The Shackled Well was the most notorious dive bar in the Hacked Knee, and word was that that was where the Hi-Viz Jackers would find their man. Vints Courraine had sent Akilles Lebow and Ivan Kohl to do the deed, and they reached the bar not long after the shift had turned Magnificat.
A row of can fires sputtered on the run-in and an irregular mob of Cawdors lurked menacingly, cursing the souls of anyone who made to enter the Well. The gangs of the scavenger house had claimed a significant chunk of H8 turf and were throwing their Redemptionist weight around. Akilles recognised the colours of the Slimehouse Golems and the Crimson Carrion - the rivals had forged a truce to conduct their pious picket.
The whole bar would be under a truce tonight - up to a point. Like the Cawdors outside, the gangs within were there to be seen, not to fight, but no doubt they'd all be packing, and no doubt it'd only take the slightest spark to kick things off, whether between or within Houses.
The Jacker duo shouldered their way past the Cawdors. One of the Golems leaned in close and hissed through broken teeth: 'Your vice will see you burn in warpfire eternal, sinner...'
'I'll see you in the badzones first, jack,' replied the Orlock with a grimace, ducking through the bar entrance.
To Ivan, he said, 'Stay tight. Remember what we're here for.'
'Got it, chief,' said Ivan.
They paused beyond the threshold, letting the room take in their colours - it needed to be known that the Jackers were in the house. Clouds of lho smoke filled the low domespace, which was alive with H8ers determined to show the mealy-mouthed Cawdors outside just how much vice they could handle.
Most of the patrons were hive scum and holesteaders blowing off steam, but the Jackers clocked members of some of their turf war rivals. At a table in the centre of the dome, a few Goliath Reprobates were gleefully mainlining blindsnake through their stimm packs and challenging all comers to a headsmashing contest - already, half a dozen scummers lay prone with bloody cranial injuries that would likely kill them. The Savage Kittens had occupied a corner booth, imbibing hyperdistilled spirits and hookah hits while casting literal and metaphorical daggers at anyone who dared approach them. A bunch of Van Saars sat impassively at a table, not drinking, just observing and collecting data - for a second, Akilles took them for Nubis Machina and feared the whole caper would blow up in their faces, but then clocked them from their colours as Dust Gate Orb Weavers. At the shadowy fringes of the room, gaunt, black-eyed figures drifted - Delaques, presumably some of Rawshaq's Rogues - a drinking hole like this was natural territory for them, and they were likely here to scope out ways to seize it from its current owners.
And there they were, the Slagwell Springsteens, masters of the Shackled Well, the crew who'd thus far claimed the most turf in the Hacked Knee war, carousing on a raised platform at the back of the dome. The wildsnake was in full flow and the Sprinsgteens were lording it over their patrons. Akilles and Ivan nodded respect to their Orlock kin, but didn't feel inclined to join the revelry - of late, the Jackers hadn't done much to earn the respect of the Iron House.
Instead, they elbowed ther way through the wider throng until they found the man they were looking for, who was sitting at the bar and nursing a bottle of wildsnake.
'Onzo Macbacta,' growled Akilles, clapping the lone drinker the shoulder. 'Heard tell you'd been seen in this sector, and here you are...'
Onzo turned round, and grinned. He was the spit of his brother, Droo, who'd died during the Jackers' first Sector H8 fight.
'Well, well, Akilles Lebow... and ol' Lemmy's boy Ivan as well! We're a long way from Bedlam Town, eh?' He waved the bottle. 'Mine's another of this.'
'Get 'em in, Ivan.'
Ivan went to do so, and Akilles turned back to Onzo. 'Damn shame about your brother, he was a good hand on the Cruxrail crew, could have made for a fine ganger...'
'Aye,' said Onzo, 'I ain't hardly seen him since we was juves, but that's a hell of a bad fate for a good lad like him.'
'Bet your last bullet it is,' said Akilles. Ivan had procured another bottle and a couple more scrap cups, and the three men drank a toast to dead Droo.
Having knocked back his slug of liquor, Akilles exhaled with satisfaction, and then asked Onzo, 'So where you been all these cycles while we were working the Cruxrail build?'
'Long story short,' said Onzo, 'I got to working on the Great Ash Road, running with a consignment crew between the Palatine and Vosroth.'
Ivan muttered an impressed oath - it wasn't often that downhive lads like the Jackers made it beyond the shell of Primus.
Akilles played it cool, though. 'And what, you heard about Droo all the way out there?'
'Well, not exactly,' shrugged Onzo. 'We was on a rotation back to the Palatine when word came through on the sumpvine. I had to come see for myself if it was true.'
'True it is, I'm sorry to say,' said Akilles. 'So here you are. You need work. We need hands. We all want revenge.'
'That we do,' said Onzo with a malicious grin. 'So where do I get me one of those hi-viz jackets, jack?'