Scandal ripped through
the Middenmans' ranks when they discovered that it was business as
usual in the drinking holes and shimmy-clubs of Foulnest. Didn't
these damned downhivers know that the end of the world was nigh? A
crew of true believers was duly dispatched to hit the off-shift spots
and preach the temperant word of the True Redemption. Perhaps a few
converts could be won over to the cause.
And so,
Salvation-Shall-Verily-Be-Paid-For-In-Blood Middenman led three of
his brothers into Foulnest core to Sumpways, the most infamous den of
debauchery in the zone. What the Cawdors didn't know was that three
xenos-tainted crews – the Guiding Claw, Kreel's Ascent and Doctor
Nostrox and his twisted minions – had had the same idea, and were
approaching the club at just the same moment.
The Middenmans paused
in an access corridor outside the main club hall, grimacing at the
pulsing bass notes thrumming through the walls. Salvation had
Repent-Lest-Thou-Be-Truly-Damned work the nearest door, which scraped
open, revealing the swirling revelry beyond. The lumens were dim, and
a pall of chemmy smoke hung in the air. Drunk downhivers of all
persuasions staggered and reeled to the grinding sounds being piped
through on clusters of vox units clamped around the walls.
'Such sin! Wanton sin!'
cried Repent, and brandished his blunderbuss-polearm. 'Yon foul folk
deserve a burning!'
'Lower thy weapon, my
brother,' said Salvation. 'We're here to redeem these poor fellows,
to persuade them.'
'And if they don't
listen?' asked Pity-Not-The-Recidivist, knowing full well the answer.
'Then we burn
them,' confirmed Salvation. 'Forward, my brothers!'
The Middenmans stepped
into the club, words of devotion on their chapped, sore-crusted lips.
Those downhivers nearby who could hear over the music turned towards
them – some stimm-addled and curious, others clearly intent on
expelling these hooded killjoys.
Salvation strode to the
nearest reveller – the Cawdor's heavy hammer of welded spikes
deterred any resistance – and began preaching. Perhaps it was the
drugs, perhaps this sorry soul really was ready for Redemption – he
seemed well ready to listen to the good word.
But
Pity-Not-The-Recidivist had clocked trouble.
'Brother,' he said to
Revulsion-Is-Thine-Armour, 'Look yonder. There be muties in this
house.'
The three xenos-cult
crews were moving in across the murky hall, accosting revellers as
they went. At the far end, it looked like a firefight was breaking
out between two of them.
'Aye,' nodded
Revulsion. 'Look at these nearest. Those Guiding Claw wrongbones we
fought back at – Throne preserve us!'
This last exclamation
as something uncanny happened to one of the Guiding Claw. He looked
to be the leader and, as he'd raised a hand to his temple and bowed
slightly, seemingly attempting some wychwork, his whole body had
convulsed and an eerie red glow had blossomed about him. Now, he was
rearing up, his eyes burning with infernal fire, tendrils of strange
energy enveloping his twoste frame. He was moving, stroboscopically
and with terrifying jerks, straight towards the
Middenmans.
It befalls the true
servants of the Redemprion to battle the diabolical and daemonic in
all its guises. But any Middenman will tell you that a battle cannot
be fought if you've been rended limb from limb.
'Brothers!' yelled
Revulsion. 'Yon mutie has been possessed by daemon foul! Retreat!'
His fellows needed no
persuading, and scuttled back through the doorway. As the portal
eased shut, they glimpsed the posssessed Claw tearing into the
revellers. The music had cut out, replaced by panicked screams.
The Middenmans paused
in the corridor. The screams continued, albeit muffled, and were
accompanied by thumps, thuds, and the unmistakable sound of tearing
flesh. An unearthly, polyphonic chittering accompanied the uproar.
Several clicks passed.
And then a few clicks more.
The sounds subsided.
There was still uproar in the club, but nothing more than the noise
of a standard underhive battle.
'Fie, brothers,'
intoned Salvation, mustering his resolve. 'What are we, scared
sumprats?'
His words inspired his
companions. The Middenmans hit the door and re-entered the club.
Inside the carnage had
only intensified, with chemmed-up hivers either bleeding out on the
floor or staggering about, this time more through injury than
inebriation. Small blessings – the possessed Claw was burnt out and
had collpased to the deck in the middle of the chamber. Beyond that,
Kreel's Ascent and Nostrox's crew were locked in bloody combat,
bullets and blows flying desperately even as both sides tried to coax
hivers to join them in the fight.
Revulsion took a direct
hit from a Guiding Claw sniper, and went down, but, with their leader
out of the fight following his untimely possession, this mutie crew's
appetite for battle was waning. They withdrew from the club with a
handful of converts.
The Middenmans set
about putting the good word to all in the vicinity, hoping to make
the most of the Nostroxians' and Kreelites' mutual distraction.
Repent and Pity did what they could, but Salvation's preaching proved
most effective – soon, he had a cluster of five bombed-out hivers
gathered around him.
'Look ye!' he cried.
'Look at the wages of sin! Carry on with thine evil ways and ye shall
be beset by the daemon and made a puppet of the Wrong Gods! Only True
Redemption can save ye! The end of the world is upon us, and thy
mortal soul is in-'
'Uh, my brother,' said
Repent, tugging on Salvation's ragged sleeve. 'Look yonder.'
Across the hall, Doctor
Nostrox and his twisted crew had driven off Kreel's minions and were
advancing, bolstered by a crowd of glassy-eyed hivers.
Like any son of House
Cawdor, Salvation knew full well when to settle for the scraps in
hand and run.
'With me, my new
brethren! To the Middenkirk, and True Redemption!'
The Middenmans fled the
zone, escaping the looming clutches of Doctor Nostrox.
By the next shift, five
new converts knelt before the altar of the Middenkirk and swore
alliegence to House Cawdor and the Holy Redepmtion. In time, perhaps
some of them would be entrusted to take up arms as full-blooded
Middenmans. The more, the merrier with dark times afoot.