The lumens flickered low, the crowds thinned, the traders shut up shop on the main drag of Nu-Bedlam, and Vintsen Courraine winced as he eased himself onto a rough bench out front of the dilapidated habhole he'd come to think of as home. Cycles after being nearly impaled on the end of a chainglaive courtesy of those Norvegicus ratfreaks, his chest still hadn't fully healed, and it'd taken him longer than the other Jackers to beat the spore sickness that had struck the gang. He rested his back against the hab wall, sighed, and reached into his coat for his flask.
He took a slug of 'snake and reflected on recent events in the Hacked Knee. Truth be told, the spore sickness hadn't exactly done the Jackers a disservice, keeping the gang's profile low as the clampdown following the zombie riots had tightened, with no less than the Holy Inquisition taking an interest. Lurid tales were circulating in the Shackled Well and Zzapturf Bazaar: an Inquisitorial agent had turned up with his bullyboys, investigating the shadowy forces behind the day of the undead. Some of H8's most notorious gang bosses had been rounded up for interrogation, but they'd broken free and made a murder of their captors. Vints wasn't sorry not to be tangled up in all that - they say the Inquisition never forgets nor forgives. Perhaps someday there'd be a reckoning.
Not this cycle, though. After the crackdown, the balance of power in Sector H8 had settled somewhat. Such is life in the underhive: violence ebbs and flows like the ash drifts in the great wastes beyond. House Cawdor had come out on top: the Hooded Men held the most turf, the Golems had hoarded a stash of creds as high as the Slimehouse junkdrift, Norvegicus had garnered a rep for ferocious persistence, and the house overall controlled unbroken swathes of territory.
Orlock was the only house that came close - the Slagwell Springsteens claimed as much turf as the Hooded Men, and the Wasted's prowess was sharper than any gang in H8. Vints was convinced the Jackers had played a key in the Orlock rise - if nothing else, they'd carved out a name for themselves by taking on as many scraps as they could - only the Savage Kittens had seen as much action through the cycles. Bloodier acclaim was found elsewhere: it was said that no gang had brutalised its rivals as much as the Reprobates.
Vints took another swig from his flask and nodded to a couple of passing scummers. His mind turned to the fortunes of the Hi-Viz Jackers over their cycles in the sector. The initial scramble for territory was was intense and hard-fought, much more so than their previous gig working the Cruxrail build. They'd taken on Nubis Machina, the Skymother's Chosen, the Hellhounds, the Brotherhood of the Crimson Carrion, the Hooded Men and the Good News Brood with nothing to show turfwise and a bunch of gangers sent to the corpse farms. Vints had had to go begging to his uphive overboss for help - his old nemesis Degister, no less, who'd sent his own agent, Tzig Oresson, to supervise Vints and twist the knife.
Still, the Jackers had started to carve out a rep of sorts after participating in the guilder Ba'King's grand tournay - young Dwice Necrofago had shown moxie that day, and Vint's improvised alliance with the Wasted's Solo against the Orb Weaver's murderous arachno-rig had laid the ground for a more solid deal between the Orlock gangs. Before long, the Slagwell Springsteens had joined the H8 Orlock Takeover and the Jackers were not only keepers of the Clam Breath Wastes, but had also claimed the needleway hub at Shallow Alley after Rawshaq's Rogues vacated their turf.
Never mind the humiliating wounds Vints had suffered in dead-end scraps against the Savage Kittens and the Hellhounds - better to recall how the gang had successfully defended Shallow Alley against takeover raids by Norvegicus and the Skymother's Chosen. And then came the day of the great hiver march, when the Jackers answered a guilder distress call and found themselves fighting a teeming horde of zombies alongside some of their gang rivals. Not only had Vints curried favour with the guilds, he'd also rid himself of that thronedamned Oresson, abandoning the ganger to the claws and jaws of the undead. After that, the Jackers had teamed with the Wasted take on the Reprobates, but then the spore sickness hit and they'd been laid up while the turf war wound down.
Scraps of news had filtered through. Word was that some of the gangs who'd fought through the cycles were moving on to other sectors, or splintering into new crews. There was talk of discord in the Power Guild, with factional bust-ups and accusations of wrong worship which were threatening to break into outright war. And Vints had heard, much to his satisfaction, that Degister was on the slagheap after the Orlock takeover of H8 had fallen short. Like a bad cred, the ex-overboss was bound to cross Vints's path sometime; no doubt they'd continue their cycles-old dance of making each others' lives a misery.
But then came a surprising sting: as Vints lay on his sickbed, Griv Javinski, first of the Jackers to recover from the spore lurgy, had come calling, saying he'd had his fill and was taking off. Hard to blame him - after all, Vints had left him to the hungry mercy of the zombie horde alongside Oresson. Griv had been lucky to scrape out alive, and it was as clear as a sun-gun blast that he couldn't trust Vints any more.
What was more surprising was when most of the rest of the gang announced they were jacking in the Jacker life too. Ivan, Zam, Onzo, Darik, Ijax, even mouthy juve Lorn - the turf war had taken its toll on them, with eyes lost, hands maimed and nerves rattled. One way or another, they were minded to take their guns back to Old Bedlam Town - a nest of vipers, but familiar at least - or sign on with the rigger crews that ran the Spiderpoints and beyond.
Vints was still sore about it - whatever happened to gang before house and the rest? Most of them he'd known since the cycles working Cruxrail, and he'd have expected more loyalty. For a while, he'd thought even Akilles was going to pack it in, but he needn't have worried. His old right-hand man was sticking around, along with young Dwice, who rightly believed Vints's big talk that there was still fortune and glory to be had in Sector H8.
The main drag was all but deserted now, and the rats and other critters were scrabbling out of their dens, looking for carrion. Vints took a final swig on his flask and hauled himself to his feet, ready to turn in for a shift or two. Gangers could be replaced - between himself and Akilles, they had enough sway to recruit a bunch of fresh fighters. As sure as Vigil follows Magnificat, the turf wars would come again to Hacked Knee - soon, maybe, if all this talk of guilder discord was anything to go by - and the Hi-Viz Jackers would be ready. Sector H8 would know the name of Vintsen Courraine.
He took a slug of 'snake and reflected on recent events in the Hacked Knee. Truth be told, the spore sickness hadn't exactly done the Jackers a disservice, keeping the gang's profile low as the clampdown following the zombie riots had tightened, with no less than the Holy Inquisition taking an interest. Lurid tales were circulating in the Shackled Well and Zzapturf Bazaar: an Inquisitorial agent had turned up with his bullyboys, investigating the shadowy forces behind the day of the undead. Some of H8's most notorious gang bosses had been rounded up for interrogation, but they'd broken free and made a murder of their captors. Vints wasn't sorry not to be tangled up in all that - they say the Inquisition never forgets nor forgives. Perhaps someday there'd be a reckoning.
Not this cycle, though. After the crackdown, the balance of power in Sector H8 had settled somewhat. Such is life in the underhive: violence ebbs and flows like the ash drifts in the great wastes beyond. House Cawdor had come out on top: the Hooded Men held the most turf, the Golems had hoarded a stash of creds as high as the Slimehouse junkdrift, Norvegicus had garnered a rep for ferocious persistence, and the house overall controlled unbroken swathes of territory.
Orlock was the only house that came close - the Slagwell Springsteens claimed as much turf as the Hooded Men, and the Wasted's prowess was sharper than any gang in H8. Vints was convinced the Jackers had played a key in the Orlock rise - if nothing else, they'd carved out a name for themselves by taking on as many scraps as they could - only the Savage Kittens had seen as much action through the cycles. Bloodier acclaim was found elsewhere: it was said that no gang had brutalised its rivals as much as the Reprobates.
Vints took another swig from his flask and nodded to a couple of passing scummers. His mind turned to the fortunes of the Hi-Viz Jackers over their cycles in the sector. The initial scramble for territory was was intense and hard-fought, much more so than their previous gig working the Cruxrail build. They'd taken on Nubis Machina, the Skymother's Chosen, the Hellhounds, the Brotherhood of the Crimson Carrion, the Hooded Men and the Good News Brood with nothing to show turfwise and a bunch of gangers sent to the corpse farms. Vints had had to go begging to his uphive overboss for help - his old nemesis Degister, no less, who'd sent his own agent, Tzig Oresson, to supervise Vints and twist the knife.
Still, the Jackers had started to carve out a rep of sorts after participating in the guilder Ba'King's grand tournay - young Dwice Necrofago had shown moxie that day, and Vint's improvised alliance with the Wasted's Solo against the Orb Weaver's murderous arachno-rig had laid the ground for a more solid deal between the Orlock gangs. Before long, the Slagwell Springsteens had joined the H8 Orlock Takeover and the Jackers were not only keepers of the Clam Breath Wastes, but had also claimed the needleway hub at Shallow Alley after Rawshaq's Rogues vacated their turf.
Never mind the humiliating wounds Vints had suffered in dead-end scraps against the Savage Kittens and the Hellhounds - better to recall how the gang had successfully defended Shallow Alley against takeover raids by Norvegicus and the Skymother's Chosen. And then came the day of the great hiver march, when the Jackers answered a guilder distress call and found themselves fighting a teeming horde of zombies alongside some of their gang rivals. Not only had Vints curried favour with the guilds, he'd also rid himself of that thronedamned Oresson, abandoning the ganger to the claws and jaws of the undead. After that, the Jackers had teamed with the Wasted take on the Reprobates, but then the spore sickness hit and they'd been laid up while the turf war wound down.
Scraps of news had filtered through. Word was that some of the gangs who'd fought through the cycles were moving on to other sectors, or splintering into new crews. There was talk of discord in the Power Guild, with factional bust-ups and accusations of wrong worship which were threatening to break into outright war. And Vints had heard, much to his satisfaction, that Degister was on the slagheap after the Orlock takeover of H8 had fallen short. Like a bad cred, the ex-overboss was bound to cross Vints's path sometime; no doubt they'd continue their cycles-old dance of making each others' lives a misery.
But then came a surprising sting: as Vints lay on his sickbed, Griv Javinski, first of the Jackers to recover from the spore lurgy, had come calling, saying he'd had his fill and was taking off. Hard to blame him - after all, Vints had left him to the hungry mercy of the zombie horde alongside Oresson. Griv had been lucky to scrape out alive, and it was as clear as a sun-gun blast that he couldn't trust Vints any more.
What was more surprising was when most of the rest of the gang announced they were jacking in the Jacker life too. Ivan, Zam, Onzo, Darik, Ijax, even mouthy juve Lorn - the turf war had taken its toll on them, with eyes lost, hands maimed and nerves rattled. One way or another, they were minded to take their guns back to Old Bedlam Town - a nest of vipers, but familiar at least - or sign on with the rigger crews that ran the Spiderpoints and beyond.
Vints was still sore about it - whatever happened to gang before house and the rest? Most of them he'd known since the cycles working Cruxrail, and he'd have expected more loyalty. For a while, he'd thought even Akilles was going to pack it in, but he needn't have worried. His old right-hand man was sticking around, along with young Dwice, who rightly believed Vints's big talk that there was still fortune and glory to be had in Sector H8.
The main drag was all but deserted now, and the rats and other critters were scrabbling out of their dens, looking for carrion. Vints took a final swig on his flask and hauled himself to his feet, ready to turn in for a shift or two. Gangers could be replaced - between himself and Akilles, they had enough sway to recruit a bunch of fresh fighters. As sure as Vigil follows Magnificat, the turf wars would come again to Hacked Knee - soon, maybe, if all this talk of guilder discord was anything to go by - and the Hi-Viz Jackers would be ready. Sector H8 would know the name of Vintsen Courraine.