll find it. Because now it's mine and mine alone.
Then something red flashed in my mind as the last crate entered my mind. I looked over my shoulder, seeing my skin, the absence of leather.
For the first time, I wanted something in this world.
The red leather jacket that I entered this world in, I need it back before I leave here.
"And I know that I can just will it back for it is mine after all," I monologued.
But pride is something I wanted to afford. A goal, something I need to reach to prove this world. Not just for entertainment but something personal. Willing my jacket into my inventory then to hands felt cheating.
My sanity isn't something I need to worry about keeping. This world is fucked by all measure. That's why I gave my recent actions with a shade of 'oh well'.
Instead, I'll need to find something to replace it before it fully depletes—
"and spite sounds immaculate as a replacement."
◃───────────▹
The hive never knows true silence. Instead, something close to it encompasses the area. Pipes groaned somewhere overhead. Distant gunfire echoed through forgotten tunnels. Machinery older than nations complained within the walls.
But compared to what I left behind, it felt quite tranquil.
My boots stepped over corpses. I didn't look down, didn't care to look down. The novelty lost on me; in fact, it never had a hold in the first place.
The thought might have had a sliver of concern on me... only a little.
I exited the corridor and entered a larger transit passage. Rusted rials split the floor. Thick pipes hugged the ceiling. The entire tunnel stretched into darkness beyond the reach of flickering lumen strips.
I paused, a choice finally before me.
"Left or right," I muttered to no one.
"Pick a random direction and hope fate is feeling generous."
"I think not, a terrible strategy."
My eyes lowered, done with a conversation to myself. Fresh tracks, crates dragged through dust. Boots and wheel marks, the convoy had come from somewhere. Meaning it was heading somewhere too.
A part of me found it absurd how much information I could pull from a few marks on the floor.
"Several dozen individuals. They had multiple supply crates. Recent too, definitely in a hurry." I said aloud.
The conclusions came automatically. A comforting effect for information is power.
"Right."
The word echoed softly. The supply route was my best lead. Everyone needed them. Also: their guarded, meaning people were guaranteed to be where supplies are—
— and people knew things.
"And one of those people was either wearing or knew of my jacket's whereabouts."
The red leather coat flashed through my mind. The boss was wearing it last I saw.
The smug bastard; how could he not. The way he walked around wearing it. The memory made my eye twitch.
I could summon it back, I knew that now. My inventory would probably allow it. That wasn't the point.
The point being that someone took it— and I wanted it back— personally.
"Petty?" I sounded off as I took a step, "absolutely".
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. i was comfortable with that. The distant sound of automatic gunfire rolled through the hive. Followed by another explosion. At this point, it has become routine.
Dust drifted from overhead, it only deepened my smile. Someone was having a significantly worse day than I was. An encouraging thought. I adjusted my grip on the revolver. All cylinders ready to fire all six rounds with more to spare. Not only that, my inventory was filled with guns and ammo. From either crates or the bodies I left. I wasn't sure if they were enough.
'I'll cross that road when I get there,' I concluded that thought.
My gaze followed the tracks, they disappeared into the darkness. A destination waited at the end of them. Answers, supplies, a certain red jacket, hopefully all three.
I've been walking, the deeper tunnels swallowed me whole— and in a sense— I felt the feeling that the hive was smiling back.
╒═══════════════════════════════════════════╕
Current Objective Updated:
Retrieve Jacket
Priority:
Unreasonably High
╘═══════════════════════════════════════════╛
"...fair."
I completely agreed with the system.