The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 8: To The Death

The Hi-Viz Jackers were twice bound by honour to lend their guns when word came that the Wasted Youth were looking to spring Frisco from the clutches of the Hooded Men. First off, there was the ongoing guilder war to consider: Wasted bossman Soho Jones had involved his Krass Dynasty allies in the rescue attempt, so it scanned straight that the Jackers pitch in alongside their fellow Ba'Kings retainers. More important, though – at least as far as Vintsen Courraine was concerned - was the bad blood between the two Orlock gangs.

Time was, Vints and Soho might have been considered friends, or whatever passes as such in the Underhive. Cycles ago, during the Ba'Kings' grand tournay, they'd fought Servo-Heeled Jallk, the infamous Orb Weaver arachnirig. Soon after, Vints and Soho's then-boss, Irving Trudeau, had forged the beginnings of the House Orlock Takeover Boys, an alliance which had lasted surprisingly long, all things considered. 

But as the rivalry within the Sector H8 power guild boiled into open conflict, the Hi-Viz Jackers and the Wasted Youth threw their lots in with different factions, and relations soured. New loyalties overruled house solidarity – a few cycles back, Soho hit Vints and his boys with a brutal ambush which the Jackers only narrowly escaped.

So as soon as word came that the H.E.A.T. gangs were attempting the jailbreak, Vints ordered the Jackers to arm up and get moving, though in all honesty he didn't give a fragged rat about whether Artur and his thronebotherers kept ahold of Frisco All that mattered was getting a halfways decent scrag-shot at Soho.

The Hooded Men were holding Frisco in a cell in the grimiest depths of the H8 badzones, hidden away in a tight network of service tunnels. As the Jackers approached, the roar of burning promethium and the hammer-chatter of gunfire echoed off the corroded walls. The Wasted Youth and Krass Dynasty were already bringing it to the Cawdors.

Vints sent Edz and most of the crew on ahead to wherever their guns were most needed, but he kept new guy Macks and his grenade launcher back. The plan was to creep through the tunnels just beyond the fight zone, clock where Soho was, and bust out as near as possible to bring the pain. As Vints's plans went, it wasn't bad.

+++

Soho was hanging with his henchmen Jack in a side-run corridor just off the larger chamber where the cell was located. The sounds of battle were waxing louder through the open doorway - seemed like fresh guns had joined in on he Hooded Men's side - and Soho's self-appointed job was to stand ready to step in and start popping grenades if it looked like the defenders were stymieing the attack too much.

The noise just kept growing – now there was the unmistakable roar of Krass's notorious chainglaive as the mutie overlord hurled himself into the fray – but Soho couldn't miss the scrape and clang of a wall panel getting shoved out of position and hitting the deck several metres behind him. He turned and saw two figures in Hi-Viz orange clambering into the corridor – it was Vints himself ,and some other Jacker he didn't recognise.

'Well, well,' called Soho over the din. 'If it ain't my old pal Vintsen.'

Vints stretched out his arm, levelling his chainsword at his rival. 'You're starch-stuff, Jones.'

Soho grinned. 'Try it, sumpsucker.'

He made to bring his grenade launcher to bear on the Jackers, but the new guy behind Vints was faster – he had a launcher of his own, and fired off a frag grenade in a split click. It landed right between Soho and Jack, detonating and sending them sprawling.

Soho was down but unhurt. He moved to get himself back on his feet but, looking up, saw Vints was running full tilt, already halfway down the corridor with his bolt pistol drawn and chainsword buzzing. 

'To the death, Jones!' cried Vints.

Since when was Courraine so sumpdamned fast? It must've been the hate.

+++

It all played out in a few desperate clicks.

Vints reached Soho just as the latter got to his feet and was twisting to the side in anticipation of the pistol shot. It was enough to get out of the way of the mass-reactive boltshell, but not enough to dodge Vints's blade, which dug cruelly into his shoulder. Soho's blood spattered on the rusty decking. He wrenched his stub pistol from its holster, instinctively firing three shots point blank. The stubber slugs found gaps in Vints's mesh armour and ripped deep into the boss Jacker's abdomen. He grimaced and coughed blood, dropping to one knee.

Soho reeled back, trying to get just enough distance to take a more measured shot. But Vints pressed his attack home, swinging again with his chainsword. It bit into Soho's left thigh and churned up the flesh. He roared through the pain and dropped onto his back, Vints looming over him – but here was the distance Soho needed.

Soho Jones swung his stubber up and fired three times more. The first shot dug into Vints's groin. The second found the weakened point in his mesh vest, driving up through his chest cavity. The third glanced the side of his neck and tore up the right side of his skull, ripping his ear off.

Vintsen Courraine stood a click or two more, chainsword still clutched in his upraised hand. Then his grip faltered. The chainsword cut out as it fell to the deck. Vints coughed up gobbets of viscous blood as he did likewise.

Soho staggered to his feet and levelled his pistol at his rival's head.

'You damn fool son of a scavvy, Courraine,' he said. There was no remorse in his voice.

+++

Vints's last thoughts were of all his spire-sharp plans, and the big talk he'd always figured would make those plans happen. But every Necromundan knows that there's what you want, and there's what the hive gives you. Whatever. They'd remember his name in Sector H8 and Old Bedlam Town.

He grinned one more gory time as his ravaged lungs filled with blood, and his heart gave out just as Soho pulled the trigger.

And that's how Vints Courraine died in a rust-raddled side tunnel in the downhive depths.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 7: Price of Dwice

Dwice Necrofago was spiretop clear on the plan. The Jackers needed creds, and creds the Righteous Brotherhood of the Crimson Carrion had, stashed away in a set of crates in a remote, crumbling dome stuffed with leaky mechworks. 

With half the Hi-Viz boys recovering from the brutal scrap with the Hellhounds, there wasn't much that could be left to chance. Dwice got a feeling that the caper was going to run sumpwards almost as soon as they hit the dome – the loot was guarded by more Carrion lads than they'd expected.

But Vints had the crew running double time, and Djo had already snuck ahead through a tunnel grid they'd stumbled across. The job was on. No turning back.

Vints gestured that he and Skew were going to make a run at the tall silo tower that dominated the dome – there were bound to be thronebothering big guns up there.

Dwice, Kaleb and new guy Macks went dodging through the support struts of the network of overhead walkways, aiming to track down the loot and, if they had a clear shot, take down any Cawdor snipers up high. They'd barely run ten paces when Macks called a halt.

'Boys, reckon I got a decent go from here.' He'd ducked behind a support pillar and was heaving his grenade launcher to bear.

'For real?' said Dwice, nervily eyeing the walkway above their heads, where rough-clad bootsteps clattered. 'That's mighty bold, man.'

'Yeah, but watch this!' said Macks, pulling the trigger and sending a frag grenade arcing up towards the silotop. It exploded with impressive power.

'Holy sumpsucking frag!' said Kaleb. 'What're you packing, man?'

'Extra-kick fraggies I got from some trader down the tech mart,' grinned Macks. 'Figured it'd help me make my mark with you guys.'

'No kidding,' said Dwice. 'You keep packing like that, we're gonna - '

But then the strutwork around them came alive with ricochets and miniature explosions. Dwice and Macks ducked for cover, but Kaleb caught a shot in the shoulder. It blew his armour plate open and left a bloody rent in his flesh.

'Dammit, that's bolterfire!' said Dwice. 'They got a heavy bolter on the silo!'

'Looks like all I did was get their attention,' said Macks. 'Sorry, lads.'

There was a pause in the shooting, and Kaleb's groans mixed with call-and-response catechisms being shouted across the dome. Cawdor reinforcements had arrived, and the Jackers were badly outnumbered.

Dwice and Macks did their best to shoot at whatever Carrion boys they could see, but they were pinned from three directions. Each of them took hits, but the bullets sang off their armour.

Somewhere away down the dome, they heard Djo roar in anger, then in pain. Guess his inflitration run wasn't running smoothly.

Keeping his head down, Dwice peered up at the silo. There was the heavy bolter guy up top, with another skull-masked Cawdor scragger hefting a long rifle. But there was a flash of hi-viz orange on the walkway below – Vints and Skew had made it within striking distance of the Cawdor snipers. Tough call – Carrion bossman Falco was on the same walkway a few metres along.

Dwice figured Vints needed some thinking time. 'Macks, pop another one of those mad frags up top there,' he said.

Macks nodded and sent another grenade sailing towards the top level of the silo. It detonated with a ferocious roar, and as the smoke cleared, moans could be heard.

Dwice saw Vints take the cue – the Jacker boss scrambled up a ladder and onto the top level, just out of sight. His chainsword roared, and the moans stopped. But then Dwice saw Vints backing up, hands raised. A salvo of barking shots rang out – the heavy bolter was still active – and Vints tumbled from the towertop, bleeding badly.

Meanwhile, Skew had evidently figured that Falco was a pressing threat. The Jacker had advanced along the walkway and let rip with shreddershot from his shotgun. But Falco dodged the worst of it and seconds later was firing back with some mad ammo that set Skew on fire and out of the fight.

Dwice shuddered. He'd taken a bunch of flameshot himself in his time. Not a nice way to get taken out of action. 

He snapped back to the moment. The heavy bolter creep was up on the edge of the silo, giving Macks a clear shot which he didn't waste – another powerful explosion, and the Cawdor dropped to the walkway below.

But Dwice could see the heavy was still stirring, and the rest of the Crimson Carrion were pressing in from the dome edges. 

'How we doing, jacks?' said Dwice.

Macks gave him a nod – still locked and loaded – and Kaleb grimaced an affirmative, wounded but still in the fight.

So the Jackers weren't going to win the shift, but there was still a chance to grab some loot and haul boots. Dwice knew there was a crate right above them on the walkway. 

He leapt over to a ladder and scrambled up. As he reached the walkway, he clocked the crate and the Cawdor mook standing beside it, back turned. In the din of all the gunfire, he hadn't heard Dwice approach.

Drawing his autopistol, Dwice smirked. No time to waste – he levelled the gun and squeezed the trigger. But even as he did so, his foot slipped on an oilpatch and he lurched to the side. The shot went wide.

Dwice was halfway through remembering what his uncle Malky always said: if you're gonna shoot someone, shoot 'em dead. But then the Carrion mook turned and aimed his gun-stave.

Flames shot out and engulfed Dwice. His world turned red and unbearably hot. 

And that was the last thing he ever knew.

Dwice Necrofago lived fifteen long cycles before he died in the badzones of Sector H8. They'll hammer his name into the Book of Iron in Old Bedlam Town.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Interlude: The Comptroller II

If their business is sufficiently important, visitors to the hallowed factorum complex at Battersump may be admitted to the grand audience platform of the Holy and Esoteric Alliance of Thermaticists, where the guilders themselves hold court. Degister had been there only once before, for a branding ceremony to ratify his appointment as the H.E.A.T.'s prime Comptroller in Sector H8. Now, at his overlords' command, here he was again.

As it had that first time, the cavernous, red-lit chamber made Degister's head spin and guts churn. The platform was suspended hundreds of metres above the four colossal vent-gates that connected to the great central heat sink of Hive Primus, and, like all visitors, the Comptroller had been obliged to don a respirator and thick asbestoline robes to ward off the ambient temperature's lethal edge. Even so, it was surely hot enough to make a Goliath furnace-grunt sweat bullets.

The air between the platform and the distant sides of the chamber rippled with mesmeric intensity; Degister had heard wild tales of how cryptic mirages rich with dark omens might be glimpsed there - enough to drive a hiver mad. This was, of course, largely from the prattling of chem-raddled scummers, but why take the risk? He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead as he moved from spotlight to spotlight along the thick ceramite decking.

Up ahead, hunched on a semicircular bank of mech-works, were the H.E.A.T. guilders themselves. There were four of them, shrouded in shadow and swaddled with bulky asbestoline. What little could be seen of the beings beneath the robes was heavily augmeticised, and tangles of wire and tubing connected them not only to the mech-bank on which they sat, but also to each other.

As he approached, Degister convinced himself that his discomfort was entirely physical. After all, the guilders had every reason to be well pleased with his performance in managing the H.E.A.T.'s affairs. The Hellhounds, Krass Dynasty and Wasted Youth were doing a spire-straight job of flexing their muscles in the Hacked Knee. Never mind the unfortunate breakdown in solidarity with the Church of the Amethyst Emperor – in the end, what does a few more dead muties matter? Turf had been claimed and supply lines secured. What's more, it was H.E.A.T. agents who'd eliminated the the Ba'King's escaped ambull and ended its threat to H8 infrastructure (Degsiter had little time for spurious rumours that it had been a lowly Van Saar juve that had killed the monster. Preposterous). In all, the rival energy guilds had good reason to fear and respect their thermaticist brothers.

There was a swagger in Degister's step as he came to a halt. 'Good cycle to you, milords,' his voice crackled through his respirator vox as he bowed. 'How can I be of service?'

The voice of the H.E.A.T. pulsed forth. It was impossible to tell which guilder it was that spoke, and the environmental extremity of the chamber rendered their utterance as roiling thunder.

+++ EXPLAIN YOURSELF, COMPTROLLER +++

This wrongfooted Degister straight off.

'Milords? I'm – I'm not sure I scan you rightly...'

+++ THE AGENTS YOU HAVE EMPLOYED +++

'What about them? They've been serving us well,' said Degister.

+++ TERRITORIAL GAINS THROUGHOUT SECTOR H8 HAVE BEEN MORE THAN SATISFACTORY +++

'You bet they have!' said Degister. 'I hired the best men this side of Dust Falls, and they've been getting-'

+++ HOWEVER +++

'However? However what?'

+++ THE BA'KINGS AND WIND SORE CLAN OFFER SUBSTANTIAL BOUNTIES ON THE GANG LEADERS VOKRAN AND KRASS +++

'So fragging what?' said Degister. 'Er, so what, milords? It's nothing but sour shrooms from them. Their operatives aren't doing so well so they play this move. It's to be expected.'

+++ YET WE HAVE RECEIVED REPORTS THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED GANG LEADERS HAVE +++ DEVIANT TENDENCIES +++ FOUL PROCLIVITIES +++ GENE TAINT +++

'So I hired some nasty fraggers, so what?' said Degister, tugging at his robes uneasily. 'That's what gets the job done. As you said yourself, more than satisfactory. Sumpdamned good, I'd say.'

+++ AND YET +++ SHOULD THE REPORTS PROVE TRUE +++

'Milords, they're independent agents! What they do in the cycles they're not running for us is their business!'

+++ WE DOUBT THAT HELMAWR'S ENFORCER-DOGS WOULD AGREE +++

Degister didn't have an answer for this.

+++ OUR LABOURS MUST NOT BE DISTURBED +++ WE WILL NOT TOLERATE THE SULLYING OF OUR REPUTATION +++ RESTRAIN THE BEASTS YOU HAVE UNLEASHED +++ OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES +++ YOU ARE DISMISSED +++

The Comptroller didn't need telling twice. He muttered a grovelling affirmation, and then turned and bustled back down the decking, drenched in sweat.

Sweat borne of fear and sweat borne of H.E.A.T.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 6: The Box

The battered and bloodied crew of Hi-Viz Jackers trudged back into town and were met outside the gang's habhole hideout by recuperating Vints Courraine. It was enough to spark some disquieting deja vu in the chem-wreck scummers who loiter round the main drag of Nu-Bedlam. This time, the Jackers had fought the notorious Hellhounds while Vints was getting over losing an eye in the Great Ambull Hunt.

'Well, look at you sorry sumpsuckers,' said Vints.

'Yeah, boss – it didn't pan out,' said Dwice Necrofago, who was looking decidedly singed.

Eight Jackers in the crew, and only half of them – Dwice, Skew, Djo and Kaleb – were on their feet. The rest – Akilles, Edzra, Murgen and Ralve - were unconscious and in various states of injury, lugged along by their gangmates.

'No kidding,' said Vints with a grimace. 'Fill me in.'

'Well,' said Dwice, 'things went sumpwards whien we hit the Desolate Plain – that bit of badzone where Saint Peet's Pits used to be. The Hellhounds must've got sharp that we were coming gunning for some of their turf and decided to cut us off there. All bad lumens and dead-end tunnelworks in that slice of sector, and we could hear those weirdos out there chanting, you know, that weird lingo that makes your brain itch. Sounded like they was all around us.

'So we got ourselves boxed in in a dead end, and that's where Akilles and Edzra didn't scan things the same. Edz's saying we gotta bust out, try to outflank the Hounds in he tunnels, but Akilles wasn't having it. Maybe he was remembering how he got clobbered by the Sawboss when we ran that hit on the Battersump HEAT bigwig...'

Dwice's scorn was obvious. He'd been hauling Akilles and, with a sigh of relief, let go. Akilles slumped to the deck. Vints couldn't help but note that Dwice had done well to drag a man in carapace armour all the way back to town. The juve was toughening up.

'Anyways,' continued Dwice, 'Akilles won out – maybe cos he hadn't lately done nothing dumb like, ya know, shooting his boss...'

Dwice grinned. Vints didn't.

'… uh, yeah, so we're holed up in this lock-in behind some heavy doors, hearing the Hellhounds as they got closer and closer. Plan was to set up a gun trap, let them come to us and then shoot the frag out of them as they bottlenecked. Way Akilles laid it out, the most important thing was not to let Vokran or that freaky Sawboss through the doorway. But that's not how it went down...'

He gestured to his exhausted and wounded gangmates.

'Get to the point, juve,' said Vints.

'Right. So we're waiting and waiting, and then Ralve clocks on the doorside pictfeed that they've popped a smoke grenade rght outside. So much for our bullet party, even if they open the door. But I'm carrying a melta bomb I found and I set it so's when they do come through, there's a nice Dwice surprise for them. We backed the frag up and waited some more. After a few clicks, they open the door. There's all smoke spilling in and we can't see frag all further out, but one of their baghead boys is coming through – sets of the melta bomb which takes him down but also takes out poor Ralve...'

Dwice pointed at unconscious Ravle. The flesh on the ganger's right arm had been practically boiled away. Nasty.

'So the melta bomb's gone but the smoke's only just starting to clear. I nip forward and take the downed baghead out with my knife, ha ha, and it looks like we're gonna get our chance. Edz is just powering up his big laser, but then a krak grenade comes flying out the smoke. That sumpdamned Vokran. So Edz is down and bleeding, and we've lost our best gun.'

Vints nodded. Not that he'd say it out loud, but that was some sweet payback for Edzra blasting his eye out right there.

Dwice continued. 'So Akilles runs forward to shut the door, but suddenly Sawboss comes out the smoke and chops Akilles up, never mind about his new armour. And then this wytch comes out the smoke and starts throwing mad mind fire everywhere. We're not too badly hurt but we got guys pinned and on fire – like me.'

Dwice raised his arms and turned to show the scorchmarks on his jacket.

'And then we got more guys getting downed and then Vokran's in the room. I'm on fire and he clobbers me – knocks me out cold. Dunno exactly what happened next, you'd have to ask Skew.'

Vints turned to Skew, pretty much the only Jacker to come back unscathed. 'So how'd you get out?'

'I'll be sumpdamned if I rightly know,' said Skew with a shrug. 'Was more hectic than an ash-storm in there. I just grabbed whoever I could and legged it. Somehow, here we are.'

That was good enough for Vints. Shame it left them short-handed – no doubt the Hellhounds would take advantage and muscle in on the Jackers' turf, maybe the Laddershins Slagworks.

While Vints ws pondering, Dwice was barking at the others. 'Skew, get Ralve over to Doc Proxi and have her take a look at that arm. Djo, Kaleb, same for Akilles and Edz, but it's gotta be Ralve first – he's worst fragged. I'll follow with Murgen – looks like he's not that bad.'

The Jackers jumped to it, much to Vints's surprise, and he got to thinking as the wounded were hauled away to Doctor Proxi's cutting room. 

Dwice had been with the Jackers since they'd arrived in the Hacked Knee and, juve though he was, he'd stepped up at the Ba'Kings' Grand Tournay and gone toe to toe with mean brutes like that mutie Krug. Maybe he wasn't the straightest shooter and he sure wasn't good up close, but he had spiretop moxie and he was a quick scragger of the wounded with that knife of his. So what if he got a kick out of needling Vints? He'd shown loyalty and stuck around when most of the old Jackers had fragged off. 

Maybe, thought Vints, just maybe the time had come to give Dwice Necrofago his due.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 5: Pest Control

The first thing that hit Vintsen Courraine was the searing pain in his head. Then, the reek of disinfectants and surgical chems, accompanied by the whirr of micro-mech tools. And then, as his vision resolved, the distinctive silhouette of Doctor Proxi's head, framed by the fierce glow of angled lumens.

Ah, frag, he thought, I'm back on the slab.

He moved to sit up but found he was clamped in place at the neck and wrists. Proxi, in her grimy chirurgeon's robes, impassively masked as ever, was stooped over and right in his grill. She was working away at one side of his head with the blades and fleshweavers on her augmetic hand, but Vints couldn't see what she was about.

Wait, thought Vints, my eye...

'Be still, please, senor Courraine,' said Proxi tonelessly. 'I'm at a particularly delicate moment in the procedure. Your eye is gone. I'm trying to refix the plate in your head and seal up the wound.'

Not the first injury Vints had sustained running the downhive life. But still. 'Frag, that hurts.'

'I can't give you any more kalma chems,' said Proxi. 'Your heart wouldn't take it.'

'Doc, we went looking for that escaped ambull...' winced Vints. 'In the badzones... me and Edzra.... where is he, anyhow?'

'Senors Macbacta and Lebow are just outside,' said Proxi, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the cutting room door. 'Now please, don't move.'

To take his mind off the pain, scanned back to what had brought him here. 

+ + +

Word had got out that a truly gnarly specimen – an ambull no less - had escaped from the Ba'Kings' menagerie, and that the guilders were offering a hefty reward for the beast's carcase. 

Naturally, this had drawn guns from right across Hacked Knee Nord, and hunting crews had formed along guild alliance lines. Vints and Edzra, the latter hefting his newly-acquired mining laser, had fallen in with two of the Van Saar Blitzkrieg Boppers – their leader Jurgex and a juve called Andreas – and two of the Hooded Men – ganger Greum and the brutal ogryn Oisin. Any lingering aggro from the Jackers' recent scrap with the Cawdors was set static – there was more at stake this shift. The Reprobates and Harbingers had teamed up for the Wind Sore Clan, and the Battersump H.E.A.T. were represented by the Wasted Youth, Krass Dynasty, Hellhounds and the Church of the Amethyst Emperor. 

Of course, there would be blood.

First, though, the hunters had to gun and cut their way through the weird carnival that had gathered around the rogue ambull in a tight mazework of tangled tunnels. An unsanctioned witch and a crew of chittering, misshapen dreg-muties had gathered in awe of the beast, and some kind of crazy spyko connection had kicked in and set a couple of nearby ambot units running riot.

The faction gangs had their work cut out, and Vints and the Ba'Kings crew decided it'd be sharp to hang back and let their rivals thin out the murderous throng before ducking in and hitting the real target. They split into two crews: Vints with Greum and Oisin to the left, shadowing the Wind Sore mob, and Edra with Jurgex and Andreas, moving into a small chamber towards the Battersump side of the fightzone.

Gunfire and death screams echoed through the corridors ahead. Turned out the Battersump boys, who had the biggest crew, were doing most of the gruntwork, slaying muties and even hammering two ambots into junk.

But then there was the ambull. Neither Vints nor Edzra had yet clocked the beast, but its ragged, booming roars sounded through the tunnels, along with repeated oaths and curses as the hunters found their bullets and blasts unable to pierce the monster's flinty hide.

Vints and the Hooded Men were debating whether to pitch in alongside the Harbingers to purge a gaggle of dreg-muties when Edzra's voice crackled through on their two-way vox link.

'Uh, boss, we got a situation back here – there's commotion up ahead. It's those three-armed Battersump muties, you know, Krass and his like. And I think the ambull's real close... O frag, Bopper boys, heads up!'

The vox cut out.

Straight off, Vints turned and started running to Edzra's position. Greum looked surprised – at least as surprised as you can look when your face is covered by a pointed hood – but Oisin wasn't narked. The ogryn was already lumbering off towards the sounds of battle, chuckling deeply and ominously.

As he reached the small chamber, Vints just caught Edzra letting rip with a blast from his mining laser. The heavy lasbolt punched the torso and abdomen clean out of a gibbering dreg-mutie standing in the opposite doorway. But there was closer trouble: the two Boppers were fighting off another dreg-mutie on the left of the room.

'Where's the ruckus?' said Vints.

'Right through there,' said Edzra, pointing the muzzle of his industrial las at the doorway ahead. 'Reckon the big bastard's just round to the left.'

Vints thought for half a click that maybe they should help out the Boppers. Of course not. A grin broke through his barbe.

'I'm going for it,' he said. 'Cover me.'

With that, he clicked on his chainsword and ran full tilt across the room and through the doorway.

Vints Courraine had crossed paths with some real Necromundan horrors in his time – starve-crazy ripperjacks, sump spiders the size of load-luggers, nests of seething blindsnakes – but nothing could have prepared him for the heaving slagpile of a monster he found himself up against.

The ambull was huge, taller than two Goliaths, all ceramite-strong muscle and fist-thick chitin. A cluster of Battersump gangers were attacking from the front, and it was taking wild swings at them with its ponderous forearms, each wider than a heavy-duty prommy can. The claws on the end of each arm were jagged and barbarous, same as its mandibles, which gnashed and clicked frantically either side of its slavering maw. And the less said about the stench, which would have made the sump smell sweet by comparison, the better.

It was enough to overwhelm even an experienced gang runner. But Vints noticed one particlar detail in all the horror.

The ambull was bleeding.

Someone had got a telling blow on it. What bleeds can be killed.

Encouraged, Vints screamed an old Orlock battlecry and opened fire at the beast with bolt pistol. He aimed at the monster's lower back: the shells blew off a couple of chunks of chitin, and that was where he followed through with his chainsword. The blades bit deep and churned up the flesh just below the ambull's waist. A torrent of sticky, grey-blue blood gushed out.

The ambull reared back, filling the corridor with an ullulating roar. It twisted round with disturbing speed, bringing one of its claws towards Vints. He gasped and ducked. The claw swung over his head and he almost laughed – and then something hit him in the side of the head. It was heavy and blisteringly hot, and Vints dropped to the floor.

Prone, Vints reeled. It was bad. He could hardly see. Whatever had hit him, it wasn't the ambull, but he couldn't focus on anything. Looking up, he saw the monster looming over him, blocking out almost everything else. He tried to roll away and, as he twisted, he caught glimpse of Jared, bossman of the Reprobates, ten metres away and hurling a hefty-looking bomb at the ambull and its attackers. Everything caught fire and then went dark....

+ + +

So Vints was wondering how he'd made it from there to the fleshweaver's slab.

'Doc, stop for a click or two, will you? And get Edzra and Akilles in here.'

Doctor Proxi sighed – exasperation was about the only emotion she ever displayed – but duly paused and summoned the two Jackers into the cutting room. Vints demanded Edzra give him vox and pict, as it were, on the rest of the hunt.

'Well, boss,' said Edzra. 'Things ran pretty crazy after that meathead chucked the flame bomb. Fraggers were burning here and there, the ambull looked to be on its last legs. That's when that young Bopper we were running with – Andreas - ducks out and takes a shot with his fancy laspistol. Wouldn't you know it, it pops straight through the ambull's eyeball and, I guess, into its brain. Big bastard drops dead right there.'

Vints gasped a laugh and regretted it as pain lanced through his head.

'And that's not the craziest of it,' continued Edzra. 'Practically before the ambull's hit the deck, that Wasted guy Stray Tom – the one who took out Murgen last cycle – he comes running up and shoots Andreas in the head with his sawn-off. Shoots him sump-dead. This juve, who's just killed a fragging ambull...'

This got a chuckle from grim Akilles, even though he'd heard the story before.

Edzra went on: 'Good shift turned real bad real quick for the Blitzkreig Boppers... And that's not all. Seems like there's trouble with the Battersump H.E.A.T. boys, bad blood between the Amethyst church guys and the Hellhounds. The three-arm mutie guys start laying into the Hounds like it's Sanguinius Day, bullets flying everywhere, things go sumpwards real fast...'

'No kidding,' said Vints. 'And what happened to our, uh, good pals from the Hooded Men?'

'Dunno about Greum, but Oisin got heavy over where the Wind Sore mob were operating. Took out a bunch of poor fraggers, and we know how that feels.'

'That all?'

'Not quite. Those Harbinger snakes were skulking round through all this. Looks like they knew well enough not to get involved, but get this – last thing their bossman Crowley did before they cleared off was take a shot at the Amethyst mutie boss Ghilabrious. Killed him straight off and all.'

Another chuckle from morbid Akilles.

'Sumpdammit, what a busted shift,' said Vints. 'So how'd it all play out in the end?'

'Fragged if I know,' said Edzra. 'They were all still blasting and scragging away when I grabbed you and hauled boots out of there. Figured it was better to get you here to the Doc's after, uh, after you got, uh, took out...'

'Yeah,' said Vints. 'So... what exactly happened there? One click I'm bringing bullet and blade to the ambull, the next....'

'Uh, I didn't rightly see,' said Edzra. He was slowly sidling toward the door.

Doctor Proxi broke in. 'The burns you took from the incendiary device were superficial. But the shot that burst your eyeball and warped your cranial plate? It hit you from behind... From the wound pattern I would guess it was an industrial las device. Perhaps, say, a mining laser?'

Groggy as he was, Vints got the message.

'Well, frag me - ' he began, but Edzra was already talking over him.

'I swear, boss,' stuttered Edzra, 'I didn't mean to do it, I thought I had a clear shot at the ambull, if I'd've thought I was going to hit you, I never would've taken the shot...'

The confession rolled on, accompanied by a torrent of threats from Vints about what he was going to do to Edzra when the clamps were off and he was up from the meatslab.

Akilles grinned as he took in the show. Now here was a shift's entertainment in the making.

Doctor Proxi shrugged and shook her head at the sight of these damned boorish Orlocks.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 4: Underhive Life Sucks

'Ah fragsake,' muttered Djo Moge. 'What's with this lock?'

He stood back from the access panel by the wide blast door, exasperated.

'Here,' said Edzra Macbacta, 'Lemme have another look.'

The Hi-Viz Jackers were at a crossways deep in the interdome tunnel maze of Sector H8. Vints Courraine, recovered from his head injury, had decided that they could kill three sheen birds with one bullet by claiming the Ambull Inn off the Wasted Youth: as well as serving the interests of the Ba'Kings in the guild war, it would also settle the bad blood with their former Orlock allies and, best of all, it'd stick one to Overcomptroller Degister - the Wasted ran for Battersump HEAT.

But the plan to launch a sneak attack was running awry. Their best way forward from this gloomy crossways was blocked by a glitching door, and so far none of their efforts - which mostly consisted of Djo and Edzra trying to hack the door mech while Murgen, Skew and Ravle stood by chanting half-remembered Martian prayers – had worked.

Young Dwice Necrofago wandered down one of the stubby corridors leading off the crossway, his movement followed by a set of automated pict-cappers mounted along the ceiling. He pointed at the door there. 'Can't we just go thisaways?'

'Sumpdammit, no,' said Vints. 'Weren't you listening? We tried it but that's a Wind Sore seal glyph flashing on that panel there. Ain't no air behind that door, or not much of it anyway. We open it and the air equalises, we could get windblown to spire knows where. It's a frag-crazy move. Now get back over here.'

As Dwice sulkily rejoined his gangmates, Vints got to thinking. Far as he could tell, the tunnel they'd arrived from linked up with the fourth tunnel a ways back. Everything funnelled to this crossways. With the sealed door blocked, a canny hiver might think to rig the door they were trying to get through. It'd set up a snake-sharp ambush....

Vints glimpsed movement at the corner down the corridor they arrived from. He clocked a large metallic object being heaved into the air towards them, and just had enough time to yell, 'It's a trap!'

Too late. The blasting charge landed square in the middle of the Jacker crew and detonated with brutal force. Ralve was knocked out cold straight away, and the rest of the gang were hammered off their feet.

Vints tried to shake his head clear. He peered up the corridor where the bomb had come from and saw Orlock plates flashing in the gloom. It was the Wasted Youth – there was no mistaking the sadistic grin of Frisco as he rushed round the corner and opened fire, keeping the Jackers pinned.

'Get at 'em, Jacks!' shouted Vints, but the gang was dazed from the blast and slow to react, not shooting straight even if they managed to get back on their feet. Murgen and Skew didn't even manage this - they freaked out and started crawling desperately for cover.

At least Vints himself made it to his feet. He took a bolt pistol shot at Frisco, but his shot ran wide and his gun jammed. Still, Djo was looking sharp – he hauled himself to his feet and let rip with his flame pistol, drenching Frisco in fire. The Wasted veteran dropped and rolled, burning.

Then the door they'd been trying to hack rolled open with grim inevitability, revealing two more Wasted Youth up close, and gang boss Soho Jones and a couple of long-range shooters further away.

The up-close guys opened fire, keeping the Jackers pinned and drawing blood. In a lull in the shooting, Vints heard Soho shout: 'Hey, Courraine! Long time no see!'

Vints glared down the corridor – Soho was aiming his grenade launcher and fired off a shot which arced past his vanguard fighters and impacted in Vints's lower abdomen. A krak grenade. The implosive force tore Vints's colours and ripped up his flesh. He dropped, cursing and bleeding, but was still in the fight.

And then the final part of the trap was sprung. Turned out there was needleways access nearby – three more Wasted Youth were scrambling out of a hidden pipe vent. One of them, the man known as Stray Tom, charged straight at Murgen. The panicked Jacker hardly had the wits to react as he was hit hard by chain and chainsword, but as he went down he got off a stubbershot which floored his attacker.

Edzra had ducked back behind a wall, but with the needleways arrivals, what he thought would be cover was as useless as rat spit. The Jackers were surrounded. There was no way out. Well, maybe there was one.

Vints, wincing as he tried to stem his bleeding, clocked what Edzra was going to do. He grinned through the pain, muttering, 'Macbatca, you crazy fragger...'

Edzra darted across the corridor to the sealed door. It wasn't much of a job to override the shoddy Wind Sore glyph, and, in a click, the door zipped open.

And then all sumpsucking hell broke loose.

There was a ferocious roar as the air in the crossways was sucked violently into the depressurised zone and Orlocks of all colours got blasted off their feet and tumbled towards the opened door. Hi-Viz Jackers slammed into Wasted Youths and everyone tried to grab on to doors, walls or whatever would stop them sliding.

The wind subsided as suddenly as it had kicked in, but everything in the crossways was different. The two gangs were all mixed in together. To cap it all, some bit of debris had hit the other door controls, bringing the heavy plating rumbling back down and cutting off Soho and his team, who'd escaped the worst of the depressurisation.

There was stunned silence in the crossways for a few clicks. Only the whirr of the overhead pictcappers could be heard. Then moans and curses kicked in.

Djo Moge was one of the first back on his feet. He rushed to take advantage of the flipped situation, getting off a flamer shot that pinned two of the ambushers, but in his haste he also clipped Dwice, setting his hair on fire. The juve went down screaming.

Vints was back on his feet, ready to take advantage of the situation, but as he glanced around, he realised there wasn't much advantage to be taken: Dwice was down, and there were still more Wasted guns in the crossways than Jackers. Edzra's gambit had bought them time, but only to escape.

'Boys, let's haul boots!' shouted Vints Courraine. Before the Wasted Youth could get the jump again, the Jackers were gone.

The failed raid wasn't without consequences. Rogue Doc Scratch, perhaps sore that the Jackers kept sending their wounded to Doc Proxi, switched his loyalty to the Wasted Youth. And Dwice and Murgen's injuries were surely going to keep them out the Jackers' next scrap. 

Still, something unexpected happened a few shifts later. A nondescript box with a note was delivered to the Jackers' Nu-Bedlam hideout. The note was written on parchment the likes of which was seldom seen on Necromunda below the Spire. Turns out a bunch of uphive nobs had been watching the fight on a hack-feed from the pictcappers in the crossways, and they'd been so entertained by Edzra's willing recklessness that they decided to throw the gang a favour: the box was brimming with credits.

Underhive life sucks, but even that pays off sometimes.