'What, ya mean we won't be headin' back to Bedlam Town after all?'
The crumbling domespace filled with oaths and curses as the assembled Hi-Viz Jackers voiced their dissent. It was Ivan Kohl who'd raised an objection, and the journeyman ganger's opinion counted for a lot among his fellows.
'Alright, you sorry sumprats, pipe down already!' bellowed Akilles Lebow, lurching to his feet and glowering at the gangers over the spattering campfire. Akilles was he gang's beta dog, long practised at barking or battering his fellows into line on the long shifts they'd worked on the Cruxrail project.
The crumbling domespace filled with oaths and curses as the assembled Hi-Viz Jackers voiced their dissent. It was Ivan Kohl who'd raised an objection, and the journeyman ganger's opinion counted for a lot among his fellows.
'Alright, you sorry sumprats, pipe down already!' bellowed Akilles Lebow, lurching to his feet and glowering at the gangers over the spattering campfire. Akilles was he gang's beta dog, long practised at barking or battering his fellows into line on the long shifts they'd worked on the Cruxrail project.
The discord died off and Akilles sat back down. Vintsen Courraine, the boss of the outfit, knew how to work an occasion, and he allowed the uneasy silence to linger a few clicks. He stooped to pick a shred of smouldering wire from the fire, dug out a twisted lho stick from a capacious pocket, and relit. The end of the stick burned as bright as the work garb that gave the gang its colours and name.
'Long and short of it, Ivan, is yeah - we ain't headin' back. And that's just as well, I say. Word is ol' Mad Dog Magellan's the top 'Lock there now...' A lopsided smirk broke through Vinsten's barbe, '... and we all heard the story about how Zammy Smit here pissed him off back when he was a greener than green juve!'
The gang erupted into raucous laughter. Some of the boys roughly elbowed Zam in the ribs, leering and guffawing. Zam shrugged, faux innocent - 'How was a little mook like me supposed to know...?'
Vints raised his hands, palms down, and gestured the gang back into silence. 'But anyway, my boys, my Jacks, I've had word from the overbosses. We're honour-bound to them and we've got a name of our own to carve out here in the guts of this hive.'
More raucous assent, stopping short as Vints continued.
'There's a new zone opened up down the River Shame - Sector H8, they call it. Domes and warrens cut off for more cycles than anyone can recall. Green hivers have already settled there, now the great houses want a piece of the action, and the overbosses have given us the nod to stake a claim in the name of Orlock. Blood, loot and glory, lads... are the Hi-Viz Jackers up to the task?'
The gang roared again, this time whooping and hollering with wild abandon. Fresh bottles of wildsnake were cracked open, bloodthirsty oaths were sworn, boasts and wagers were made over who would do the most scragging and looting in the campaign ahead.
Truth be told, Vintsen himself didn't know if his boys were up to the task. Sure, they'd done well running off muties and saboteurs from the Cruxrail works; sure, the crew bore the storied legacy of some of the great names of Bedlam Town - Necrofago, Kohl, Macbacta and more. But this was a whole new turf war against battleworn Underhivers. Would the Hi-Viz Jackers live up to the killer rep of the Bedlam Boys, or live down to the ignoble name of Bad Fate?
Vints took a long swig of wildsnake. They'd know soon enough.