[center] [h1] Between a rock and a hard fist. [/h1] [/center] 

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 [i]Wicked Mob[/i], 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: [i][b]The Catwalk. [/b][/i]

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, [i] Little Lady [/i].” 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 [i]the Fist[/i]?” 

“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 [i]The Loft?[/i]” 

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.