Lord-Captain Horatio Drake - maligned and recently ostracised scion of House Drake - squatted like some grotesque upon his command-throne, his pale and aristocratic features fixed in an expression of extreme pensiveness, while his mind roamed hither and thither; even now he could still recall, all those months ago, the joyous moment when his father had announced that he would become the recipient of his very own Warrant of Trade. That moment had swiftly passed as soon as he had departed holy Terra, given a single vessel from his families miniature armada of ships, enough wealth to show that he was not completely destitute, and once drifting through the empty black of space he had only then fully understood why he been given the Warrant...and how final his exile was. It was true, he had never believed that his hedonistic ways and lack of interest in family matters would amount to anything, but as the twelfth son he soon discovered that he had been termed 'expendable' by his progenitor and selected to spread the honour of his House or die in the attempt - for the House of Drake it was a situation in which they could not lose!

Even the chariot which would allow him to make his way through the cosmos was of the lowest quality, at least in terms of what his father may have been able to gift him. It was a Cobra-class Destroyer, one of the most common ships in the Imperium, one that could accurately be termed as 'mass produced' by shipyards galaxy-wide, five-point-seven megatons of Terran craftsmanship and equipped with a crew of some fifteen-thousand. For ease of use, and to lessen expense, at least ten-thousand of those crew were servitors - blank minded fusions of man and machine, thoughtless slaves to his every whim - the remainder being living beings who made up up his closest advisors, a cadre of Armsmen who bore his family crest on their uniforms, and many he could truthfully not care less about. Perhaps the only advantage of the ship, that he had named the Golden Aquila, was the speed with which it could travel and manoeuvre, and the torpedo tubes that he had removed to make room for larger cargo holds.

Eyes half closed, he listened intently to the soft humming of the ships engine, the vibrations moving from the deafening epicentre of origin and up to his ears; he enjoyed listening to them, for they soothed his constantly frayed nerves and eased his troubled mind. This was because, deep down in his heart and soul, he knew that he was no explorer...no Rogue Trader...he was just some shaving from the block of wood that was his family, whittled away with a knife and thrown onto the fire that was his current state.

"My lord," spoke a voice, seemingly far away but actually right before him, the gruff First Mate of the ship causing him to tumble back into the world of blinking lights and shifting figures, of sights, sounds and Astropath choirs.

"Mister Briggs," acknowledged the slender man in his clipped Terran accent, one slender hand adjusting his deep green uniform while his other brushed the jet-black hair back against his skull, "what is it, that you must disturb me in the middle of my musings?"

First Mate Briggs sighed inwardly, looking at the figure that was his master and sighing again, "forgive me lord, but we have come into orbit of Outpost fifty-seven; I thought you might like to know." Briggs had the air of a former Naval officer, straight-backed and straight-talking, and never yet had he failed House Drake or its offspring.

"Quite right," agreed the attentive noble, "please, let me see it."

Buttons were pressed, and the command-throne whirred about to look directly out of the viewing window, Drake narrowing his eyes into no more than slits as he rested an elbow on a knee. For moments that seemed to last forever he observed the slowly turning station, a mass of metallic colour that formed into all manner of buildings, a great edifice of the Emperor's might emptied in a time of war and never filled again by its rightful inheritors. Briefly he pondered, would the Imperium ever try to reclaim this Outpost? Why, it was only a few lightyears from Port Wander, and he had seen first hand the efficiency of the Imperial Navy.

"Lord?"

He had known this moment would come, the moment when he was required to leave his ship and descend to the station, but it was not as easy as he had imagined it would be to remove himself from the relative safety of his floating fortress and the protectors aboard; he knew he must go though, for he did not know the Koronus Expanse - into which he intended to travel - and knew full well that most of his bridge crew, as handy as they were with a ship, would not be able to assist him with those duties he could not do himself. Finances for example, one of the greatest joys for many Rogue Traders, was something completely alien to him - Horatio Drake spent currency, he did not study it! Then there was protection from raiders and pirates, networks of contacts to form across the Expanse, as well as issues of not entirely legal nature, and so forth. All these things could go smoother, faster and with greater efficiency if he could find personages more capable than he to work for him; in order to do this he had been directed to Outpost fifty-seven, for he was told that in all the sector there was no more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

"Have my shuttle prepared, Mr Briggs, and tell Navigator Pemelton to meet me in the hangar."

"Aye lord, as you wish."

It took half an hour for Drake to fully prepare himself, giving his Navigator time to ready his things and head toward the hangar bay, a small shuttle - able to carry Drake, Pemelton and a handful of Armsmen - would be waiting there, bedecked in his House crest and their colours of black and white. Now, bedecked in his deep green uniform, trimmed with black at the epaulettes and lacing - one in the style of a Colonel of the Imperial Guard no less - and his fine trousers with there broad central stipe of crimson, he took long strides through the corridors of his ship; beneath this uniform he wore carapace armour, an auto-stubber on one hip, his family chain-axe, an heirloom handed down from the times before the Horus Heresy, on his other.

Upon entering the hangar, a vast expanse the size of a cathedral, he noticed not for the first time just how small he and the multitude of servitors seemed in comparison. "Indeed," he quipped to himself as he moved, "the Emperor does like to make us feel small..." in the distance he could pick out the shuttle and at least a dozen figures around the open ramp at the rear, one that would be his three-eyed passenger, his steps echoing loudly as his boots clanged against the metal grating of the floor, noise blocked out by the sheer amount of activity taking place around them; here some servitors were lifting and moving empty storage crates, others making snap repairs on otherwise functioning pieces of venerable technology, and above all the all-pervading thrum of the engine.

Picking out the Navigator as he made his prescence felt - the Armsmen moving aside to flank their superior, salutes thrown up by every man of them, each then forming the sign of the Aquila - Horatio greeted the usually aloof 'man' with a smile perfected on women and blue-bloods, one hand gesturing to the shuttle, the other resting on the butt of his stubber.

"Navigator, are we ready to go? Are you ready to go?"

"D'you know what the average life expectancy for a member of the guard is?" Big Fletcher, a small wily man with a lithe build, asked dryly.

"Can't say I do." Little Fletcher, a great big giant of a man built like a Baneblade on Psychon, admitted.

"Fifteen hours." Big Fletcher informed them.

"Sounds about right." Little Fletcher shrugged.

"D'you know what the average life expectancy for a citizen of Outpost 57 is?" Big Fletcher inquired in his light Terran accent.

"Nope." Little Fletcher said simply.

"45 hours."

"Oh, that's higher than I'd have thought."

Little Fletcher pulled a Lho-stick from his baggy trouser pocket, lighting it before taking a drawn-out puff of the rolled paper tube.

"So, here in this scum-ridden backwash, surrounded by gangsters, murders, rapists, and general lowlifes', we're safer than we were in the Emperor's army."

"Probably less likely to get eaten by Tyranids." Little Fletcher said nonchalantly.

"What does that tell us, my steroid-guzzling friend?" Big Fletcher inquired.

"Dunno."

"It tells us that the universe is a grim fucking place."

"Sounds about right."

The Fletcher's were ex-Imperial Guard cannon fodder, turned guns-for-hire, who had accompanied Nisvillia Blissponis on her relocation from Port Wander to Outpost 57.

They were big and small respectively, dressed in a motley combination of casual attire and second-hand body armour.

Nisvillia, by contrast, was an obese young ginger, with a freckle-splattered face and an arse so wide she took up one side of the booth the group were currently sat in. She wore her usual relaxed yet stylish getup, and her fiery red hair was tied into duel pigtails.

"Did you figure this out before or after we passed the gang of street urchins quite literary eating our of the rubbish tip?" Big Fletcher frowned.

"Somewhere between that and the twelve year-old hooker ."

"Its only grim if you acknowledge it," Nisvillia said helpfully, between mouthfuls of of her medium-rare Grox steak, cooked tenderly in Amasec "Otherwise its just background noise."

"The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of a thousand is a statistic." Big Fletcher declared rather profoundly.

"Bet the bloke who said that didn't have many friends."

"Well, we just heard Big say it, so that's probably accurate." Nisvillia smirked.

The trio sat in the Broken Exhaust, a fairly ritzy, by Outpost 57 standards, bar in the more up-market district of the space station. It was still early hours, and they had a long day ahead of them, so it was unsurprising that more than a few empty glasses littered the table infront of them.

"Did you hear anything back about the Anniston job?" Nisvillia asked Big Fletcher after a slight pause, licking some grease off of her dark lips.

"All taken care of," he said with a curt nod "there's one less Squat on Outpost 57."

"That's the bosses lunch paid for, then." Little Fletcher grinned.

Big Fletcher took another puff from his Lho-stick, a thread-like trail of smoke slinking back over his shoulder.

"Here's to another day of bloody murder in this grim fucking universe, then."

Nisvillia couldn't help but smile "Wouldn't have it any other way."

A lowly alley, a fight occurs...

Dagmar enjoyed experiencing delectable cocktails, in both long pristine glasses and shifty metal mugs. Usually they would be decorated with colourful and pointless straws as well small confectioneries painted artistically around the rim.

It must be said, however, that he had never enjoyed the particular mixture of grit and blood when it touched his pallet - especially when the taste is further soured by an aching jaw. Spitting out the dank grime and dark blood from between teeth, Dagmar picked himself up off the ground and scraped the dirt from the left of his face.

Lifting his head he felt a slight pull on the side of neck, he opted to massage the pain in his jaw and neck away in long rubbing motions. All the while he glared coldly at the tall and brawny problem that stood in front of him, along with its slightly shorter but equally beefy friend.

A fight was all that was missing from Dagmars stay on the outpost, and he relished the idea of beating these no good blind siders into the ground.

"You two gonna play easy and let me knock you out one at a time?" He smirked, mocking them both as they approached him under the dim light of the alley way. Foolishly he had left all of his blades in his rented room, but he still had his poisons and his trusty knuckle dusters to deal with this scum. Quickly closing the gap between himself and the two muggers, Dagmar ducked right at the leaders heaving left hook, then sidestepped past the flaying arms of his companion. Dropping a quick left jab into his face as he passed, blood decorated his fists once more.

Kicking out violently and with nothing held back, Dagmar heard a squelching crack as his boot crashed down on the shorter mans knee. With an exclamation of heresy and vile vocabulary, he teetered on his good leg for a moment, only for his friend to push past him. Dagmar smiled as the whelps face smacked into the filthy floor.

Very suddenly the thug was upon Dagmar, his bulging right arm firing a jab his way, but he was much too slow. Blocking with his palm and bending his knees, Dagmar swung his other arm around in an arc, nicely crushing into the fuckers teeth. Sprawling backwards the man grabbed at his mouth, wailing in anger and annoyance he charged forward.

As the thug was crying like a babe, Dagmar had dipped into the poison pouch and laced his hand with a thin covering of a narcotic tranquilizer. As the big man ran forward blindly, Dagmar ran to the right of him, pushing past his arm and slapped him hard across his bloodied face.

He turned to Dagmar, who stood calmly with his hands in his pockets, and began to laugh. Grabbing Dagmar and working up brutal swing, the man continued to laugh.
"Night night, big guy." Dagmar said steadily.

Just as the brutish fist came down toward Dagmar in his casual stance, the brutes eyelids drooped and his jaw slackened, his arms and legs became completely apart from his body. With a slight flick of the wrist, Dagmar pushed him onto his worthless arse. "You boys be good now." He called back to them as he strolled away from the scene, straightening his jacket and brushing the blood from its collar, he headed back to his room.

Gravius sat in his Navigational Sanctum, deep in meditation. He had been meditating for several hours, until one of his attendants stirred him. He opened his eyes, and with them his look of tranquility changed to one of annoyance. Before him stood the ship's first mate, one Mr. Briggs. "The Lord Captain requests your presence with him on Outpost 57, please prepare your things." With that the man turned on his heel and walked out of the sanctum. Grumbling Gravius stood, smoothing out his robes and retrieving his staff.

He made his way to his quarters to retrieve the rest of his personal effects, including his auto pistol and holster. As he prepared his things Gravius wondered for what reason the captain wished his company on his trip to the outpost? It was no doubt a hive of scum, heresy and general filth, no place for a Navigator of his caliber. As he finished fixing the pistol and holster beneath his robes Gravius caught the Emperor's tarot cards in the corner of his eye. He sighed, and decided to see what the future could hold. Gravius sat cross legged on the floor focusing the energy of the immaterium of the deck, he breathed in, and out slowly and deeply, and drew his first card. His brow furrowed, he had drawn the Emperor of mankind... inversed, an ill omen of the malign influence of the warp. He drew the next 3 cards, the knight inversed, the galaxy, and the Daemon. Gravius frowned, portents of lies and deceit, exploration and doom... a poor way to start ones day.

Gravius quickly put his cards back together and placed them back on his cot. He quickly grabbed his prayer beads and staff and walked swiftly through the ship's corridors. As he muttered myriad prayers and litanies Gravius passed many servitirs and other crew, rather rudely pushing a few out of the way. He turned his mind away from the portents of the tarot as he entered the hanger, focusing instead on the journey ahead.

As he arrived at the shuttle that would carry them to the station Gravius took his place next to the shuttle ramp. Less than a minute after his arrival, the Lord captain came walking through the hanger door. As Horatio Drake approached his arms men each saluted him with the Aquila as he passed, ending just in front of Gravius, "Navigator are we ready to go? Are you ready to go?

Gravius gave a shallow bow and answered the Lord captain, "I can speak only for myself Lord captain. I am prepared to go... but I must ask, for what reason do you insist that I accompany you to the cesspool of Outpost 57? Would I not be more useful to you here Lord captain? "

@agentmanatee"I can speak only for myself Lord captain. I am prepared to go... but I must ask, for what reason do you insist that I accompany you to the cesspool of Outpost 57? Would I not be more useful to you here Lord captain?"

A deliberate sneer stretched the thin lips of the Rogue Trader, twisting the corners into an expression that could be considered slightly manic, his eyes boring holes into those of the Navigator as his Armsmen filed into the shuttle and the pilots prepared the craft for launch.

“My dear Gravius, I honestly do not trust you, nor do I think it would be wise to leave you aboard; I know you are running from something, and I believe that bringing you with me would be the best course of action to take.” His expression changed to one of mock thoughtfulness, a thin hand gently stroking his hairless chin, “while it is true that, should you die, I would need to find another Navigator, it is a risk I am willing to take.”

With another flash of a smile, this one more genuine than the last, he swanned up the boarding ramp and made his way toward the front of the vehicle. Though he would sit in the passenger compartment, he sat in front of all others as it should be.

Soon enough the simple craft was in motion, rising from the deck and bursting out into the open nothingness of space, Drake's thoughts resting on the reason why Gravius Pemelton was there in the first place. Exactly what his crime may have been he did not know, but he had heard tell from over talkative deck-hands (those that were not brain-dead thralls) that the self-satisfied servant of House Pemelton was – much like himself – in exile from his true home; some said that he had murdered another Navigator in cold blood, others that he had gotten too close to the warp he studied, and others that he had partaken of human flesh.

No doubt the last was a ridiculous claim, but the others...

“Pilot,” barked Drake through an internal comm-bead, “how far to the stations port?”

“Not far, lord,” came the clipped reply, the pilot far too busy to prattle with his superior, “about half-an-hour.”

Oh God-Emperor, he was to be stuck in this flying coffin - accompanied by soldiers carrying munitions, weapons, and that three-eyed witch – for half of a Terran hour?! Well, may as well get some answers.

“Navigator Gravius,” he half-shouted above the noise of the shuttles engines, knowing that the Navigator had his own comm-bead which he rarely took off when outside of his quarters, “tell me, for I can not be certain of the reasoning, but how came you to be in my service? I realise that I hired you, of course, but it was Mr Briggs who came to know your particulars. I would be equally interested to know.”

Whether the mutant even replied meant little to Drake, but conversation distracted him from his worries and, since Mr Briggs had hired him, he may as well find out more about him. They would be spending much time together, after all.

---

@PripovednikNo one in the Bloodied Fist really liked the man many hereabouts knew as 'the Dagger', a suitable moniker for one who walked about like a one-man armoury, blades festooning him from torso to toe – blades that, on this day, he had had the misfortune of leaving in his room.

For some time now he had been renting a chamber from Agmar D'Etant, a snivelling weasel of a man, all rat-faced and bucktoothed, but a slum-lord who also happened to be a loyal servant of the head ganger of the Bloodied Fist. For weeks now he had kept tabs on Dagmar, covertly as it happens, reporting his findings to his boss whenever the opportunity arose and just waiting for the day when that angst-ridden fool would pay for the death of their agents at a certain celebratory meal.

It was an event that some might have forgotten, but the Bloodied Fist never forgets a grudge, and Dagmar, by protecting Mathias, had dropped himself right in it.

Now they waited for him outside the hab-slum, a seven-storey building housing over a dozen extended families in squalor and filth, at least eleven toughs of varying degrees of skill – each armed with a sidearm, from stubbers to ex-Guard laspistols, and preparing to end the life of this interfering fool once and for all.

---

@KingfisherThere it was, the Broken Exhaust – some would say the finest place in this part of town – and sitting inside that particular building was none other than fat Nisvillia Blissponis and her two favoured goons.

Ralph the Shark, named such on account of his rows of sharpened teeth, could not quite believe his luck as he observed them from the comparative darkness and shadow of a nearby street corner; dressed in his favourite flak-vest and torn trousers, his feet as bare as the day he was born, he had not expected to find Nisvillia this quickly! True, it has been several days, but his employer was an impatient man...should he be able to complete his assignment, well, his employer would be very happy.

Ever since her families fall she had been hunted, hunted by sharks like himself, and her very presence made her enemies of the larger gangs of the station. Emperor bear witness, his was not the only one willing to pay good thrones to see her life extinguished.

Slowly, softly, he slid the muffled las-pistol from its holster – it was a custom model, made specially for a nice untroubled kill, the elongated muzzle ensuring as little sound escaped as possible when fired – taking a knee where he stood and resting the muzzle of the weapon on an upheld forearm.

“One...two...”

On the count of three he exhaled and squeezed the trigger of his weapon, a searing beam of laser speeding toward the window of the joint, the heat able to be felt by Nisvillia as the projectile missed her face by a mere inch; whatever chance the Shark might have had was now gone, whores letting up screams and drug-dealers scattering to the four winds, the corpse of a waitress draped almost elegantly across the table where Blissponis and her hired muscle had seated themselves.

It was a botched job, and Ralph now knew his own life was forfeit, but if anyone thought this would be the last attempt on the life of this spoilt toad they were gravely mistaken.

On a normal day, Safi would tell you that eavesdropping is not his specialty. This was not a normal day, however, as for a man who had spent the majority of his life shooting at whatever the Galaxy had to offer, sitting in this… admittedly cozy bar and quietly sipping his drink was definitely unusual. And the situation was forcing Safi to explore his hidden depths, and learn just how capable he was at lending an ear to other people’s conversations. He would find out, as the conversation continued, that for a man whose eardrums were burst multiple times in the past to krak grenades, he was good at following a regular conversation, and not just barking orders. Interestingly enough, they were talking about the Imperial Guard. Something about how the average life expectancy of a Guardsman was only fifteen hours.

It made Safi stop and think for a moment, as he looked down, eyeing the eggs and bacon in front of him on the table. ‘’30 years is… how many hours?’’ He thought for a moment. He wasn’t a math guy. He couldn’t be bothered with calculating that. He quickly switched the topic to something more pragmatic. ‘’Did I eat any of this?’’ Safi wondered as he took another sip of his Ginvict, eyes still fixed on the dish in front of him. One strip of bacon was half eaten, so he assumed that he had taken at least a bite. He was hungry, and it looked better than what he had eaten for three decades. Putting down his cup, he grabbed the fork and took a greedy piece out of the meal standing in front of him. The scrambled eggs were fatalistic and simply slumped themselves on the fork, while a defiant strip of bacon was trying to free itself from the fork. Safi did not let it go. Following this first strike, Safi decided to follow up and finished his meal in about two minutes. Finishing his remaining Ginvict in a single sip, Safi left the bar.

For Safi, this Outpost was absolutely horrible. Whores, druggies, fags, thieves, all sorts of scum populated this place. Back when he was young, in the Planetary Defense Force, at least he could clean them out. But he was far away from ‘home’, and last he had seen it, it was a desolate ruin littered with literally millions of corpses. Deep down, Safi knew that he actually didn’t care about the scum around him. There was, somewhere in the Galaxy, a planet-sized mass of an alien hive mind, eating god knows how many humans, or anything else, right now. A man keeping himself intoxicated to forget how miserable his life is deserved no hate – he was irrelevant. Safi could, in fact, relate. A few years back, after his tour of duty, he had gone through the same things. Nowadays, he just tried not to think deeply about it.

He noticed a burly, leather clad punk fighting a bunch of thugs in an alleyway as he walked by. Halting his steps, he watched as the fellow, who seemed like he had participated in his fair share of battles, first fell, but eventually got the upper hand and started breaking bones. Safi guessed he’d win from then on and continued on his way to his admittedly expensive quarters, in a more respectable part of the Outpost – Safi liked to see the sun rise and set, as it gave him some comfort. High above him, the ship of a Rogue Trader had entered orbit. On a distant planet, a man who had once served alongside Safi commit suicide via a laspistol shot to the head upon witnessing a horde of Demons overwhelm his trench, and kill his men. Far beyond that, an immeasurably numerous host of eldritch horrors plotted to destroy all life. But Safi tried not to think about it. Instead, he clung onto the taste of eggs and bacon in his mouth, and hoped that he could get a nice view of the sky from the reinforced glass pane that covered the side of his quarters. He could not think of much better in life.

Trudging among the ragged sprawl of stalls, peddlers, open-air cook shops and scavenger piles which passed for open commerce on this sorry excuse of a station. Armadeus, donned in his fine green tailcoat kept tight against him, it's tails billowing with each gust of wind which he assumed must have appeared a king's finery to the bustling crowds of gaunt faces around him. As he strolled, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of cooking vermin for sale, joined by a variety of other scents he was glad not to know the cause off.

"Aah, the sights and smells of the trade market. As welcoming as ever." He spoke aloud as he took a sniff, taking in the quaint aroma. As his eyes fell over the people, ranging from reclaimators, dregs and that handful of cocky gang blades that like flies to shit, stood nearby. Needless to say, the sort that congregated here were not of the reputable type. Which contributed to the fact why Armadeus's one fleshy hand now rested across the pouch at his side, containing the entirety of throne gelt to his name, the other, bionic arm swung at his side as he walked. His was a walk of the dignified, back straight and in deep contrast to the hunched and slouched figures that made up the general populace of Outpost 57.

He should have known by the fragging name, saints be damned, that this place was not where would want to be left stranded without a ship. 'Outpost 57', not even worthy of an actual name, just another statistic of the Imperium. Continuing this inner monologue, Armadeus found himself lazily browsing the various store fronts. And what exciting objects for sale there was; poorly patched clothing, ill-repaired goods and food rations supplemented with barely edible cooked vermin. He found himself groaning with contempt.

That was until he caught the glint of metal sitting atop a rotten, wood plank of a scrapped together storefront which caught his eye, a wiry man garbed in a torn and brown coat stood behind it talking to an equally emaciated male.
"Finally, I-I have what you wanted... Now give me my fathers pin!" The male spoke frantically and quickly as Armadeus strode towards them. He noticed three rusted and iron grey needles bundled tightly in the frantic man's coiled fist as he came up besides him. Taking a closer look at the storefront and the glinting object. It appeared to be a brooch, a skull without a jaw, surrounded by a laurel and three crossed swords behind that.

The once seneschal, picked up the brooch, inspecting it between his fingers. He turned his attention back to the two, both were staring at the newcomer now. There was no words needed, Armadeus flicked the trader a throne gelt coin, the grubby store-merchant quickly grasped at the falling coin, taking it into his stuffy fist. Before the second man could even gather a screech worthy of a banshee, Armadeus had his receding back to them whilst using his sleeve to rub the grime coating the bronze plated brooch, it appeared to be a brooch an Imperial Guardsmen might wear. With a shrug, the brooch now found itself pinned to the left side of it's new owners coat. And did it look good.

"Is everything here to your satisfact-"

The chirpy blonde waitress's heart-shaped face exploded in a chunky blast of gooey matter and dark red blood, splattering the group in gore. She swayed slightly, her mouth still lolled open, before toppling forwards into the booth like some graceful dancer, slumping down onto the smoothe wooden table with a rather dainty 'THUD'.

The bar erupted suddenly into a frantic whir of panic and confusion, with customers clambering to get out left, right, and centre.

For the two ex-guardsmen, the world began to move in slow motion, as their eyes traced the laser beam's point of origin to the Shark-toothed man with the telltale gun crouching down in a booth on the other side of the room.

Little Fletcher sprung into action, leaping out of his seat and yanking his Bolter Pistol out of its leather holster, letting off a quick hailstorm of bullets with the squeeze of its trigger.

A thundering of self-propelled explosive shells rattled through the air, tearing into the booth with ravenous frenzy. The assassin dived backwards, narrowly avoiding the exploding furniture, as he tumbled artfully onto the floor.

Big Fletcher rolled out of their booth with militaristic precision, letting off an armour-frying beams from his lasgun as he took cover behind a pillar.

Everything was moving considerably faster for Nisvillia, who suddenly found herself splattered in bits of waitress, and very much alone in her booth. She let out a frustrated hiss, staring down at her designer attire.

"They got brains on my -FUCKING- jacket!"

The assassin popped up from his bundled position on the floor, aiming his lasgun squarely at Nisvillia, but a sudden crackle of smouldering laser soon set him darting for cover, leaping across the room and rolling down behind the counter.

Little Fletcher fired off another three-shot-burst of shells, which shrieked across the room and bit through the soft wooden counter, sending splinters flying all over the bar.

The assassin just about managed to duck down beneath the roaring gunfire, bullets smashing into the drinks cabinet behind him, sending jagged shards raining down upon him in a downpour of glass as he crouched beneath the explosive assult.

Nisvillia squeezed herself awkwardly out of the booth as the thundering of the firefight wailed in her ears, having to suck in her enormous gut somewhat as she heaved herself uncomfortably between the table. The room had become unbearably hot, and her thighs were chaffing together as she pulled her scoped laspistol out of its pocket in her jacket, lamenting the fact that she'd probably have a new set of rashes to tend to later that day.

Ejecting an empty clip, Little Fletcher holstered his defunct bolter, before drawing his serrated combat knife, and padding cautiously towards the counter.

Big Fletcher, shooting Little Fletcher a silent nod, aimed his lasgun where they'd last seen the assassin duck down, ready to melt him into so much fried goo when he next popped back up.

Little Fletcher took one more calculated step forwards, then suddenly the assassin came hurtling over the counter in a berserk blur of speed, clutching a steak knife in his scarred hand. The Shark-toothed thug battered Little Fletcher's fist down before he could raise it, and in a furry-driven flash of steel his steak knife had slashed straight through the giant man's jugular, sending hot blood pitter-pattering across the counter.

Big Fletcher let our a feral snarl from across the room, rapidly squeezing the trigger of his lasgun and sending a searing blast of crackling energy flying through the bar. The shark-toothed assassin firmly spun Little Fletcher into the path of the projectile, and the laser ripped through his body armour, melting padding and skin alike in an agonizing torrent of scolding blue flame.

Blood bubbled in Little Fletcher's mouth, his eyes rolling back into his head, and with a sharp push his humongous corpse dropped to the floor, a pool of dark red spilling out at he crashed down with a heavy 'THUNK!'

Big Fletcher adjusted his aim, but the assassin was quicker; firing off a blast of laser with a swift squeeze of the weapon's trigger. Scorching energy smashed into Big Fletcher's chest, blowing a hole straight through his tanned flesh. A muffle d gasp oozed out of his lips, and then the ex-guardsman collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.

KRSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSH!

A stream of laser from Nisvilia's scopped-pistol hissed through the air, blowing out the back of Ralph the Shark's feral likeness. A dark red smear splattered across the floor, and then the assassin fell to the ground for the finale time.

The young woman stood alone in the suddenly silent bar, the flabby mass of her obese body splattered with dark blood. Her breathing had become raspy and jagged, with her boulder-like belly rising and falling with each staggered wheeze.

"Fuck me, I need a drink."

One of the side effects of Pratus Gaelor's extensive bionic augmentation was that his footfalls were exceptionally heavy for a man of his stature. The artificial limbs of his body were considerably more dense than organic matter, crafted out of chromium and steel, and thudded heavily on the ground of Outpost Fifty-Seven's trade market. Gaelor had come here to purchase supplies for a trip into the unknown, as he had learned that a Rogue Trader had arrived into the outpost's orbit -- a potential ticket out of here. One of the first things Gaelor had done upon his arrival on Outpost Fifty-Seven was patching his data slate into the outpost's communication network, allowing him to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the void traffic.

All around Gaelor, people looked up from their business as they heard the Enginseer approach. Murmurs followed shortly after. Gaelor doubted these miscreants had ever been fortunate enough to lock eyes with a blessed tech-priest of the Machine Cult before. Vermin, he thought to himself as his bionic eye scanned the crowd, lingering a little longer on those with weapons. His Mechadendrite twitched.

"REMOVE YOURSELVES FROM MY PATH," Gaelor said, the vox-unit grafted into his throat projecting the statement in its characteristic, flat tone. Gaelor moved his white cloak aside to reveal his las-carbine, its stock folded, strapped against his thigh. Immediately, the crowd parted in front of him. "WHERE CAN I FIND... PARTS?" Gaelor asked, struggling to make himself known in terms that the yokels before him could understand. A few hands were raised, fingers pointing towards a storefront set into a building so decrepit Gaelor wouldn't have been surprised if it collapsed then-and-there.

Without another word, the Enginseer stomped towards it. He was briefly distracted by a banshee's wail as some kind of commotion occurred elsewhere in the market, but he paid no further attention to it.

Inside, the store was gloomy, and Gaelor cranked up the brightness setting and amped the contrast on his bionic eye. The store resolved into focus and Gaelor saw machine parts, oil flasks and tools scattered everywhere -- on the floor, on workbenches, littering cabinet shelves; everywhere. "I REQUEST THE PRESENCE OF THE ATTENDING SHOPKEEPER."

At this call, a small man shuffled into view. He was old, hunched over and the visor on his face made him look like an insect with its large, bulging lenses. "Y-yes? How can I help you, tech-priest?" the shopkeeper asked in a wheezing voice. "I REQUIRE A FLASK OF MACHINE OIL, TWO DENDRITE COGS, A COGITATOR POWER SUPPLY UNIT AND AN ICTHELION-PATTERN DATA SLATE BATTERY," Gaelor asked. He strongly doubted the man had everything he needed, but to Gaelor's surprise the shopkeeper simply nodded and shuffled away into the back of the store.

Noise emerged from the back as the shopkeeper presumably started overturning everything, looking for the requested items. Bemused, Gaelor waited, taking the time to inspect the store more thoroughly. He realized some of the machine parts here belonged to a Sentinel walker of the Imperial Guard, and yet others once belonged to a... was that really the unusually wide wheel of an Astartes Assault Bike? A most interesting store, Gaelor thought to himself. It was a potent reminder that this outpost had once housed the Imperium's armed forces.

The shopkeeper returned with all of Gaelor's requested items. The Enginseer inspected the data slate battery, turning it over in his hand, and asked: "HOW DID YOU OBTAIN THIS?"

Wringing his hands together, the shopkeeper replied. "Well, master tech-priest, from a feller just as yerself. He weren't happy to part with it, but he needed the coin. And, eh, speaking of coin... that'll be three throne gelts, if ye please."

So I am not the first to pass through here, Gaelor mused. That was somewhat unfortunate news. It could possibly mean that any technological relics in the Kronus Expanse had already been pilfered by one of his colleagues. Mentally digesting this tidbit, Gaelor paid the shopkeeper from a pouch at his waist and left the store with his goods, his bionic eye automatically adjusting its settings to the bright sunlight outside. The Enginseer had rented an apartment not far from the trade market, situated between it and the station port, from a rather terrified landlord. He made his way there now, occasionally pausing to blare another REMOVE YOURSELVES command at the bustling crowds of the outpost's streets.

Dagmars plated boot lightly clinked against the empty and dinted can once more as he paced down the equally empty and misshapen alley, with his arms bent at the elbow and hands deep in his pockets. Not much could be seen in the evening aside from your own feet in these parts, no investments had been made to illuminate the backstreets, and Dagmar doubted there ever would be.

However, this was no impediment to Dagmar, who was used to finding his way around the gloomy mazes of civilisation. His eyes had long since trained themselves to adjust, his nose on the other hand had not – the smell was repulsive.

Perhaps it was the festering corpses of vermin or just the everyday shit people seemed to think belonged on the floor, Dagmar really didn’t want to think about it. Playing with his room key to distract himself from his senses, Dagmar twirled it this way and that in his pocket, delicate like, as if it were a blade.

‘Frag, my blades!’ Dagmar exclaimed internally, pushing a rolling stone of probability and reasoning into motion. What if that good-for-nothing Agmar had taken them, run them off to market for a nice price? A frown protruded onto Dagmar’s face, the only indication to the outside world of his annoyance, he continued to think up scenarios of increasing ill ending.

To halt this frustration before it consumed him, Dagmar stamped down on the can he had, up until now, been kicking for a few blocks. Flattened into the ground, Dagmar walked past the new addition of trash with his anger released, and turned the last corner to face his hab-slum.
He stopped suddenly.

Perhaps it was his previous track of thought that had paranoid him, but the lights in the entrance room were on. To most this would seem normal, but for the last week or so Dagmar had stayed here Agmar hadn’t wasted his pocket on such pleasantries as a welcoming atmosphere.
The only reason they would be on is if he had company, or he was in a particularly pleasant mood, the latter being less likely. On second thought however, Dagmar didn’t know the man well.

Choosing to play it safe, Dagmar reached up with his hand and pushed back the small power button for his Auspex scanner. He was met by a flare of light in his right eye.

At least a dozen humanoids were behind the makeshift fence that surrounded the entrance to the slum, almost all of them armed, Dagmar could tell by the lack of heat signature in their hands.

Crouching down Dagmar backtracked the way he came, pulling his collar up and over his mouth and nose; he searched the floor with his keen eyes. After a few false hopes and minutes of search, Dagmar found the crushed can he had left.

Picking it up and wiping it down on his trousers, he quickly walked over to the alley wall and held it there in his left hand. Pushing a single knuckle duster blade into the can he dragged it down and around, created a sharp metal edge and point.
Shoving this half-made shiv into his knife sheath, he searched the floor once more for the last component. Bending down, Dagmar grabbed a scrap of clothing buried beneath a pile of miscellaneous rubbish.

Tearing the material into three separate strips, he wrapped the first completely around the bottom half of the would-be shiv, the second strip he zigzagged along the first and the third he looped thrice, pulling the shiv handle through each loop. Pulling the strip tight and knotting it, Dagmar had a weapon of poor quality, but a weapon none the less.

Returning to the crossroads before the hab-slum, Dagmar peered around the corner to confirm the assailants were all still there. Had those two thugs been of some importance? Whoever these guys were, they were not what Dagmar needed.

Shifting his shiv into the sleeve of his jacket, Dagmar walked slowly and cautiously forward down the alley. Half way down he turned into the adjacent alley, and walked toward the door of the block there. A large black man with a bionic hand dressed in white stood glaring at him as he approached.

“Do you have an appointment?” He growled.

These guys were a small time gang that worked with illegal drugs and the like, Dagmar had used one of their guys a few days ago for the ingredients to his narcotic tranquillizer. It was the only reason he had rented accommodation in this shit hole.

“There’s a storm heading your way soon, and you need to inform your boss.” Dagmar spoke as if distressed; on the contrary he was pleased with his quick thinking.

“Walk away before I break you.” The doormen rudely replied, spittle gathering at the corner of his pink lips.
With a glint of steel and a quick wrist, Dagmar retrieved his shiv from his sleeve and pushed it up against the guard’s throat. The bulge of his Adams Apple pushing against its sharp edge drew a single drop of blood.

“Listen and listen closely.” Dagmar hissed into the face of this trapped mutt. “A group of men are going to march over here and shoot you all up.” Dagmar pushed his elbow up against the wall, forcing the man onto his tiptoes for the sake of his throat. “If you don’t ready yourselves, you’re dead!”

“O-Okay, alright. Get that blade off of me.” His authority diminished, the doormen retreated through the dank opening behind him.

Leaning up against the wall, with his right boot rested flat upon it, Dagmar kept his eye on the alley way he had entered through, throwing and catching his blade as he did.

As he waited the faint reverberation of night life dropped from the roofs around him and into his ears. He heard mostly screams, shouts and the sound of violence. After a few minutes of the cringing harmony, a short but athletic man, also black but with bright blue hair pushed the door open and pulled his stubber on Dagmar.

“Who the frak is this?” He was joined by five others, similarly armed.

“I know him, poison guy right?” Came a deep voice from behind the others, it belonged to a short and well-built black female, Dagmar nodded.

“You sold to this stupid vermin-spine?” The blue haired one barked back at its underling.

“Well, yeah. He paid good money, even tipped me for Emperor’s sake.” She replied, clinging to the hope that she had done no wrong. Her already ugly face distorted into a frown of both confusion and annoyance.

Pushing the cold barrel of his stubber into the bottom of Dagmars still sore jaw, the leader of the group grabbed him by the bloodied collar and pushed him forward down the alley.

“Show us this mob then, genius.”

Dagmar walked forward slowly, followed by the blue haired ego and his five men and woman. He stopped when he came to the end of the alley and beckoned the ego forward.

“There behind those fences, they are gathered.” He whispered.

Speaking a tad louder than Dagmar would have liked, the blue hair pulled them both back around the corner.
“How’d you know? Throne, why should I trust you?”

Dagmar reached up to his head, the ego held his stubber tightly and watched him closely, and pulled off his auspex scanner.
“Check for yourself...” Dagmar hit the power button “Just hold it up to your eye and look.”.

The ego did as he had instructed and popped his head out around the corner. The others hadn’t moved, they were all still glued to the wall with their guns raised and ready, the woman still looking at Dagmar.

“Woah. I gotta get myself one of these. How much?” a look of bewilderment and the words ‘witchcraft’ painted the ego’s face.

“You won’t find any on this rock, and mine isn’t for sale.” Dagmar said plainly.

The ego was not used to being told no by the looks of the scowl he gave, but neither was he used to charity, and for all he knew Dagmar had just saved him from a gang raid.

Brushing his disappointment aside he signalled his men to advance, but Dagmar stood in their way. Holding his hands up, he told them to stop. Turning to the leader he pointed at him, and then to the shadows of the alley opposite too.

“Hide in these alleys, when they come through the doors, end them.” He prompted.

Nodding silently, the ego pulled over the female and another to the opposite alley and waited, ready. Looking to the others in the opposite alley, Dagmar spotted the bionic arm of the doormen held a lasgun with a barrel magazine.

This was going to be fun.

---

Trudging down toward the door of the fence through the grime, Dagmar looked back to see two dark silhouettes of peeking heads. As he approached the scratched metal door, he took a vial from his poison pouch, and began to shake it. A mix of an exotic serpent gland, and many powdered roots from Xeno marshes results in the aggressive poison that targets the lungs, Akpaloli.

Clicking the latch at the bottom of the metal vial shell, he faced the end away from himself and threw it over the top of the fence, hissing as it flew. With a pleasant clink he heard the vial connect, with either ground or person.

“What’s this? What the frak is - ” The at first alarmed voice choked up suddenly, beginning to violently cough and choke, Dagmar heard unsettled shuffling and the gargling of blood.

Quickly he ran, heading back the way he came, he heard shouts and yells as the source of the thrown vial was identified as being outside. The door to the fence was brought off its hinges as a hulk of a man, face scarred and head bald, kicked it down with his enormous foot.
Just as Dagmar reached the two alleys and heard the crack of a laspistols superheated beam hitting the wall behind him, he dove into cover and rolled back onto his feet, the fireworks began.

First to fire was the blue haired ego, his stubber trigger squeezed tightly; he unloaded the clip in what must have been record time. Then the doormen, not risking injury, fired his Lasgun blindly around the corner, 220 round per minutes sent fierily toward the oncoming enemy.
After that it was flash after flash of bullet and laser, reloading clips and screaming as the adrenaline rushed into their veins, ferocious merciless death dealing that took Dagmar back to unpleasant memories – and then a lull.

---

The crackling air settled on the ground along with the empty shells of bullets, and no noise was made for some seconds.

“Yahha! Yes!” the ego screamed, walking over to Dagmar “That was crazy, we really –“

Blood, flesh and brittle bone enthusiastically exploded over Dagmar before he could duck away, a single echoing shot followed suit as the gang leader fell to his knees, a whole blasted through his temporal lobe and out through his jaw which hung from what remained of his face – the auspex scanner he had been wearing all but ruined. The female on the other side almost ran across the firing lane, but the doormen held her back as she sobbed, and peered around the corner.

Another lone shot ricocheted off the wall, sending a billow of dust into the air, the doormen shrunk back into the wall once more. Looking at Dagmar, who had pulled the body of the now red haired leader into the alley, he presented him with three fingers.

Three targets.

Turning to the two men behind him, Dagmar spoke with a hushed tone; they were both in shock and couldn’t free their gaze from the body on the ground.

“Lasgun over there is going to need to get on this side. He needs covering fire.”

They nodded in understanding and doubled up on the corner, ready to shoot anything and everything, sorrow slowly turning to rage and vengeance. Dagmar patted them on the back and they leaned into position, spraying the narrow corridor of fire with bullets.
The doormen ran and jumped, skidding into position next to Dagmar, he pulled him close.

“Three of them, one of them have a sniper rifle!” He informed, but too late.

Another single shot whistled into the standing gang member whose body was flung against the far wall, barely able to release a groan of pain before falling motionless onto the floor.

Taking the stubber from the body, Dagmar also took the leaders firearm and held the two in each hand. Three shots. Standard clip size for a sniper rifle a civilian could acquire is five, he only hoped this was a standard rifle.

Pulling out his shiv Dagmar cut the sleeve off of the man against the wall and grabbed the Lasgun from the doormen, draping the sleeve on the end of the barrel, through a sniper scope it was an arm. Dagmar edged the gun into view and fainted reaching across the divide. A rattling shot fired and ripped through the sleeve, the scent of burning synthetics filled his nostrils and caught at the back of his throat.

“He has one shot left. Make him waste it then charge him, got it?” it had been a while since Dagmar had asked so much of someone in such harsh tones, not since he hunted with his feral tribe.

“I will come around behind them if I can.”

The doormen nodded silently as he pulled the corpses behind him, pushing himself against the wall he waited with his Lasgun in hand, the female was still sobbing, but the remaining member was ready to fight.

Turning past the metal door he had held the bionic arm against, Dagmar sprinted through the slightly wider but just as dirty street. His feet heavily landing against the floor, he took deep and steady breaths as he ran, arms working with legs. A tall mesh fence cut off the route he had intended, but it wasn’t the largest obstacle he had ever conquered. Leaping on top of a small metal shack nearby, he felt it buckle beneath him and just managed to grab an overhanging ladder and pulled himself up.

Climbing upwards, Dagmar finally reached the roof, which had seen better days. Hopping between cracks and gaping holes that revealed the underprivileged lives of those that lived there, Dagmar reached the opposite side and swung his legs over the edge, clambering down the ladders until he was safe to drop.

Racing forward he heard the whip crack of a rifle and a chilling scream; he refused to stop running and spurred forward, skidding around the corner.

There he saw the hab-slum, bodies sprawled around littering the floor, a deep puddle of crimson. Two men were flat against the wall with laspistols raised, another lay on his front, a rifle tucked under him as he reloaded.

“Cover me you thick grieves!” yelled the sniper at his two gangmen.

A ripping fusillade of red beams sped toward the sniper and shredded him in a flash of burning flesh as the bionic ran forward with his lasgun blazing, turning on the two others as he saw them.

"DIE!"

One of them let off a few rounds, two smacked into the doormen’s chest and faint whispers of smoke rose from the wounds they made. Rushing forward Dagmar threw down the Stubbers he held and took his shiv in hand, as he ran he stuttered his step and lunged forward powerfully, sending the blade flying through the air into the back of the nearest thug, whose arms were flung into the air as it connected with his spine.
Falling to the floor the doormen grasped at his chest, his finger still pulled at the trigger however, sending a trail of red into the sky. Dagmar hadn’t stopped running and crashed into the second man, forcing him against his own cover and crunched a fist into his ribs. The man retorted with the back of his elbow which knocked Dagmar back, but he returned with a knee into the same side of his ribcage and felt the bone buckle. Ignoring the yelp of pain, Dagmar dug another fist into his face, and again and another into the arm which held the laspistol.

The man dropped down onto his back and whined deeply, his face a portrait of ripped flesh and his left side ribs shattered entirely.
Dagmar pulled the shiv from the back of his dead friend and stumbled over to the remaining assailant, resting the blade against the man’s chest for a moment he quickly thrust it up and through the minefield of broken ribs to his heart – he fell dead on Dagmar’s arm.

Gravius did not like his new Lord captain, in fact Gravius intensely DISLIKED Horatio Drake. In his mind, Drake was like every other Trader noble, pompous, paranoid and generally full of himself. The way that Lord captain Drake answered Gravius's question, sneering and patronizing, was no way a human, high born or not, should speak to a blessed Navigator... it was going to be a long descent to the outpost. The way he looked at Gravius when he spoke... in it was the contempt with which mam beheld mutant.

Obviously Gravius did not dignify Horatio with a response and merely nodded, hiding a glare with his hood. As the small group embarked on the craft that would bring them to Outpost 57 Gravius decided he would tell the Lord captain of the portents in the Emperor's tarot, which would either make him nervous, or laugh at the Navigator. Gravius intentionally sat almost directly across from Drake intent on showing that he would not back down from the Lord captains accusations. As the ship shuttered and hummed, Gravius continued to pray, though now it was more for luck that there would be few complications on the grimy station below.

"Navigator Gravius, tell me for I can not be certain of the reasoning, but how came you to be in my service?I realize that I hired you, of course, but it was Mr. Briggs who came to know your particulars. I would be equally interested to know." Gravius sighed under his breath, not that he could easily have been heard if he had shouted his sigh, but more because Gravius had been waiting for the question for awhile... and he was not a good liar. "I'm surprised Mr. Briggs didn't inform you, though he clearly informed someone as one of my attendants overheard your loose lipped deck hands gossiping about it. I will tell you flatly Lord captain, I am in exile because I murdered another Navigator in my own house. It was, in truth, not what I had expected to happen when I confronted him over being a disgusting heretic... Though now that I look back on it the outcome of his death was inevitable, it's my exile that makes no sense." That should satisfy the bastard. Gravius sighed again, "I do have... news of a sort Lord captain, about the tarot if you would hear it." Gravius did not want to be stuck in a small space with Horatio much longer, and truly hope they would arrive at the outpost in due haste.

@agentmanatee Horatio Drake, the noble son of a noble son, had no need to hear the sigh that would had signalled both the Navigators dislike for him, and his obvious frustration at the situation he now found himself in; this Rogue Trader may be self-absorbed, indulgent, quick to mock others and generally lazy, but to one born into a life within the class of the Terran nobility he or she need only look upon the other person to strip away everything and reveal their true selves.

Indeed, the entirety of the Terran aristocracy played such a game from the moment they were old enough to fool another person. The peacock fashions and clothing, the clipped accents and use of High Gothic in every day conversation, the almost emotionless way in which they held themselves - all were merely tools in a full box of tricks designed to allow the user to live one more day in such a grouping.

For all this he was still a very superstitious man, and whatever Gravius might have to say about the Emperor's Tarot was surely something that he would want to hear.

Moments passed, seconds ticking away, before he gave a nod of curt acquiescence, “I would hear it,” he yelled into his comm-bead, “what does the tarot say?”

All the while they drew closer to Outpost Fifty-Seven, and it would not be long now before both Drake and Gravius would get what they wanted; one to surround himself with the extraordinary and the unusual, and the other to get off the shuttle and away from him.

---

@Pripovednik@Hank@Kingfisher@Lone Wanderer@PeikDagmar probably considered himself quite smart after his little stunt, pulling one gang into a fire-fight with another in order to save his own life, probably pretty smug...what he seemed not to understand, but what he should have, was that the ecosystem of Outpost Fifty-Seven was like any other when it was disturbed, and he had just riled up a hornets nest.

The Bloodied Fist owned these slums, their boss Almano Jigandi was feared across the station for his ruthlessness and his willingness to kill anyone and everyone. Gangsters, drug-dealers, pimps and owners of seemingly harmless establishments had all suffered when they had signed a deal with this particular Devil. Now the Dagger had bought death to an entire crew of this gang, this boss, and news spread like a conflagration from one end of the Outpost to the other.

All across the station comms and radios crackled to life, otherwise unoccupied persons suddenly picking up weapons – either hidden or at least nearby – finding them loaded and awaiting the signal of Mr Jigandi to execute his will on not only the persecutor of this heinous assault, but also the gang that was now known to have assisted him.

In the Trade Market stalls were suddenly closing, only outsiders and the stupid keeping their livelihoods open, previously unseen groups of dispersed lowlifes – ex Guard, criminals, hired guns and others – gathering together to form the lowest tier of the Fists army on the ground.

From the better quarters, such as where the Broken Exhaust was situated, came the men that would lead these hoodlums and toughs into the fray; former officers of the Navy and Guard, experienced scrappers and knife fighters, and aristocrats without a throne to their name.

Others were mobilising, of course, for Outpost Fifty-Seven was a much divided patch of floating metal. Several families were tied to Jigandi by various machinations, their own bruisers and throat-slitters slithering off to find the nearest allied group, while over a dozen others simply holed up in their own headquarters and prepared to wait it out.

The gang to which Ego had belonged before his death, the Blue Virus lorded over by a former raider and pirate known as Black John, gathered all their forces to the crossroads. Now that Agmar and his cronies were out of the way, they had come to take over his hab-slums and fight to keep them if it came to it; several dozen blue-haired fighters, tooled up with anything they could find or carry, made their presence known at the crossroads where Dagmar was now more-or-less alone.

There would soon be an explosion of violence, and the fuse to the keg was already lit; would those lost individuals band together? Would they head for the port and hope to find a way off the station before it imploded on itself? Would they call in contacts of their own? Who could know?

Their lives, their choices, and hopefully they would make the right one.

Broken Exhaust

Solasier Ra was quite unimpressed by this establishment, as he was almost all human facilities. Supposedly this was the the most luxurious eatery in the entirety of this dilapidated station, but he wouldn't be surprised if he was given a trough to eat from. He uninterestedly pushed some unknown foodstuff of questionable edibility around his plate as he sat quietly and contemplatively. Another day, another filthy Mon-keigh facility that he had to smuggle himself into. Kaelor was half the span of the galaxy away at this time, and he had little to do until it made its rounds back through this sector. While he was not impatient, he was also very tired of being forced to live like this: in secrecy and putridity. To lessen his suffering, he had tried to hitchhike on human ships to put himself closer to Kaelor's path, but that only led him to places like this.

He leaned back in his seat, careful to not disturb too greatly the hood covering his face. To keep a low profile, he wore lengthy, voluminous robes to disguise his appearance. The obtuse garment aided to mask the alien fluidity of his movements, but not enough to make them imperceptible to a keen observer. Returning to the Children of Thorns was out of the question; it was only in recognition of his skills and accomplishments that they had allowed him to live when he declared his intentions to leave their band. A disgraceful return would not be looked upon favorably. He had endured worse conditions than this when he was a pirate, but the key difference was how bored he now was. He found little to do but wander around, meditate, and try to find some manner of foul, human food that was even somewhat palatable.

He checked the closest chronometer. It was time that he got up and moving. A human trader ship would be arriving within the hour, and he planned to pass himself off as a crewmember to stow away aboard it. However, before Solasier rose to his feet, he noticed a human with a gun a few booths away. He took aim at some persons sat at a bar, oblivious to the posed threat which the Eldar noticed only from his angle. Solasier remained seated. A little entertainment went well with a meal.

The man fired and missed his intended target, and the establishment exploded into screams and gunfire. Patrons surged out of the bar as the gunman contended with his now alerted marks. It almost physically pained Solasier to watch the fight take place. Humans were so incredibly clumsy when they moved, it was a shock to him that they didn't constantly dislocate their own limbs. The slowness and inefficiency of their movements would be humorous if it wasn't embarrassing, like watching a pair of infants struggle over a toy. A bullet was fired in Solasier's direction, and without rising from his seat, he rolled his neck to avoid it meeting his head. This action performed as casually as one would adjust their position to avoid a glare. Eventually the dust settled, the gunman managing to kill two of his targets in the struggle, and being killed himself. What a pathetic show. If anyone had been stupid enough to try and ambush Solasier and miss their first shot, they would not have a second.

The remaining human was a woman, as far as Solasier could tell. She seemed incredibly unwell, her body corpulent and disgustingly bloated. How humans could even live like that confused the Eldar. Either way, she looked about two steps from death, herself, despite being practically uninjured. Considering the beast too ugly to continue looking at, Solasier considered his entertainment over. He rose from his seat, a highly conspicuous movement given his height and that he was one of the only living patrons left in the bar, and began to walk out. Masked by his robes, his long stride and uncannily graceful movement were only strange at passing glance, not worth of undue suspicion from most. He kept his elfin, inhuman features hidden in the shadows of his hood. Reaching the door of the bar, he stopped momentarily. There was a strange tension in the air, he realized. He would have to proceed to the docks quickly, if he wanted to avoid being caught up in whatever was about to transpire. Proceeding out of the establishment, his hand idly fell to rest on the splinter pistol concealed under his robes.

Dust filtered through the air, catching the artificial light emitted by the bulbs embedded into the shabby metal walls. Faded paint - flakes of gold, blue, red, a host of colors - clung yet to the walls, a vestige of the small sanctuary's once proud nature. Now the temple wallowed in corruption. The Ministorum priest sat at the top of the small dais, scribbling notes into a small leather-bound book with a fury. Behind him, several men muttered quietly among drifting smoke. Two leaned against opposite walls, scarred men home to cold, dead eyes and enhanced muscle. On their hips sat autopistols and combat knifes. At the table sat three men, two of normal build with one shorter than the others. The short one wore a tattered coat of red, patches covering various areas where the material had torn. Lanky hair and broken teeth framed leering eyes, constantly darting around the building. An unassuming man, yet a malevolent aura surrounded him.

The other two wore masks of black, voices scrambled by vox equipment. Identically clothed, it was impossible to discern who they were. A thump coming from outside the temple's door halted their conversation momentarily, glancing back to the entrance. After no sounds came for several seconds, the trio resumed speaking furtively. A second thump drew the concerns of one of the guards, hand slipping up towards the firearm he carried. Stepping slowly towards the door, he stopped as the right door tremulously opened, filling the air with a groan of age.

In scampered a small boy, malnourished and frightened, quivering as his eyes locked on the autopistol. Grunting, the guard drew the weapon and swung his arm up towards the figure. The left door burst open, wood splinters streaking through the air. One cut below the man's eye yet he did not flinch. Turning his pistol towards the opening in tandem with the other guard, the pair waited as their eyes adjusted to the dim outside. With enhanced hearing one would have been able to make out the soft whirring of servo-motors, yet none in the room had such heightened senses.

Through the swirling clouds of dust advanced a power armor-clad figure, standing taller than most humans, even in this far future. Too one who had only heard stories, the figure would have appeared akin to one of the fabled Astartes, demi-god warriors responsible for the safety of the Imperium alongside the Imperial Guard. Aiding this fact was the helmet which the figure wore, obscuring their face. Yet to one knowledgeable in such manners, this was certainly not an Astartes. Too short and thin by far, the iconography and trappings of the armor did not match that utilized by any of the Astartes chapters. Squinting, the Ministorum priest on the dais gasped.

"Ministorum markings..." Scrambling from his seated position, he trundled between the pews of the temple, waving his arms to ward off the thugs. "Don't shoot, don't shoot! This is-" His voice cut off as a metal hand grasped his shoulder. Shifting his gaze upwards to the visor of the helmet, the man suddenly shuddered.

"Are you the priest in charge of this holy temple?" queried the power-armored figure in a semi-synthesized voice, tightening its grip slightly.

"I am," the priest swallowed. "For what reason am I blessed-"

"You presume to much. You have sinned, priest, and the God-Emperor does not tolerate sin. Explain to me why I see those men in the shadows."

A crack resounded in the temple and the priest slumped, sliding towards the floor. A hole showed in the back of his robes and blood slowly began to stain the cloth. Lowering the crumpling man to the floor in a gentle manner, bullets began to ping off armor, laser dissipating as the heat was absorbed by ceramite. Straightening, the figure drew the hand flamer and stalked forward. Curses filled the air as the guards continued shooting, the three dealers gathering their position. The small man skittered to the back door and was met by a gout of white-hot flame, lighting him on fire, skin sloughing from the extreme heat. Panels on the back wall had also caught the fire and now the flickering light began to spread in an inoxerable advance, threatening to consume the entirety of the temple if left unchecked.

A sweep with the hand weapon engulfed a majority of the back in flames, spreading to the four figures who began to scream in fear. The figure stood there passively, watching the men burn alive.

"The sin is cleansed," came the voice once again. Returning to where the priest lay on the floor coughing out blood, his eyes feverishly locked onto her helmet. Gauntleted hands reached up and unclasped the helmet, a soft sighing escaping as the armor seal was broken. Lifting up the piece of armor, underneath was a woman's face, stern, hard, scarred by countless battles, yet a tenderness showed. A rattle sounded in the priest's throat before a globule of blood sprang forth, spattering all nearby. With that, he died. Reaching out to close the priest's eyes, the woman kneeled and recited a small prayer over the dead holy man, honoring him despite the wrongs he had committed.

Rising, the woman turned her gaze upon the quivering waif. "Come, child," she softly called, offering a dust-covered hand towards the boy. Hesitantly, he stood, glancing at her and the doorway. Slight steps took him to her and he reached his right hand up into hers. Nodding, she took one last glance at the burning temple before exiting the door.

Outside, a soul could scance be seen. Although the time could justify the lack of people, it was a bit too empty. A station such as Outpost 57 always had vagrants and those of less repute wandering through the cramped corridors of the hive, dealing in death, illicit materials, and people. The pervasive hush weighed down heavily. Something was not right.

She asked the boy, "Can you lead me to the upper levels? It is important that I reach that area as quickly as possible."

Nodding, the waif began to pad off, followed by the shadow of the Sister.

Nisvillia could have sworn she felt something brush past her, some shimmering flicker of movement fluttering at the corner of her eye, but it was gone with such speed and grace that she dismissed it as a light breeze drifting in through the broken window.

The sprawling streets beyond the Broken Exhaust were unnervingly quiet as the young woman made her way outside, her enormous hips swaying back and forth with each waddle-like step. House lights flickered dimly amidst the thick smear of darkness, whilst the crude steely domes and spires of Outpost 57 rose stoically upwards, scrapping away at the cathedral-like immensity of the station’s metallic celling.

The ever-present hum of machinery groaned and grunted in routine agony, accompanied by the clinical stench of polished metal which wafted clumsily through the gothic architecture.

The odd shambling figure strode past Nisvillia on her walk, but for the most past the clanking streets and sidewalks of the ‘nicer’ part of town seemed to be refreshingly quiet.

The Wicked Mob, as they had become known, were not one of the more infamous gangs amidst the unruly rabble of Outpost 57; if anything they were one of the least famous, such was the design of their operations. They were a relatively small, unassuming, cabal of pushers and information brokers, working out of back-alleys and corner stores. But they had one thing which made them very, very valuable to Nisvillia Blissponis: The Catwalk.

Composed of secret tunnels, spirals, and walkways, the catwalk ran through the slums and sewers of Outpost 57, allowing the mob to move stealthily back and forth through its industrial enormity, almost completely undetected.

Pushing herself uncomfortably behind a neon billboard, it was one such walkway which Nisvillia found herself on now, plodding down a foggy tunnel of cracked stone and rusted metal. ‘Claustrophobic’ was the first word which sprung to mind as the young woman heaved herself down the winding passageway, very much aware of how much space her great big bulging body was occupying inside the stony tunnel.

A hingeless metal door, featureless in every sense, slid away with a slick whoosh as Nisvillia approached, opening up into the safe haven beyond. Huffing, puffing, and red in the face, Nisvillia squeezed inelegantly into the chamber, her forehead thick with glistening sweat.

“You’re awfully late,” Thermatus scolded in his mocking voice, leaning back on a steel support beam.

“You wouldn’t believe the traffic.” Nisvillia panted.

Thermatus was a lithe, spikey-haired skeleton of a man, dressed in clothes which hung loosely off of his frail form. He had a certain cool charisma to his slick smile, and just so happened to be Nisvillia’s primary contact within the Wicked Mob.

“Your mooks with you?” he smirked, casting a glance over her shoulder.

“They didn’t make it.”

“That’s a crying shame.”

Nisvillia stepped slowly into the chamber, dabbing at a particularly prominent bloodstained which had spread across her jacket collar. The room in which they stood was unbearably cramped, adorned with only a few crooked metal pillars, and the winding passageways which extended out of either end.

“What news have you got for me?” She asked eventually, batting some ginger hair out of her eyes.

“Dear oh dear, haven’t we been keeping our finger on the pulse?!” Thermatus exclaimed with a smug grin “Jigandi’s calling in the big guns, Little Lady .” He smirked “looks like we’re having ourselves a man hunt.”

“Who’s the target?” She asked, narrowing her eyes.

“My little birds would have me believe that he’s the former bodyguard of some governor, but I’m having some trouble getting confirmation on that end.”

“How’s he managed to upset the Fist?”

“Word on the street is he managed to pick off a whole bunch of them. Lady Almano ain’t too happy about it.”

Nisvillia paused for a moment, considering her options. “The response won’t be instant, even those savages in the Bloodied Fist will take some time to assemble the cavalry.”

She looked Thermatus over, taking in his skinny frame.

“Put out a transmission, on a specialised frequency,” she instructed him “I need to reach out to likeminded individuals. Which one of these tunnels leads to The Loft?”

The Loft was a discreet club nestled in the uppermost reaches of Outpost 57. It was small and unassuming, serving some of the best food and drinks on the Station, and Nisvillia was in the gradual process of replacing the staff with her hired guns.

“Take the one behind me then hug the left,” Thermatus said dryly.

“Sweet.” She replied “Tell any would-be glory seekers to meet me there. I’ll have my people set up a perimeter and reinforce it, giving us somewhere to hold up when the guns start rattling. Let the rest of the Crew know that they’re welcome to join me if they’d rather not be short a head by the time the sun comes up.”

“You’ve got some balls, Blissponis.” Thermatus frowned “You really think you can go up against the Slum Lord?”

“It’ll be the poor sods who hear my broadcast that go up against the Slum Lord,” She shrugged “I’ll just be the one who gets all of the credit. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired of smelling like dead waitress, and I want to change into something more comfortable.”

With that she pushed past him, squeezing her obese form through another far-too-tight door, and wobbling off into the twisted tunnels and walkways of the Catwalk.

"I raise," said Lex with a half-smile, taking a sip of his amasec. The booze here wasn't up to his usual standards....but beggars and choosers, &c.

The ruined aristo across the table, a sallow man named Typho from somewhere or other, gave his best impression of expressionless and Lex almost laughed. Even if he hadn't been able to read the man's mind, which he was doing freely, the idiot practically broadcast smug glee. He had a good hand and it was a big pot.

"Fold," said the narc-addict to Lex's left.

"I'm out," said the low-level hitman to Lex's right. What splendid company he had found for himself here in the middle of space.

Lex and the aristo laid their cards down. The aristo had Five Thrones, Lex Straight Saints. The aristo won.

"Another round?" asked Lex with a smirk and another sip of amasec as the noble greedily gathered the chips to himself. The aristo's eyes glittered with desire.

Stop it, Typho, take the winnings for once in your fething life. Buy a girl for the night an- but one more round couldnt hurt- just don't go all in. This dandy pillow-biter here can't play Chances to save his delicate arse.

No.

Come on, Typho- one more round can't hurt....

"Alright," said the aristo. The narc-addict got up in search of new excitement, disappearing into the dim crimson haze of the Loft. The hitman stayed. He looked angry.

Lex cast him a sidelong glance. If this one got too feisty, it might be necessary to give the bastard a mild stroke.

He signaled for a dealer, who came over to shuffle the deck. Two of the remaining players appraised their hands while one of the remaining players pretended to look at his cards while he appraised the minds of his opponents and sipped his drink and thought about what to do with the money he was going to win from these half-wits.

Lex was opening his mouth to tell the dealer to hurry it up, already when something collided with his subconscious like a lasbolt. He sat bolt upright in his chair, spilling his drink on his elegant cuffs. The aristo and the hitman looked at him, curious.

He smiled and said something about his amasec being stronger than he'd expected, dabbing at the corners of his watering eyes with a delicate handkerchief. Internally, he was reeling.

A Navigator had just arrived on to Outpost 57- one not shy about his presence in the Warp.

Well that's interesting, Lex thought.

"What interesting?" asked the aristo, and Lex cursed inwardly for not disentangling himself sufficiently from the idiot's mind.

"Huh?" asked the hitman.

While on his way to his rented apartment, Pratus Gaelor's wrist-mounted data slate started beeping incessantly. He paused, handed his box of fresh purchases to his Mechadendrite and activated the data slate. The station's communications network was buzzing with chatter about rapidly approaching all-out gang warfare. Frowning, the Enginseer looked up from the backlit screen and noticed the streets had significantly emptied since he had started walking and the few people he did see were now armed, lurking near back alleys and small side streets and anxiously smoking lho-sticks.

It was time to meet this Rogue Trader and get off the station.

Gaelor took the box of supplies back from his Mechadendrite and switched its arc-welder on. The shoulder-mounted device whirred and started emitting a high-pitched whine as the arc-welder powered up, ready to deliver high-energy electrical shocks to any assailants. The Enginseer wished he had his hands free so he could arm himself with his lascarbine, but he was unwilling to part with his purchases. Speeding up his pace, Gaelor changed directions and stomped towards the outpost's void port, where he knew the Rogue Trader would arrive shortly.

On his way there, Gaelor spotted an unassuming man in a dull yellow coat and gray fatigues -- what caught the Enginseer's bionic eye were the medals pinned to the man's chest. Fueled by the self-perceived limitless authority of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Gaelor approached the man and spoke.

"YOU, GUARDSMAN. ESCORT ME TO THE STATION PORT."

The ex-Guardsman sung to himself what he remembered of a jolly tune he had heard years ago to ease his mind as he walked the streets, moving with a brisker pace after having seen a bunch of gangsters arming themselves and the savvier traders closing shop. He was old, at least for an ex-Guardsman, and he could recognize trouble where he saw it. ‘’Better pack up,’’ he mused. He didn’t want to fight for nothing – at least with an employer he could get paid for his troubles.

After hearing a rather unsettling whirring voice not unlike what you’d hear from a Punisher Gatling Cannon preparing its deathly volley, Safi stopped and started to check his surroundings, standing in wait for a sudden burst of fire. He did not want to make a sudden movement and tip off whatever was preparing that. The sound came closer and closer, and as it did Safi was able to discern metallic thump-like footsteps. ‘’A servitor?’’ He thought to himself. But the truth was far worse. ‘’An Enginseer.’’

A rather disturbing mix of man and machine (although for Safi it was hard to see the man in it), robed in white, walked out from an alley, carrying some materials with the implants where his regular hands should have been, with a fifth limb, not unlike a metallic tentacle. Safi was able to deduce that the whirring came from the power tool attached to the fifth limb, since it seemed to buzz with energy. ‘’What the fuck does it want?’’ He thought to himself. Maybe he didn't want to know.

‘’YOU, GUARDSMAN. ESCORT ME TO THE STATION PORT.’’ The monotone sound of the ‘man’ was disturbing – then again, what wasn’t disturbing about this thing? At least it was going where Safi was going to go. Not wanting to disturb the walking horror, Safi decided to comply after a moment of pause. ‘’Yeah, alright, follow me.’’ And he started walking again. He figured he could drop the Enginseer by the entrance of the Station Port and get his things from his room before locking himself up in his room or leaving the planet.

Repercussions

Dagmar looked back at his bloodied face with irritation, his unblinking eyes reflected in his sword as he cleaned it. He now had all of his sharp weapons on his person, his four throwing knives, two duel wields, his two handed Glaive Blade and crossbow. Dagmar finished cleaning his Glaive Blade and pushed the silk rag into his back pocket, blowing away the dust, he gripped the handles and reached back to slide it into its sheath.

Lifting himself from his unwelcoming bed, he stood silently in front of the grubby mirror and adjusted his collar, craning his neck left and right to check for any cuts. Content with the lack of injury to his visage, Dagmar cupped his hands and brought tepid water up to his face, wincing faintly as a veiled cut in his brow stung.

Dagmar leant forward, his jacket tightening around his wide shoulders, to rub the specks of black and crimson away. Unexpectedly a muffled moan came from beside him, accompanied with agitated shuffling among further awkward noise. Turning on his left foot, Dagmar’s leg whipped straight and his firm boot connected with the right side of Agmar’s face, the slum-lord cried out from behind his gag in pain.

“Shut it. I told you when I bought the room, don’t touch the blades! What did you go and do?”

Agmar didn’t respond. The thieving bastard had taken them from his room and was in the act of hiding them away when Dagmar caught him, he wasn't even going to clean them before he sold them, animal.

“What did you do!?”

A desperate look came over the weasel’s face, confusion sprouting at the rims. Looking up at Dagmar he raised his eyebrows and his eyes widened, Dagmar glared back at him as he waited for a reply.

“Ah-e tehurshed dah bwages...?” Agmar hoped this was the right response; his muffled speech dried his mouth and lips.

“That’s right. You touched the blades.”

Dagmar said with a smile, lifting Agmar to his unsteady feet and turning him towards the open window. Pulling the gag from his vile mouth, Dagmar let it hang around his neck; Agmar spat and worked his tongue around his lips to get rid of the metallic taste the wire had left behind.

“What will you – “Agmar started but was interrupted.

“Did I tell you to speak, maggot?” Dagmar shouted into his ear, Agmar could have sworn he heard a crowd cheer below him.

Dagmar slowly coiled the wire around his arm like a snake, careful not to let a single loop go amiss, when finally it was all there he let it slide down his forearm and into his hands. He pushed the metal bolt it was attached to into his crossbow and aimed the bolt at Agmar’s head.

“No! Please no! I beg of you – “Agmar almost got down on his knees but Dagmar heaved him back up and cut him short once more.

“DO NOT SPEAK!” He yelled at almost his greatest volume.

Agmar was definite he heard a crowd cheer this time, clapping and shouting below the window; his eyes began to water and redden. Struggling with his constraints he moved this way and that. But Dagmar had a hard grip on him - he would not let him shift.

“You do not deserve an execution such as that.” He said more quietly.

Lifting the crossbow he fired the bolt into the dusty pillar at the centre of the room, the bolt broke through the other side and its blades unravelled into a hook of sorts.

Agmar now sobbed loudly to himself, his choices had caught up with him and his regret was not of sentiment but of self preservation and survival. He tried wiggling his wrists from the rope that tied them together, but it was no good. He only wished now that he had told that ugly girl Fearis he liked her when he was a child, for maybe things wouldn’t of –

Dagmar kicked Agmar through the open window and let the metal wire run through his hands as the coward screamed, sliding through his fingers like silver water; he jumped back as it snapped straight and the screaming stopped, unsure about the integrity of the pillar. Walking over to the window he peered down the 5 floors below to see the sea of Blue Viruses all cheering as Agmar hung at the neck. One senior member threw a ball of blue paint at the body, and they all cheered doubly as their trophy was stained with their gang colours.

“This is what happens to your enemies!” Dagmar announced a war rally from his feral roots, pointing to the corpse that hung 2 floors from the ground.

“Tonight, a new power will rise! Call your allies, let it be known! The Bloodied Fist shall fall!” With this he brandished his Glaive Blade and thrust it into the air.

The crowd erupted with guttural roars and endless cheering, specks of blue running this way and that to spread the word, others heaving weapons into the slum.

---

Retreating back into his lowly room, Dagmar pushed at his earpiece thrice and waited impatiently.

“Yes?” Came an official female voice.

“Dagmar for Mathias” He replied hurriedly.

“Connecting...”

“Dagmar! What is it man? Do you know what time it is?” Mathias was an old and hefty fellow, an aristocrat if ever there was one.

“I need your help, I’m on 57.” Dagmar had no time to chat; he walked to the elevator as he talked.

“What can I do, by the Emperor, name it!” He was always one to make things sound dramatic.

“I need firepower, or a quick way out.” He pushed the button for the ground floor and waited. Gunshots sounded out side.

“I’ll have Rewert look into a way out, I’m sending a squad to you now. They have been underground for a bit, so I don’t expect they’ll be ready for an hour or so.” Rewert was also a fat man, not out of excess, but simply trying to fit in.

“I’m at the crossroads slums. 43.53.” Dagmar informed, you never know where things are unless you make a note.

“Yes, your earpiece has a tracker installed. Rewert suggests making your way to the outposts station, there are a few passenger ships and a trader docked.” Rewert was also rather ugly the poor man, again, not because he wanted to be, just bad luck. Dagmar had always found him repulsive, anyway.

“I’ll make my way there. I noted some underground passage ways that will make for a faster journey.” More gunshots fired outside, the elevator door opened clumsily.

“Good good. Take care of yourself, I’ll have the squad follow your tracker then shall I?” Always polite, even at the worst of times, never dropping the act.

A Blue Virus slicer was smacked against the elevator buttons as a grenade went off, Dagmar quickly stepped out before the doors shut once more, pulling out his duel wields as he did so.

“Yes, that would be great! Out.” Dagmar shouted over to the gunners outside to pull back and fortify the door, the doormen was one of them, he gave a quick nod and pulled the other two back by their collars.

He himself made his way down into the basement, in search of the passageways he had noticed on his previous scans.

"THE OMNISSIAH WILL REWARD YOUR COMPLIANCE," Gaelor said, inclining his head towards the Guardsman. He matched Safi's brisk pace and walked closely behind him, keeping a bionic eye on the hoodlums and other worthless vermin on the streets. Gaelor could hear faint gunfire and screams in the distance. He wasn't very fond of fighting and thought of it as a rather pointless exercise, especially when waged between flesh sacks among themselves. Gaelor understood the need to defend the Imperium against the daemon and the xeno well enough, but this? Utter nonsense.

It would, therefore, be nice to have someone watching his back to do the fighting for him, Gaelor reasoned. "YOU ARE NO LONGER IN ACTIVE SERVICE." It was a statement, not a question, and Gaelor didn't wait for a response. "MY OBJECTIVE IS TO MEET WITH A ROGUE TRADER IN ORDER TO BARGAIN FOR PASSAGE ON HIS VESSEL, WHICH DOCKED IN OUTPOST FIFTY-SEVEN'S ORBIT THIRTY-EIGHT MINUTES AGO. I REQUEST THAT YOU ACCOMPANY ME TO THIS MEETING AS MY SKITARIUS." What is it the uninitiated call them? Oh yes, he thought to himself. "TECH-GUARD."

After a second of silence, Gaelor remembered that humans wanted currency for these things. "THERE WILL BE MONETARY COMPENSATION." Awaiting Safi's response, Gaelor glanced at his data slate to estimate their position. They were closing in on the station port now. Good thing, too, as the sound of gunfire and combat and general unpleasantness drew nearer behind them.