The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 3: The H.E.A.T. Hit

With Vints recovering from Doc Proxi's head-welding, Akilles and Edzra were top dogs for a few sets of shifts, and that's when a chance came to bloody the sinksucking noses of the Battersump H.E.A.T.. A thermaestro by the name of Kraxis Taal was overseeing a maintenance run, and the Jackers had got their hands on a hacked rundown of the his itinerary. Taking him out would earn the good will of the Ba'Kings – too good to miss.

Turns out another H8 mob called the Harbingers of the Undivided had nabbed the same list. They were affiliated with the Wind Sore Clan, but Edzra arranged a parlay and persuaded them that it was in their interests to join forces for the job. The Harbingers were a strange crew - offworlders, it seemed, clad in ragged militarum gear and given to cursing with obscure lingo that made even a ganger's mind twinge to hear it. Edzra wasn't entirely convinced by Harbinger boss Crowley's assurances that Ashmole the psyker was entirely officially sanctioned.

Still, the Jackers were glad of the allies when the scrap came and the H.E.A.T. maestro turned up with bodyguards: an entourage made up of gangers from the Hellhounds and Krass Dynasty. The plan was to rush the target as he approached an undergrind access elevator at Deathknell Gap . It was a well-known ambush point: the walls and decking were red-brown with caked-on blood.

While Edzra and Kaleb lurked behind an access port near the elevator unit, Akilles took Murgen and Djo and made to outflank the entourage on the left; the Harbingers spread out and did likewise to the right of the unit. Skew and Ralve got sent on a wide work-around, intending to loop behind the H.E.A.T. crew and come at them from behind.

What the Jackers and Harbingers hadn't counted on was the H.E.A.T.ers anticipating the hit attempt and sending some of their own fighters on ahead. Even as Akilles and his boys made their first moves forward, the unmistakable roar of chainblades and buzz-cutters kicked in, all too nearby.

Djo got hit first. Lumbering out of a shadowy corridor to the left came the bloated, hulking form of Sawboss, the Hellhounds' resident brute. The Jackers had a near-miss with the beast cycles ago at the old Catch 22 gambling pit, but this time he was right in their faces, chainblades alive. Djo went down in a click, and Akilles and Murgen let rip with stubberfire – enough to make the monster bleed, but nowhere near enough to take it down.

The yells of alarm sounded across the adjoining passageways, but Edzra told Kaleb to stand firm and wait for the Taal and his minders to draw nearer across the chamber leading to the elevator. Likewise, the Harbingers, over beyond the elevator, continued their steady advance, exchanging some long range fire with the Dynasty and Hellhounds and sending one of the former packing.

Not that this was much solace to Akilles. Despite his size, Sawboss was damned fast. Having dealt with Djo, the beast was on Akilles in a flash – the Jacker veteran's vaunted rep for standing firm under gunfire didn't amount to much against such a brutal close-up attack. He went down, hard.

Murgen clocked all this and rightly figured his efforts would be wasted on the brute. But he'd spotted another Hellhound lurking in the corridor behind Sawboss. Darting forward, he let rip with his stubbers, bur he missed outright. The Hellhound was a better shot, and toting a plasmagun to boot – Murgen went down and out just like Akilles.

Over the other side of the elevator, the Harbingers were getting into it with the advancing H.E.A.T.ers: bullets and blows were being exchanged, blood was being spilt. Abraham Krass himself was in close combat with grim-masked Harbinger Conan but, having only brought a few of his brethren to the fight, was looking nervy about sticking around. The Hellhound psyker known as Kel'tor moved to the centre of the chamber, looking to mind-blast a path to the elevator, but Harbinger gunfire had him down and bleeding. Still, the rest of the crew encircling Taal were advancing steadily behind.

Meanwhile, Skew had snuck into the fightzone behind enemy lines and had a pretty good view of things – good enough that he was biding his time rather than make a suicide run at the entourage. He saw Ralve sneak on likewise at the far other end of the corridor, and waved his hand, signalling to his gangmate to hold fire for now.

Then word crackled through on the crude vox-link the Jackers and Harbingers had set up between them – Krass has bottled and fled the fight, and it looked like his remaining cronies would soon do likewise. Edzra and Kaleb, still waiting behind the door for a moment to strike, shared a glance – perhaps the time was right.

Behind them, where Akilles and his boys had headed, they saw Harbinger Page moving backwards, blasting away with his hotshot las at some unseen target. Page shuffled out of sight, and the target appeared: Sawboss, blades churning. 

So much for the right moment. They had to hit the main chamber now.

Edzra popped the door and Kaleb raced through. He clocked the thermaestro straight away and ran full tilt towards him, ignoring the H.E.A.T. fighters in his peripheral vision. He almost stopped short when the Hellhound heavy beside Taal raised his heavy stubber and let rip, but all the bullets ran wide.

Kaleb raised his autogun. He squeezed the trigger. A burst of shots ripped forth.

And missed. 

Kaleb had just enough time to realise he was totally in the open before a plasmaburst caught him hard in the chest, taking him out instantly.

Ralve and Skew saw this from their distant vantage points and voxed through to Edzra, telling him that this fight wasn't worth it, that they were hauling boots. Edzra didn't blame them – hell, he agreed and, as Sawboss loomed behind him, he heaved open an access hatch and ducked out of the fight.

Seems bossman Crowley and his crew had much the same realisation – not long after, they also bottled, and the Hellhounds and remaining Krass Dynasty escorted Taal to the elevator and on to Battersump without further mishap.

After the last echo of the battle had died, the Jackers returned to the zone: luckily, their fallen were all accounted for, and Akilles, Djo and Murgen, while badly hit, would surely recover. Kaleb was a different story, and Edzra had Ralve and Skew hustle his bloody body off to Doc Proxi directly.

Edzra paused a click or two after they'd gone. Not much to show for a shift's fighting, and nothing the Ba'Kings would be impressed by. Still, there'd be other chances to hit the Battersump H.E.A.T.. The Wind Sore Clan too, for that matter. And besides, what do you expect when you side with deviant freaks? The Harbingers' weird battle chants were going to haunt Edzra for cycles to come, probably give him nightmares, too.

But Edzra wasn't going to worry about nightmares. The Underhive's got trouble enough for the wakeful. Trouble that comes at you with blades for hands, stimms for blood and murderous madness in its eyes.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 2: Vints's Vengeance

Edzra Macbacta had run with gang chiefs from Old Bedlam Town to Port Mad Dog, and he still didn't know what to make of Vintsen Courraine. The way Edzra scanned it, it made zero sense to go gunning for the Hooded Men – both gangs had thrown their guns in with the Ba'Kings, after all. But Akilles and Dwice said that Vints's mad fix was born of these Cawdors killing his dog a bunch of cycles back. His dog? Hardly seemed worth it to Edzra, but he'd seen underhivers hold bitterer grudges for less, so like the solid gangman he was, he tooled up and hauled boots with the crew.

The two gangs finally hunted each other down at a set of parallel tunnels midsector where the vent fans creak and the walls are brittle with rust. Edzra was hoping Vints's tactics would give a better measure of the man. Divide and scrag was the name of the game – the Jackers split into two crews to string the Hoodies out and whittle them down from either end like milliasaurs chewing up a severed limb. Edzra's job was to hang back, bring gun support where needed and make sure none of the Jacker new boys legged it if the going got heavy. But when Akilles and his half of the gang had hit the other corridor, Vints only went and threw a master switch: all the open blast doors slammed shut. Akilles and his crew were cut off, surrounded by a clutch of trashmongers and Oisin, their ogryn heavy.

Edzra was lights-out as to why. Turned out, though, that Vints's ploy was to prep a charge on Artur, headman of the thronebotherers. With young Dwice covering, Kaleb opened up one of the main doors and Vints charged through, screaming for revenge with his chainsword roaring. Due credit to Vints - he got the drop on Artur and took him out of the fight then and there. But of course, this had set the three Jackers up real nice for a flamer hit from another Hoody – in less than a click, they were running around blazing.

Lucky, then, that Akilles and his boys were stood solid down the far end of the tunnel. Slugs were flying thick and fast, and Jackers and Hooded Men were down and up more often than a slaughted Goliath. Edzra stuck his head round the corner and took a few shots with his autopistol, but Akilles, shrugging off bullets like they were flakes of ash, was doing a spire-straight job of keeping Oisin and his scrawny pals pinned.

Well, he was until he wasn't. The Jackers eased off the pressure just a fraction and the ogryn took advantage, clobbering Skew and Akilles out cold. Things looked bad for Djo and Murgen, the other Jackers at this end of things, but then Oisin lumbered off down the corridor. Perhaps he'd only just realised that his boss was in danger. Too late.

By now, Edzra was rushing the same way down the parallel tunnel – Ralve was running scared at the sight of three of his gangmates getting lit up and needed verbal cooling down. Dumb Ralve should've just looked behind him, where Vints, Dwice and Kaleb had all rolled out the flames without getting burnt and were picking off more of the Cawdors. With Djo and Murgen doing much the same down the other end of the tunnel, it looked like the Jackers might be grinding their way to victory.

But then came Oisin. The ogryn was already badly wounded thanks to Akilles's work, but looked dead set on taking Vints out for what he'd done to Artur. Dwice wasn't having it, rushing forward and taking a point-blank shot at the brute. Edzra had to give the juve credit for sheer guts, but sumpdammit if he didn't miss the ogryn outright. Needless to say, Dwice didn't last a twitch of a rat's tail when Oisin charged him. Another Jacker out cold.

Edzra reckoned that, facing such a rockcrete-solid foe, the smart move would be to hang back and hit it with as much gunfire as could be mustered – and the Jackers still had plenty of guns in the zone. But he was fast learning that Vints Courraine was one of those glory-hungry types, who'll only run the smart play if it makes him look good. It was no sweet sight as Vints charged down the corridor, swung his chainsword too wide and got one of Oisin's fists square in the face for his trouble. There was an audible snap and Edzra winced as his boss dropped.

Still, by now Ralve was back in the game and all the other Hooded Men had bottled and fled. Edzra made the smart move and had the Jackers move to encircle the ogryn, showering him with bullets, hoping that one might pierce his thick-arse hide. Before long, even Oisin realised he was onto a loser and was making his bloody way out of the fight zone.

So, a win for the House of Iron and to cap it all off, the Jackers claimed the Laddershins Slagworks off of the Hooded Men. Half a shift later the gang were revelling and slugging from bottles of wildsnake in the red glow of the furnace mouth. Still, Edzra had his doubts – he'd signed up with the Hi-Viz Jackers to reclaim some glory for the Macbacta family name, but with a man like Courraine in charge, was it glory or death that was waiting down the line?

Even now, Doctor Proxi was stapling together the boss man's broken skull. Maybe the head injury would turn out to have knocked some sense into Vints Courraine. Or maybe, thought Edzra with a shudder, all it would do was make Vints even more unpredictable.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 1: Jackers, Get Your Guns

The one thing that doesn't change in the Underhive is that things change. At least, that's what Dwice Necrofago's uncle Malky always said back in Old Bedlam Town. And uncle Malky knew all about change – after he took a flamer hit full in the mug, folks switched to calling him Ghoulface on account of the horrible scars. So horrible...

'Hey, Dwiceman. You was saying?'

Dwice snapped back into the moment. Murgen and Skew, two of the Hi-Viz Jackers' new recruits, were staring at him along the stoop where they were sitting outside the gang's habhole headquarters.

'What was I saying?' said Dwice, eyes roving across the bustle of the tunnel market that was Nu-Bedlam's squalid main drag.

'I dunno,' said Murgen. 'Telling us something we already know about change, like? Then you just tailed off and looked queasy.'

'Get to the point, man,' said Skew. 'We ain't green hivers after all.'

'O frag, yeah,' said Dwice. He was trying to tough it up in front of the new boys, trading on his experience in Hacked Knee. It wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. 

'So things cooled off in the domehood, and some of the bad ol' crews cleared off cos there wasn't enough violence for them. There's still some of them round and about one way or another... Anyways, point is turf's switched round. The old genny at Poxtown Switch got cut off but a new one got hooked up. The hot stuff cache at Cansbury ran dry and our, uh, good buddy Doc Scratch moved in and set up his Body Chop Shop there. Thing is, mostly it's the Power Guild, see – they're falling out and messing with - '

'Like I say, kid, we ain't green hivers,' said Skew. 'Gangs and guilders feuding. So far, so downhive.'

Dwice waved down Skew's objection. 'Hey hey, there's a point to this, I swear. So turf's still changing hands, but mostly by barter or gambling or simply when zones got left empty. So that's how the Jackers got control of the Cans...'

'That collapsed dome?' cut in Murgen, to Skew's annoyance. 'Why's it called the Cans again?'

Dwice grinned. 'Because when you're crawling through there looking for loot, feels like you're being squeezed into a can of starch rash. Anyways, this is the point: sure, Guilders squabble, but the big boys running the lecs, heat and air here in H8? Ooooweee, they mean to go at it like two hungry rad-rats in a fighting pit until one of them comes out on top.'

Skew shrugged. 'And so they're getting the gangs to act like their enforcers, and that's where bossman Vints is now – parlaying with some Guilders. Yeah, I seen this pict before.'

Dwice's opinion of Skew was heading sumpwards by the click. 'Look, man, I'm just trying to - '

But Murgen cut in again, pointing down the drag. 'Hey hey, boys, speak of the sumpdevil....'

There was Vints himself, accompanied by another of the Jackers' new recruits, veteran ganger Edzra Macbacta. They were shoving through the crowd, Vints making a big show of greeting those he knew on the way, gobbling up any crumb of offered acclaim.

'Howdy, jacks!' beamed Vints as he approached the stoop. 'Have we ever got news for you!'

'Things go good?' asked Dwice.

'Indeed they did, young Dwice, indeed they did,' said Vints. 'Did some heavy talk with Lord Quincy Postlewaite himself - who of course remembers the solid we did him on the day of the Hiver March – and I can confirm we're gonna be representing in the sector on behalf of the Ba'Kings!'

Vints spread his arms and grinned. Edzra wasn't giving much away, but Murgen and Skew looked impressed. Dwice, knowing Vints better, pressed on.

'So boss, who we gonna be gunning alongside?'

'Well,' said Vints. 'From what Lord Q was saying, there's three other gangs signed up with them. The Blitzkreig Boppers, the Hooded Men, and the Violent Beauregards.'

Dwice recognised two of the names, but not the third. 'Who're the Violent Beaure-whats? Sounds Escherlike.'

'That they are,' said Vints. 'Some of them are what's left over of the Savage Kittens...'

'Hey!' said Dwice. 'Is that Kes still knocking around? Ya know, the juve that clobbered you that time when we went for Whitecap Hole?'

Vints glowered and Skew chuckled at this.

'I dunno, kid,' barked Vints. 'Never mind all that. We gotta get ready. Go get the rest of the crew together.'

'We going a-gunning, boss?' said Murgen.

'Aye,' said Vints. 'I wanna snag some turf off of the Hooded Men.'

This took the Jackers aback.

'Uh, boss,' said Edzra, 'ain't they on our side?'

Dwice snapped the fingers on his good hand. 'Ah I remember – they're the fellas who killed yer dog, ain't they, boss?'

'Shut it, Dwice,' spat Vints. 'All of youse, get your guns – come shift's end, we go hunting!'

Vints stormed into the habhole, visibly annoyed. Skew chuckled again. Dwice figured maybe Skew wasn't so bad after all.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

[ADDITIONAL: Archive Pict Cap of Malky 'Ghoulface' Necrofago, Veteran Ganger of Old Bedlam Town and The Charred Cross]

The Hacked Knee Guild War Prologue: The Comptroller

Comptroller Degister gazed through the grimy armourglass porthole into the cavernous chamber beyond, where the four great maws of the Battersump sink-links roiled and rippled, spewing out an unceasing torrent of heat channelled directly from the planet's heart. A multitude of vents and capture-devices were connected into, onto and around the sinks – from here, precious warmth would be directed through the crumbling domespaces and tunnels of Sector H8, sustaining life in this corner of the cold Underhive. The precious archaeotech in the sink-hall was the source and seat of power for the Guilders of Battersump H.E.A.T.

Strange, thought Degister, where Necromundan life can take you.

When the Sector H8 Orlock takeover had faltered, the Iron Fathers saw fit to make an example of the then-overcomptroller despite the fact that Degister had been merely a midhive agent reporting on the house's Hacked Knee fortunes from the safety of his comms cradle. It wasn't enough that the Slagwell Springsteens, Wasted and Hi-Viz Jackers had carved out solid turf in the sector. It only mattered that they'd failed to dominate – that honour had fallen to the trash-eating rats of House Cawdor. 

And so Degister found himself ousted and cast on the slagpile. He tried to be philosophical about it – more often than not, this is how the cards fall for the hive-city middle-manwrangler. At least he'd been exiled downhive rather than consigned to a drudging work-gang in some forsaken ash-waste ore-mine.

Degister figured the knowledge he'd gleaned from his Sector H8 agents might be turned to an advantage. He wasn't wrong – within a few cycles of his arrival in Hacked Knee, he'd taken stock of the shifting power balance and landed a comptrolling gig with one of the local Power Guild factions, an outfit known as the Battersump Holy and Esoteric Alliance of Thermaticists.

The four H.E.A.T. Guilders themselves were typically weird. Muffled in countless layers of protective robes, they spent their time meticulously observing arcane rites at the sink-links or were engaged in cryptic, interminable debates on the finer points of therm-conduit maintenance, conducted in their own baffling dialect. Rarely did they speak to non-initiates in their cult, and they showed only a passing interest in preserving their interests in the wider sector.

This was where Degister came in, employed as he was to oversee Battersump H.E.A.T's holdings, organising work rosters for the helot maintenance crews and co-ordinating security measures with hired gangs. Just the sort of work Degister had extensive experience in from his years on the Cruxrail project, although with a distinctly downhive twist: the helots required a crueller hand to discourage flight or rebellion, and the gangs were required to run regular shakedowns of the hab-shanties and black factorums who benefitted from H.E.A.T. supply.

What's more, accusations of betrayal and wrong-goddery between the voltmonger Ba'Kings and Wind Sore Clan had recently intensified to the point of open hostility, and the H.E.A.T. had, in one of their rare moments of direct communcation, instructed Degister to take advantage of this Power Guild discord to strengthen their grip on the sector. A good old fashioned turf war was on the cards.

This brought the Comptroller's thoughts back to the matter in hand. 

He'd acquired the services of some of H8's most notorious gangs and summoned their leaders to Battersump. The meeting was happening in this heat-shielded chamber as Degister thought the porthole views over the mighty sink-links might impress the gang bosses. Now, as he looked at the four men – or near-men – sitting around the battered plasteel table in the centre of the room, he wasn't so sure they were capable of being impressed.

There was Abraham Krass, mutie boss of his self-styled Dynasty. He was practically motionless – only the clawlike fingers of his third arm tapped rhythmically on the table. His face was a serene mask of cruel intelligence which belied his reputation for ferocious violence when his temper was disturbed. Degister was pleased to have snatched the services of the Krass Dynasty away from the Ba'Kings, who'd made early overtures to the gang.

Then there was Chosen Ghilabrious of the Church of the Amethyst Emperor. Another mutie, apparently of same strain as Krass as he was flexing his third arm with lazy malevolence. Ghilabrious claimed to be a devotee of an offshoot Redemptionist sect, but to Degister's eye he seemed more like a badzone rogue, with his hazard suit and brace of bolt pistols. Truthfully, Degister didn't care as long as he was as dangerous as he looked.

Next was Vokran, leader of the Hellhounds. His face was shadowed by the fold of his hood and he was casually tossing a frag grenade between his hands, one of which was a barbarous-looking augmetic. Typical downhiver posturing, thought Degister, but he couldn't deny that the Hellhounds had a dark reputation. It was rumoured that they swore fealty to the Wrong Gods, and had helped orchestrate the bloody calamity of the Thousand Hiver March. But here was Vokran, a free man – if what they said was true, the Throne agents who'd purged the sector would've eliminated the Hellhounds, wouldn't they?

And then there was Soho Jones, formerly of the Wasted, now boss man of the Wasted Youth. Degister knew him by repute – one of Oresson's reports had detailed how Jones had taken on a fearsome Van Saar arachnirig alongside that rat Courraine during one of the Ba'Kings' pit fights. His presence was reassuring. Here was a man of solid Orlock stock, not some mutie freak or deviant – well, not the wrong kind of deviant, at least.

Degister cleared his throat. The four bosses looked at him, eyes alive with menace. The Comptroller felt the whole weight of the Underhive, Hive City and the Spire above him. He was a long way from his midhive comms-cradle.

'So,' he said, forcing some authority into his voice, 'let's get down to business.'

The Hacked Knee Dominion Part 20: The Bitter End

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.

The Hacked Knee Dominion Part 19: Blood and Smoke

The zombie incursion had brought the boot of Helmawr's Enforcers grinding down hard on Sector H8. Suppression squads were patrolling the district in force, and there were even rumours of Inquisitorial intervention - the zombie tides had been shepherded by worshippers of the wrong gods, after all. All this had led to a cooling off in the ongoing turf war, which was probably why, upon signing up to escort a guilder caravan of promethium and tech gear across contested territory, the Hi-Viz Jackers and the Wasted had seen fit to get loaded on some ace-grade chems they'd scored down the Shackled Well.

Of course, the job turned spiky: Hacked Knee's resident Goliaths, the Reprobates, came gunning for trouble and loot, springing an ambush as the convoy crossed an abandoned domespace. This was when the stimm-bender proved a mixed blessing - sure, the Orlock allies were steeled by chem-born confidence, but their metabolisms were run ragged, leaving them vulnerable to injury.

Vints had brought Akilles, Zam, Darik and Dwice along, matched by equal numbers from the Wasted. As smoke bombs popped in the path ahead, and frag grenades and bolterfire rained down from the buildings that lined the route, Vints led his lighter-armed boys off to the left of the avenue, where the bulk of the Reprobates appeared to be lurking. Some of the Wasted peeled off to the right to find superior firing positions, while the Orlocks' bigger guns remained on the caravan.

The Goliaths moved fast, getting a foothold on the convoy and taking out one of the Wasted. Akilles poured stubber heat into two of the raiders, but was no match in close combat, and was soon out of action. The Wasted's resident ratling exchanged sniper fire with a Reprobate in a distant watchtower, and Zammel prised one of the raiders off the caravan by setting him ablaze, before getting blasted unconscious himself.

Over and up on the walkways, Vints made to charge a lurking Goliath, but stumbled short and got a face full of lead that made him bleed but didn't put him down. Young Dwice stepped up to show the boss how it's done, letting rip with his autopistol and blasting the Goliath  off the walkway and out of the fight.

The Reprobates were making good use of smoke bomb cover to get at the caravan - even their pet sumpkrok getting involved and snapping up loot in his jagged jaws - but smart shooting from the Wasted was whittling their numbers down. Jacker Darik got a solid hit on the Goliath leader with his hand flamer, setting the bull boss ablaze.

As the convoy neared the dome exit, the Reprobates braved a storm of fire from the Orlocks to grab more loot. Vints and Dwice were blasting away at anything they could see from the walkway, the juve again showing up his boss by actually hitting his targets.

Having steeled out the flames until they were extinguished, the Reprobate chief judged his boys had nabbed enough, and ordered a retreat. As the last of the smoke cleared, the convoy rolled out of the dome, its Orlock defenders twitching as the stimms finally wore off.

The raid had been lightning fast, but the Jackers and the Wasted had done enough to secure their fee - and their good standing - with the guilders. As for the Reprobates, they'd snagged a tidy enough amount of loot.

It's surely a rare day in the underhive when everyone gets what they want from a gang scrap, but this was one of those days. The worst casualty was likely Vints Courraine's pride - he really could've done without the shooting lesson from Dwice.

The Hacked Knee Dominion Part 18: The Last Laugh

There was discord afoot in Sector H8, with reports circulating of rioting mobs of helots and techworkers roaming the domes and tunnels, and the Hi-Viz Jackers had caught an open vox feed from some bigwig Electro-Guilder who found himself lost and alone in the middle of it all. Vints Courraine rightly couldn't ignore a cry for help from such a person of importance, and gathered a small crew - Griv, Tzig, Ivan and young Lorn - to run a rescue mission while the rest of the boys guarded Shallow Alley, Clam Breath and Nu Bedlam.

Tzig Oresson reckoned he'd found his chance. The gauntlet they were about to run would be hazard high - who'd notice, or maybe even care, if a stray bullet or krak grenade went Vints's way? It'd be a sweet thing to vox the news to Overboss Degister uphive, reporting the long-deserved demise of vexacious Vints.

The Jacker crew weren't the only ones to heed the Guilder's call. When they found the voltbroker in an old, ruined dome, he was already attended by a handful of Eschers from the Ash Roses, and a few of the Wasted, who were living up to their names - Rusty and the juves reeked of wildsnake.

Trigger fingers twitched when the Jackers clocked mutie boss Abraham Krass and a few of his Skymother's Chosen - the attempted takeover of Shallow Alley was still fresh in their minds  - but Vints and Griv subtly reined the Jackers in. A Guilder's favour was worth more than cheap revenge, this shift anyway.

That this job would be trickier than a simple search  and rescue had been evident when they'd hit the dome - one side was dominated by a looming skull effigy, all ablaze and surrounded by seven ripe heads on pikes. The Jackers had had enough run-ins with the Hellhounds to know when the dark play of the Wrong Gods was in effect.

And so it came to be - the guilder's fawning welcome to his rescuers was cut short by a ragged chorus of moans from all corners of the dome. The rioters had arrived, and as the rescue posse caught gimpse of them in the shadows, they saw dozens of hunched, shambling forms, limbs hanging loose and askew. Then the stench hit them.

It was Wasted Rusty who gave voice to what they were all thinking. 'Sumpdamn plague zombies!'
No nonsense from Ash Rose leader Amaranth. 'Okay, gals and gimps, let's move. Away from that freaky totem.'

She was pointing towards a cluster of exit points at the dome edge. To get there, they'd have to pass by a low watchtower and then head round the side of a tall rusted tower.

'Sound plan, human - er, woman,' muttered Krass sibilantly.  'I see some of those dead things might move to block our path - we shall deal with them.'

He led his mutie crew towards the near side of the tower. Vints, meanwhile, was shmoozing the guilder, much to Tzig's disdain.

'Alright, sir,if you wouldn't mind heading thataways -' Vints pointed to the exits spotted by Amaranth. '- we'll have you out of here in a click or two, no glitches. My name's Vints, by the way, Vints Courraine, Hi-Viz Jackers. Perhaps you've heard of me?'

Pathetic, lickspittle stuff, thought Tzig as the crew posse moved away from the dome centre. But without warning, a grenade dropped from above, detonating in their midst. The frag blast pinned several gangers including Tzig, who found himself unhurt but sprawling on the domefloor.

Then, a flurry of lasbolts from the high levels, left and right.

'Frag it!' called Griv. 'It's not just the plague zees! There's a sumpdamn cult out there!'

As if that wasn't figurable from the blazing effigy, thought Tzig, hauling himself up. As he got to his feet, he glimpsed a rangy figure beyond the nearest mob of zombies. The figure looked to be floating a few feet of the ground, and a strange dark light licked its brow as it gestured violently in the direction of the posse.

At the gesture, one of the Chosen muties flew sideways, victim of a sudden, unseen impact. Tzig watched the mutie hit a nearby walkway head first and fall to the ground, limp.

'Wych!' he cried, scrambling back towards the watchtower. 'The've got a wych with 'em!'
Ivan was a few paces away. 'Man, what have we got into here?'

Tzig grimaced and shrugged as more lasbolts flashed down from above. One was deadeye hit on the guilder, but there was an implosive boom as the merchant's displacer field kicked in and teleported him - several paces back, right where the gangs had found him.

The voltmerchant staggered, disoriented - he clearly didn't have to rely on his exotic security tech that often. One of the Wasted boys darted forward and grabbed him by the arm, spinning him round and directing him towards the cover of the watchtower's support column.

With a rippling moan, the zombies shuffled closer still.

Amaranth was yelling at everyone to haul boots past the tall tower. Tzig clocked Vints barking agreement - about right that Courraine would take orders from some toxpeddling Escher fragger, thought Tzig. He turned to Ivan, unable to resist sharing sharing this acid barb, but Ivan suddenly wasn't there.

That fragging wych again. Propelled by dark forces, Ivan was hurtling back around the watchtower support, slamming into Vints and flooring them both.

This brought a smirk to Tzig's face. Still, the Escher boss was right - they needed to get moving, and fast. He clambered over the watchtower anchor struts and scoped the route beyond the tall tower. A fair few zombies shuffling towards them, but not in the numbers they were back the other way. He readied a frag grenade and launched it at the nearest two - they fell, but weren't out. The dead don't die easy in the Underhive.

Tzig heard the roar of a flamer, behind him to his left. Turning he, saw it was Krass, who'd just blasted the vanguard of the stumbling column of zombies creeping round the other side of the tall tower.

Griv, stood between Tzig and Krass, was calling. 'Oresson! Show that three-armed freak how Jackers blitz zees!'

With that, Griv let rip into the same bunch of zombies with a shreddershot, felling a handful who didn't get back up. Tzig brought his grenade launcher to bear and fired the same way, taking out more of the mob. They'd thinned out the zombies in that quarter - time to push ahead. Krass and his lackeys were already scuttling back to the main posse.

Ivan was back on his feet and taking careful aim up the tall tower, way above their heads. His autogun barked and was met with a brief roar from the towertop. Then, a shaggy, horned form tumbled down to the domefloor, where it impacted with a wet thud, releasing the grenade launcher it was holding. One cultist sniper down.

But there was no time to celebrate. The oncoming horde of zombies had now practically reached the watchtower. Tzig could smell them, could see their rotten lips splitting as they gnashed their jaws in mindless anticipation. And beyond, the ragged shadows of cultists, driving the dead onwards, hellbent on making sacrifice to the Wrong Gods.

Tzig took up a  position shoulder to shoulder with Griv at the base of the tall tower. There was a scream from the edge of the spore patch - the zombies had burst through and were swarming the two Wasted there.

Rusty had gone down, fetid claws and teeth digging into his flesh. Within seconds, he'd turned, lurching around to join the attack on his former comrades. The other Wasted battled bravely to deflect the grasping undead.

His back to the tall tower, Tzig took in the posse's attempt at a defensive line. To the left, Krass was seeing off oncoming zombies with almost laughable ease, decapitating one after another with his chainglaive. To the right, Lorn was out on his own, suddenly in close combat with the lead zombie of another tendril of the swarm. The juve was slashing frantically with his combat knife, lopping fingers off the zombie - but to his credit, he bought himself half a chance to duck and roll away, scrambling behind the watchtower base.

'We gotta get this done, fast,' said Griv, showering the nearest clutch of zombies with shreddershot.

'Where's the guilder?'

Tzig was craning his neck to catch sight when he felt his guts twist. Some unseen force grabbed him and slammed him sideways into Griv. Both men dropped, dazed.

Tzig's head swam as he hauled himself to his feet again. Time stretched. The first things he clocked were things further away, slow motion: Vints and the Ash Roses blasting and hacking holes in zombies; two lethally augmented cultists, wreathed in electrical halos, arriving at the dome edge and being met with aggression by Amaranth and her phyrr cat; the guilder and a bodyguard of Eschers and Chosen muties hustling ever closer to an exit tunnel.

Nearer things resolved: Krass's chainglaive tearing into yet more zombies even as the mutant boss inched backwards; the agonised screams of the second Wasted to be brought down and turned by the swarm; the stench of dead flesh, closer than ever.

The swarm was practically within grasp, spilling around the sides of the watchtower support. Tzig came snapping back to the moment.

Griv was a split-second ahead of him. 'Drop back, man, we're almost done, almost good to go!'

'We got an escape route?'

'Bet your boots. The Roses took out those techy freaks, looks like we're good.'

The zombies were so close now, Tzig could pick out their individual moans and see right into their dead eyes. With Griv, he scrambled back over the tower supports to join Ivan and Lorn under a sloping walkway.

At the dome edge, the guilder and his escort had reached one of the tunnels. A lasbolt danced down from the towertop - they'd neglected the second gunner up there - but again the merchant's displacer field kicked in. Tzig could just about make out the recorporation flash up one of the tunnels. With the escort right behind him, the guilder was safe.

'Let's go, boys!' yelled Tzig.

'What about the boss?' said Lorn.

Vints was only a few metres away, hacking away at the nearest of the oncoming swarm. Krass was just beyond, still wreaking havoc with his chainglaive  - the mutie boss was clearly enjoying himself, but with the rest of the Chosen gone, he looked ready to depart.

'Frag the boss,' said Tzig. 'The guilder's safe, we done what we came here to do.'

'No way, man!' yelped Lorn, and darted out of cover toward the embattled leader. Another lasbolt rained down from on high and dropped the juve.

'Ah frag!' snapped Griv. 'Ivan, grab the kid and get gone! We'll cover you!'

Agile Ivan was already leaping forward and dragging Lorn's limp frame out of the path of the zombies before Tzig could voice an objection. He had no choice but to join Griv in blasting away, barely keeping the zombies at bay.

Seconds later, Ivan was heading for the exit, the juve slung over his shoulder. Over the way, Krass had retreated to behind a billboard, stopping to decapitate a couple more undead before fleeing the dome.

As for Vints, he'd taken down the zombies attacking him and had somehow ducked back behind his gangmates. The zombies were mere footsteps away now. The stench was overpowering.

Tzig glanced back. Vints was already at one of the tunnel exits.

Tzig caught his boss's eye. Vints grinned and winked. 'Sorry, boys!'

And then he was gone.

A wall of zombies pressed in from left and right, too close and too many to hold back with gunfire. Tzig and Griv swung their weapons deperately, fending off the undead as best they could.
'Frag this!' growled Griv, disengaging. Somehow, he slipped through the zombies' grasp and was away to the exit.

Tzig made to do likewise, but he stumbled, and a dead hand grabbed his hi-viz jacket. And then another. And another. And then rancid arms were wrapping around his limbs and ragged fingernails were digging into his flesh.

'Vintsen Courraine, you bastard!' he cried. 'In the name of the Iron House, I swear I will haunt you, I swear I will-'

His voice was drowned out by the roars of the zombie horde as they piled onto him and began to feast.

The dead don't die easy in the Underhive - but the living sure do.

The Hacked Knee Dominion Part 17: Alley Snakes

After the fight, Vints Courraine would tell himself that he'd made a difference when the Skymother's Chosen came gunning for Shallow Alley.

As it happened, Vints had sent Fat Davvo, the Jackers' resident slopper, to the needleway hub a few shifts earlier - his latest batch of slop hadn't helped Vints or Ivan get over the wounds they'd sustained in the scrap with the Hellhounds at Catch 22, but Davvo was convinced that he could stew up something better if he bagged one of the ultra-mutie rats that had been lurking around Shallow Alley since Norvegicus's attempted takeover. For safety, Vints sent Akilles, Griv and green juve Ferdi along too - just as well, as word came not long after that a posse of Skymother muties were headed that way.

Vints ordered the rest of the gang to haul boots and back up the boys, but was in no fit state to join them himself. He was stuck in Nu Bedlam with Ivan, wincing at the pain from his stitches and waiting for the crew to get back.

A shift ticked by, then another, and half another.

Finally, the Jackers returned, with wounded in tow.

The way juve Lorn Skarsky told it, it was a hell of a scrap. When they clocked that the Chosen were approaching, Akilles, Griv and Ferdi had ducked into the nearer needleways, leaving Davvo playing decoy. Davvo was surprisingly calm about this after the event - probably he was just glad he'd not blown himself up with the melta trap he'd clumsily set.

Davvo was no scrapper, said Lorn. No kidding, said Vints.

Motormouth Lorn carried on with his tale: the three Jackers had waited til the muties had entered the hub, then they emerged from the needles behind a heavy blast door, intending to get the drop on the muties' heavy guns and biggest brutes. Thing went sideways pretty fast, though - Ferdi bopped forward and opened the door and Akilles and Griv got some shots in, but the muties struck back fast, blasting Ferdi's guts out and setting the heavy boys on fire. They were trapped at the end of a tight corridor. Things looked bad.

Almost already, though, the rest of the Jackers were arriving at the Alley. Ijax and Dwice were first, getting stuck into a point-blank gunfight with a mean-looking mutie. But they shot worse than a blindsnake-blind juve, and the mean bastard rushed them and took them out, bloody though he was from Griv's gunfire.

The mutie boss mustered his boys to rush Akilles and Griv, but Tzig, Zam and Onzo arrived behind them, making for a major distraction. Onzo led the charge and got taken out, poor bastard, but Zammy charged forward, shreddershot blazing, laying the mutie boss and some fo his flunkies low. Sure, the mutie boss didn't bleed, but good old Zam brought major pain to the freak with the mining laser. Tzig hung back and fired frag grenades from a doorway - just maybe things were starting to look spirewards…

Vints interrupted Lorn here, pointing out how bloodied the returning crew had been.

Lorn grinned and shrugged. Sure, the muties charged Zammy and cut him up real bad, and sure Tzig went down not long after, but over the way things weren't looking so grievous. Griv wasn't on fire no more, and was bringing the shotgun pain to one of the big brute muties, who bled out not long after. And Darik and Lorn himself had been hot on the heels of Ijax and Dwice - hot was the word alright, as Darik flamed the bloody mutie who'd caused so much trouble. No more trouble from him.

Lorn puffed up his chest as he told Vints how he'd snuck up on another of the Chosen's big hitters and knifed him out of the fight. Griv was coming to back  him up, and even Akilles was back in the fight, having put of the flames and reloaded his big stubber. By now, the muties weren't looking so clever - some of them were legging it out of the alley. Before long, even their leader was out of there, and the last dregs of the gang fled not long after.

The Hi Viz Jackers had held Shallow Alley again. What's more, Fat Davvo had caught a brace of juicy, bloated rats. There'd be good slop served in Nu Bedlam this shift.

Vints should have been happy about all this, but it was bugging him that he'd heard it all from this gobby juve Lorn. Not from Griv, not from Darik, not even from wounded Dwice. Sumpdammit, and Akilles had gone over Vints's head and made the call about the doc's fees - Zam was getting patched up, but Ferdi was a goner.

He could hear them now, yukking it up outside the habhole, cocksure in their victory. Griv and Darik and that snake Tzig ragging Akilles about getting burnt up again, which even got a laugh from the dour heavy-stubber man.

Vints seethed. He was losing his grip on the gang. Losing his grip all round, spiked by a ratmutie chainglaive and blasted by Hellhound plasma. Well, to the Wrong Gods with them. They wouldn't have beaten the Chosen if he hadn't sent them to bodyguard Davvo.

He'd show them all, one way or another. He'd give them a reason to respect the name of Vintsen Courraine if was the last thing he did.