The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 8: The End of the World

Foulnest was beyond salvation. The tunnels and domes echoed with screams, not all born of corporeal mouths. Shadows reached out and grabbed the unwary, splitting them open as they were dragged beyond the veil. Madness and possession skipped from hiver to hiver as easily as the common spore flu. Cannibalism of flesh and tech ran rife as bitter battles raged over ever more scant resources. There was only one option left for gangs with any shred of sanity left: get out.

Of course, the Middenmans had long left sanity behind, enraptured as they were by the apocalypse gripping these sumpwards zones of E-Sec. When news reached the Middenkirk that gangs were converging on a trio of transports, surely the last that would leave Foulnest before the ultimate lurch into darkness as the power lines gave out for good, the Cawdors promptly seized arms and sallied forth – how dare these sinners presume they might escape the sublime end of the world?

The exit point was an old hangar dome, a great cavernous space in the upper reaches of Foulnest. The centre of the dome was dominated by a maglev terminus; at either end, there was a landing pad awaiting the last flyers. The seven surviving Middenmans knew they could not sabotage all attempts to leave, so focussed their attentions on the nearest landing pad. The dome was teeming with fighters; no doubt each vehicle would be the focus of bloody struggle.

Sharp-eyed Scourge-Thyself-For-Thine-Sins made out two gangs emerging from tunnels mid-dome: the Inglorious Bastards, who'd clashed with the Cawdors several times over the preceding cycles; and the three-armed mutants of Kreel's Ascent. Clearly, they were intent on reaching the landing pad, something the Middenmans could not allow. They would rush to meet the cowardly unbelievers and prevent them from boarding the transport when it arrived.

Torment-Unending-For-The-Unworthy bade his followers throw up a screen of smoke to mask their approach to the landing pad. Grenades were duly thrown, but as the smoke billowed out, Pity-Not-The-Recidivist spotted another gang in the zone: the twisted sinners of Joab's War Party, a band of wrong-godhead cannibal mutants. Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance, a mad glint in his eye, suggested that the mutants would make fine allies after a fashion, for they were probably as intent on preventing escape as the Middenmans were. Torment grudgingly agreed.

As if by way of confirmation, one of the War Party clambered out of a ventway behind the Bastards and lobbed a firebomb into the Van Saars' midst. They were washed with flame, and those who were not set alight were driven forward toward the landing pad.

There was no time to waste: the Cawdors advanced into the smoke, hoping to lay an ambush. Scourge took aim at one of the Bastards and fired his longrifle. The Van Saar was pinned, and the Bastards moved forward more urgently – right into the Middenmans' path.

But then there was a roaring from overhead: a flyer had arrived through a cavernous transit-shaft in the dome roof. The pilot was unsure where to land, and, as the vehicle hovered, its downdraft swept away the Middemans' covering smoke. They were left exposed to the Inglorious Bastards' guns.

The Van Saars wasted no time. Pulsing rad blasts tore through the Cawdor advance. Hyper-dosed with radiation, the Middemans suffered mass cell-death and instant, gut-churning trauma. It was enough to push them beyond the final brink of utter insanity. Sheer raging animalism took over.

Torment-Unending-For-The-Unworthy had taken the brunt of the blast and, as his organs ruptured under rad-induced strain, he crawled to the shadow of a rusted container and watched his followers as they reeled, howling and hooting, clawing at their masks and setting their ragged robes alight. All was lost. Torment, usurper of the Middenkirk, smiled as he lost consciousness and died.

Blessed-Are-The-Abject, upstart juve, was the only Middenman to escape the rad-insanity. Clearly, the Emprah had plucked his fellows' souls from their bodies and replaced them with those of wild beasts. Blessed's mind raced – why had he been so forsaken? Still time to prove his worth in the eyes of Him-on-Terra. He readied his stubber and started towards the landing pad, stepping out from the cover of a container.

A salvo of Van Saar lasfire caught him and and he dropped to the domefloor, dead.

The flyer had finally settled in a great cloud of scouring dust, and Kreel led her acolytes toward it, with the Bastards not far behind. But Joab's mad cannibals got there first, swarming on board and chewing the pilot's throat out. One of the mutants clumsily fumbled with the vehicle's controls. Buttons were hammered, levels jerked, and, after a while, the flyer lurched off the domefloor.

Cackling with glee, the mutants managed to steer the vehicle across the dome and into the support struts of the maglev train. The ensuing fireball consumed several C-Section enforcers, and caused much delight amongst the Miscreants, ever at the centre of the vortex of Chaos that had engulfed Foulnest.

A few hardy gangers escaped the transit hall that shift, regrouping uphive to face stern interrogation by Imperial agents. Others, like the Inglorious Bastards, were stranded in the all-consuming darkness to fight for bitter survival against the cultists and mutants who now controlled the zone. Many shifts later, their grim fate would be revealed as a plan was enacted to reclaim Foulnest and restore the brutal order of House Helmawr. But that's another downhive tale...

As for the Middenmans, they were last seen at the fringes of this final battle, Redemptionists beyond all hope of redemption. Unstinting-Is-HisVengeance, erstwhile leader of the crew, had set about his fellows with his chainglaive, commending them to the Emprah even as he carved them limb from limb. With his bloody work done, he fell upon his own churning blade.

They had locked and sealed the Middenkirk before setting out to their doom. Even now, many long cycles after the Cannibal Wars, it sits forgotten in a neglected corner below Foulnest core, seeming nothing more than another rusted container unit. Perhaps one shift, a scavenging true believer will discover the junk-relics within, and E-Sec will know the furious faith and fire of a new generation of Middenmans.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 7: A Phantom Feast

Truth is among the first casualties of war. For instance, no accounts apart from the sealed records of the Holy Ordos record how, as the Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest reached their direst point, the uncanny phantom-shifting of dome walls and tunnel bulkheads, first observed during the infamous Shift of the Imps, became endemic throughout the locale. Enclosed warrens of corridors became open ground for those hivers daring or desperate enough to duck through from one side to the other – and there was always a change that solidity might return unexpectedly, inflicting grievous harm on the traveller.

Similarly, when Revulsion-Is-Thine-Armour and Blessed-Are-The-Abject returned to the Middenkirk after a scavenging run, the account they gave of the bloody bite wounds and seeping burns that riddled their bodies was as far from the truth as sump is from spire.

The core of the tale was accurate enough: the two Middenmans were prowling the spectral halls below Foulnest Core when they stumbled across old rivals about the same business, a pair of gangers apiece from the Miscreants and Inglorious Bastards. It looked like a tense, three-way stand-off was on the cards, but even as fingers twitched on triggers, a great howling and screaming began echoing through the tunnels from all around.

It was the common hive scum of Foulnest, all horribly changed by the events of the past few cycles. Madness had taken root in their minds and hunger gnawed incessantly at their guts. Only raw meat would satisfy their appetite, all the better if it was teeth-torn from those who had the protection of House and gang. And here were six such walking feasts.

The cannibal horde cared not for the risk of running the shimmering walls: they dived through screaming and slavering. Some made it; others were fused into the plasteel and rockcrete as the walls rematerialised, their limbs lopped off and falling to the deck to be snapped up by their fellow dregs. But the vast bulk of the swarm careened towards the gangers, who put up what fight they could.

For every hiver that fell, five more leapt forward. The Bastards and Middemans didn't last long, overwhelmed by the cannibal crowds. The Miscreant duo fared better, backing into a corner and keeping the flesh-eaters at bay until they could escape.

Upon returning to the Middenkirk, Revulsion and Blessed told their brethren that it had been all they could do to haul themselves out from the avalanche of attackers, but the lies came by omission.

Blessed-Are-The-Abject saw fit not to mention that he might have escaped sooner, and with less injury, had he not rashly charged into the clutches of the oncoming horde, seeing a downed cannibal as an easy kill and expecting the Emprah's hand to protect him. It didn't.

As for Revulsion-Is-Thine-Armour, he skipped the detail of the fumbled incendiary bomb he'd thrown, which had fallen well short of its cannibal targets. The blast caught one of the Inglorious Bastards and Revulsion himself: he was badly injured and set ablaze, practically cooking himself in readiness for the mad hivers to gnaw great chunks out of his flesh.

But these ignominious details got no airing at the Middenkirk, and Revulsion and Blessed's fellows hailed them for their bravery and grim bite-wounds they'd sustained, worthy suffering that would earn them the blessings of the Emprah.

Whatever the truth of the matter, there were plenty more blessings to come.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 6: Eight Pounds of Flesh

Damnation, ruination and starvation: a threefold death-grip on Old Foulnest, and a time of testing for the truly faithful. The Middenmans welcomed the bitter hardship: their creed dictates that the greater the suffering in life, the greater the reward after death. The Miscreants were likewise exultant: never had circumstances been more favourable to make sacrifice to the Lord of Skin and Sinew.

Suffering and sacrifice were enjoyed in abundance when the two gangs met in Foulnest core, screaming their opposed litanies of hatred and bloodshed.

The Middenmans had laid a crude ambush for the Eschers, who were few in number after recent losses. Torment-Unending-For-The-Unworthy made his followers – particularly those who were close to madness from starvation – spread out, intending to encircle the Miscreants. Realising they they were outnumbered, Beretta, the sly leader of the Eschers, saw fit to misdirect the Cawdors, sending the fresh juve Noob and khimerix Fuckfuckfuck on a decoy run down one flank while she and the other four members of the gang made ready to carve their way though their foes on the opposite side, dodging through a maze of containers.

Torment did his best to direct his followers accordingly, but Salvation-Shall-Verily-Be-Paid-For-In-Blood, Scourge-Thyself-For-Thine-Sins and Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous found themselves were laid low by Stone Cold's hand flamer. Salvation was scorched out of action, the green-tinted fire cooking his flesh but the others rolled the flames off, and Shriven charged Stone Cold and took her down.

Meanwhile, Inexorable-Is-His-Judgement cackled with glee as he hunted down the hapless Noob, but failed to realise he was being hunted himself. Fuckfuckfuck pounced, and Inexorable was badly mauled by the khimerix's razor claws. Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance rushed to avenge his fallen brother, and tore at the gene-brewed felid's flesh with his chainglaive, but the cat struck back, and Unstinting was out of the fight.

Middenman reinforcements flushed Beretta's crew out of their refuge: with Terror-Bringeth-Deliverance and Pity-Not-The-Recidivist respectively bringing hand-flamer and incendiary bombs to sow havoc among the Eschers. The Miscreants fought back and advanced: Beretta dodged Scourge's longrifle shots and took him down with her plasma gun, Juanita took her blade to Terror, and arch-malcontent Sui Ti Py brought up the rear, singing the praises of the Butcher Lord.

Down the corridor, Fuckfuckfuck claimed another victim as Redeemed-Are-The-Abased's polearms proved too short to keep the khimerix at bay. But the ganger's sacrifice bought Torment enough time to advance and level his flamer at the beast. Engulfed in flames, Fuckfuckfuck flailed away down the tunnels and out of the fight.

Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous's burgeoning career as a lethal juve was cut brutally short as Beretta knifed him savagely before darting out of the battlezone. By now, both gangs were at their nerves' end, ready to flee. Torment realised that his crew were sustaining heavy losses and hardly carving off enough meat to make it worthwhile. He ordered the Middenmans' retreat. Only Pity-Not-The-Recidivist lingered on, hunting for Noob in the darkness- but he searched in vain, and the skirmish was over.

Back at the Middenkirk, the Cawdors took stock. Redeemed was absent – it turned out he had been captured by the Miscreants, and would have to be rescued before his blood was spilled in the name of the Lord of Skin and Sinew. For Shriven, Inexorable and Torment, there was nothing to be done: the sawbones's fee was more meant than the gang had to feed itself. And so Torment decreed that Shriven and Inexorable be butchered and added to the gang's larder, while Torment, whose wound was festering most disturbingly, would simply be immolated to ashes.

But the lamentations were perfunctory, and each Cawdor cove – including those three doomed wretches – was glad in his heart, for the greater the suffering in life, the greater the reward after death. What suffering could be greater than this?

The Middenmans would find out soon enough, as the Cannibal Wars drove Foulnest deeper into darkness.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 5: The Night of the Imps

Those poor souls who survived the E-Sec Cannibal Wars would later attest (before liquidation, of course) that Foulnest was never the same after the so-called Shift of the Imps. Disruptions on both sides of the liminal divider coalesced at last, and unadulterated Chaos was let loose in the form of a swarm of diminutive, malicious beings from beyond the veil. For the gangs of Foulnest, this was cause for action: the enforcers of C-Section were duty-bound to eradicate the unholy vermin; the Middenmans and Kreel's Ascent were similarly driven, albeit by very different creeds; even the Miscreants joined the hunt, for as any true follower of the Wrong Gods knows, Chaos begets Chaos.

Their purge-patterns converged in a tunnel complex beneath Foulnest core. Salvation-Shall-Verily-Be-Paid-For-In-Blood, Inexorable-Is-His-Judgement, Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous, Blessed-Are-The-Abject and Repent-Lest-Thou-Be-Truly-Damned scraped their tattered boots over the filth-caked decks, advancing past long-derelict container units.

In the corridor ahead, there was weird chittering, and shadowy forms large and small. Repent levelled his polearm and fired a blunderbuss torrent into the gloom. There was a strangled squeak and a small form dropped, but the larger shadow lurched forwards, undeterred. An abhuman, sapiens variatus, goat-faced and hooved, doubtless drawn to the zone bt the stench of the abominable. The Middenmans raised their rusty weapons, and battle was joined.

Across the tunnels, the gangs were moving in. C-Section adopted a standard search-and-purge pattern, fanning out and hunting down the imps with methodical purpose. The xenos-born Kreel's Ascent, a crew of mere neophytes, found themselves surrounded by mocking imps, who capered and danced between their gunshots and maul swings. The Escher Miscreants, whipped up into a bloodthirsty frenzy by the malcontent known as Sui Ti Py, found themselves under attack from another abhuman drawn to the dark festival: a mutated ogryn. The Miscreants were at first delighted to have sport greater than the runtish imps, but soon thought twice as the brute withstood the lashes of Mad Madeleine's whips, grabbed hold of the Escher leader, and snapped her neck with casual ease. Screeching dismay, the Miscreants countercharged and took down the ogryn.

For their part, the Middenmans had overcome the beastman, though it took all of them to wrestle the mutant to the ground before Repent could skewer it though the heart with his polearm blade. The Cawdors advanced cautiously, Inexorable stopping to examine the red-blinking access panel of a sealed door on the way. Blessed lacked his fellows' caution - he scuttled ahead gleefully and stomped the pseudo-life out of the imp scorched by the earlier blunderbuss shot.

Salvation shoved past Blessed to a narrow door at the end of the tunnel. He activated the panel, and the door wheezed aside. Beyond, a bewildering scene: the carcass of the ogryn,over which the Miscreants were fighting a mob of unruly, legged books. The Eschers were cursing the imps, which capered about and riffled their pages insolently.

Shriven called out. The Middenmans were about to be beset by wrong-things of their own: a gaggle of strange, ambulatory fish were emerging from behind the old containers. And beyond that, a set of double doors were groaning open. A C-Section enforcer strode through the doorway and fired a grenade which sent the Middenmans sprawling.

Inexorable, still at the red-lit doorway, grinned beneath his rictus mask. Time to fight Chaos with disorder. He punched the flashing control and the door slid back. It was as he'd suspected – the red light signified a depressurised zone beyond, and the sudden equalisation wrought havoc in the tunnel. Howling winds dragged Middenmans, imps and even the grenade-hurling enforcer towards the vacuum chamber in total disarray.

As suddenly as it had began, the wind died off, and the combatants groggily sought their bearings. Repent was among the first to recover and, finding a cluster of imps in his path, let rip with his blunderbuss, felling them. He raised his polearm high, screaming exultation, but failed to notice another fish-imp creeping up behind him. The warp-thing bent its stringy legs and leapt, digging rows of needle teeth into Repent's neck. The Middenman dropped to the deck, bleeding profusely from a wound that would later kill him.

A more mundane threat, though no less dangerous, was posed by C-Section. The enforcers were advancing into the tunnel, and Blessed was felled by their gunfire. Salvation and Shriven, appalled at the sudden takedown of their brethren, fled back to the shelter of the cargo containers.

All around, the signs of empyrical intrusion were becoming more evident: the very tunnel walls shimmered and quivered, offering glimpses of the passageways and chambers beyond. The imps danced through the walls, cackling with glee at the Chaos made manifest.

By the creed of the Middenmans, to stare madness in the eye is to find the righteous resolve to overcome any foe. Inexorable screamed wild litanies of hatred and stomped the imp that had killed Repent, rendering the fish thing into a pulp of strange cerulean jelly. His cowering brethren recovered their nerve: Salvation charged along the corridor, crushing the non-life out of a row of imps with his great hammer of nails before swinging his weapon into the breastplate of an oncoming enforcer with a mighty crack. Shriven was inspired to a boldness well above his juvehood, charging directly at C-Section's Captain Lassard, who'd stepped into the tunnel in support of his officers. The Cawdor juve lashed out with his scrap-knife and caught the veteran enforcer off guard. The blade struck home, and Lassard went down. Buoyed by his improbable success, Shriven charged onwards, only to be gunned down by the fire support offered by Sergeant Mahoney.

The battle was reaching its climax: across the zone, Sui Ty Pi, last woman standing for the Miscreants, was locked in a death duel with the remaining acolytes of Kreel. The Middenmans pressed forward at C-Section, though Inexorable was as overweening as Shriven, charging straight into Mahoney's sights, only to be badly wounded. Salvation rushed into combat with Enforcer Hooks, driving her back with swings of his hammer, but failing to land a telling blow.

And then, abruptly, there was a change in the carnage-charged atmosphere that had risen to a crescendo. The few imps that remained had all scuttled off into the ventworks and drainpipes, and the tunnel walls settled into their usual solidity. The uncanny scratching that had afflicted the gangs' minds subsided, their blood-hunger abated, and the cold realisation dawned that there was little to be gained by prolonging the fight.

So ended the Shift of the Imps, as the crews retreated to lick their wounds and console themselves to the nightmares now seeded in their minds.

And as the Cannibal Wars intensified, there were plenty more nightmares to come.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 4: The Gathering

Madness, revolt and blood-thirst were burning their way through Foulnest like a fever. Domes and zones fell into ruin as Guild supply and maintenance withered. Gangers were driven to random murderous rampages by voices only they could hear. Shadows danced without lumenlight to cast them. Twisting shapes skittered in peripheral vision. In every downhiver's gut, like a lode of knotty slag, pulsed the constant urge: kill.

End times are fine times for a Redemptionist, and once again, the Middenmans were looking for converts. Salvation-Shall-Verily-Be-Paid-For-In-Blood took up his hammer of nails and led a crew of Cawdors into the wilder tunnels and domes, seeking lost hivers who might be won over to the faith. They didn't have to search long: above a yawning ,haunted chasm in the E-Sec badzones, a cluster of refugees, abject folk who'd fled the violence in Foulnest core, had set up a temporary camp on a network of walkways and platforms. Just the sort of desperate lowlives who might heed the holy word.

Salvation was accompanied by Inexorable-Is-His-Judgement, Revulsion-Is-Thine-Armour and young Abhorrance-Begetteth-Purity, and the Middenmans spread out, scuttling along the walkways and calling out to the hivers with words of faith and fellowship – best to make a good first impression at a distance, before getting close and inflicting the Cawdor stench on the hivers' noses.

'Hear this, ye lost and ye damned! Devils do gnash at thine ankles, and the House Imperial offers nowt but false hope, but the Holy Redemption can save ye yet!'

Revulsion fared well, as two of the hivers rushed to his side, gabbling thanks. But, as always in the Underhive, there was a complication: screams rang out across the chasm, along with the snap of fine-tuned gunfire.

The Middenmans looked across the gap and saw figures in sleek blue armour, moving with measured grace: the Inglorious Bastards, a Van Saar crew, accompanied by two ammo jacks. They looked to be advancing on the hiver refugees and liquidating them with brutal precision – was this some calculated cull, a cogitator-born, strategically-advantageous action? Or had the Van Saars succumbed to the madness afflicting Foulnest? Hard to say, and, in the end, of little import. The Bastards were slaughtering the hivers, and all the Middenmans could do was lead as many as possible to salvation.

Inexorable and Abhorrence had split off from their fellows and were attempting to round up hivers on one side of the chasm.

'Come, brother! Ye shall find sanctuary in the Middenkirk!' cried Inexorable at a nearby dreg, but before he could say more, a burst of bolterfire from one of the Bastard ammojacks took him out of the fight. Abhorrence panicked and dropped off the walkway, clinging spiderlike to the support struts below.

Back at the chasm edge, Salvation was guiding one of the hivers to an exit tunnel, where he was met by reinforcements from among his brethren, but the veteran saw little value in prolonging the fight. 'Nay, brothers! Stay thine arms and take these converts back to the kirk! Yon Van Saars fight without mercy, and live converts are worth more than dead Middenmans!'

As if to underscore the point, on the far side of the chasm, Abhorrence-Begetteth-Purity had traversed the support struts and clambered back onto the walkway to strike at the foes from behind, but the Bastards' spex-net was tight: one of the ammo jacks, alerted to the juve' presence, turned and shot Abhorrence dead.

Salvation hammered out a code-beat on the walkway before him, and it resounded across the chasm. Pity-Not-The-Recidivist muttered a curse – he'd just set the second ammo jack alight with an incendiary bomb – but he knew to obey the Middenmans' retreat signal, and backed away to join his fellows, ducking Van Saar gunfire as he fled.

The road back was uneventful; never mind the uncanny chittering and inexplicable whispers that echoed through the transit shafts and ventways. But none of the Middenmans – not Salvation, not Pity, not Revulsion nor the rest – could have anticipated the scene that awaited them at the Middenkirk.

Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance lay smouldering before the kirk entrance, his ragged robes blackened. He was face down, laughing, blood and spittle dripping between his jagged teeth. Above him towered Torment-Eternal-For-The-Unworthy, brandishing his scrap-built flamer like a holy relic.

'By the Throne!' gasped Salvation, 'What's all this?'

'A vision was gifted unto me,' growled Torment, grim-faced, 'while I squatted at the privy. I carry this holy flame, do I not?'

There was muttered assent from the assembled Middenmans.

'And is not the holy flame the most blessed tool of Redemption?'

Again, mumbles of agreement.

'Then by Holy Terra, it falls to me to lead the Middenmans, and this I made plain to Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance here, speaking unto him with a tongue of fire.'

Not a Middenman there could fault Torment's line of thought, but they looked uneasily at their fallen leader.

'It is true!' grinned Unstinting, hoarsely. 'I have seen the light! He who holdeth the flame is the one to lead us!'

This was enough for the Middenmans, who erupted with cheers and salutations in honour of their new scrap-boss.

This was not the only change in leadership amonst the gangs of Foulnest that shift – rebellion was stealing its way into the hearts of gangers across the zone, borne on the unseen , insidious tides of the empyrean. Madness, revolt, blood-thirst were all burning their way through Foulnest like a fever. And when the fever broke, a new shift would ensue: pure, desperate survival. A war in the ruins. Perfect Chaos.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 3: Possession is Nine Tenths of the War

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.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 2: Burn, Burn, Burn

Abhorrence-Begetteth-Purity Middenman's finger was twitching on the trigger of his autopistol. There were heretics to be killed, just beyond this door. Worse than heretics – these Carrion boys were recidivist Cawdor, house traitors who'd renounced the Holy Redemption for unspeakable idols. The Middenmans' ambush was an act of righteous glory.

'They're just yonder, I feels it,' yapped Abhorrence. 'When do we strike?'

'Be calm, lad,' said Scourge-Thyself-For-Thine-Sins Middenman, clutching his longrifle with reverend care. 'The purging fire's best bestowed with a cold heart.'

Abhorrence bit his lip and nodded at his elder's words. Scourge addressed the third of their company, Repent-Lest-Thou-Be-Damned Middenman.

'Repent, I shall open yon door. Once I've done so, scurry forth and fire upon the first traitor thee sees.'

The ganger nodded with a grimace. He'd just finished stuffing purgation shot down the barrel of his pole-mounted blunderbuss. Scourge stepped to the door and raised a grime-gloved hand to the access panel.

'Remember, brothers – whatsoe'r haps next is the Emprah's will.'

He activated the panel. The door hissed open.

Across the dome, Blessed-Are-The-Abject Middenman, a juve newly initiated, clutched his rusty stub gun with trembling hands, and his two ganger fellows took note.

'Fret thee not,' said Redeemed-Are-The-Abased , 'We'll blast these sinners down to the sump.'

'Aye, or die trying!' said Inexorable-Is-His-Judgement, brandishing his pistols. He winked at the juve, which didn't have much of a reassuring effect given the ganger's rictus-grin mask and missing eye.

This trio of Middenmans were at another blast door. The space around them showed signs of extensive scrap-stripping: what once must have been a network of tunnels beneath the domefloor had had its ceiling torn away and was exposed to the open space above. They'd had to creep stealthily to avoid being spotted by the Carrion's snipers in a mid-dome tower.

'Are ye ready, then?' said Redeemed, polearm-autogun in hand. His comrades nodded, and he reached for the door control.

Meanwhile, the last of the gang were in position on the far side of the dome, having worked their way around to set a noose-like trap for the recidivists. Here, Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous Middenman checked and re-checked his stub pistol. The juve was determined to acquit himself well as he'd be fighting alongside the underboss himself, Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance, and Torment-Eternal-For-The-Unworthy, carrier of the holy flamer.

'Wait for it, my sons, wait...' grinned Unstinting, 'When those filthy sinners are distracted by our boys, we'll rush round yon corner and bring hell to them...'

Shriven smiled and nodded. Torment, ever serious,grimly lit the candle mounted on the nozzle of his flamer.

Back across the dome, Repent-Lest-Thou-Be-Damned did as he was told: leaping through the open doorway, he aimed his blunderbuss at the only Carrion ganger in sight, who lurked atop a bulkhead wall. The ganger screeched and dropped, set ablaze.

Repent turned and called his gangmates onwards. Scourge was stepping forwards when a second door, leading to the dome centre, opened, revealing three more Carrion fighters. One of them levelled his pole-mounted flamer at the Middenmans and let rip with a torrent of flame that engulfed Repent and Scourge. Abhorrence dived aside and somehow managed to avoid the blast even as flames took hold of his brethren.

Hearing the commotion, Unstinting gave the command: 'Forward, Torment! In the Emprah's name!'

Torment-Eternal-For-The-Unworthy rushed around the corner and into the tox-tainted open space at the foot of the tower. He was behind the Carrion fighters who'd just ambushed Scourge and his crew, and had a fine shot. He squeezed the trigger of his flamer – the flameburst scorched the nearest Carrion out of the fight, but the two nearest Repent were merely singed. Torment heard an ullulating scream, a battle cry, and suddenly found himself fending off blows from a Carrion who'd been lurking in the shadows.

Unstinting, closely followed by Shriven, was rushing to his ganger's aid. As he rounded the corner, the underboss glanced around, his scrapper's eye taking in the scene in a flash. The top of the tower was shrouded in murky, ominous smoke, and Carrion boss Corvus had scuttled downdome, away from the action. No matter. Redeemed and his boys would cut him off and take him out. And there were more immediate matters to attend to.

Chainglaive roaring, Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance charged towards the Carrion assailing Torment. The blade swung down and the teeth bit deep, taking the cultist out of the fight.

Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous looked on in awe at his leader's ferocity – blessed are the reclaimed weapons of house Cawdor! Unstinting, his jag-toothed grin broader than ever, turned to address the juve, but there was a sudden chatter of gunfire from the smoky tower. Shriven's awe turned to horror as Unstinting and Torment dropped to the deck, riddled with auto rounds. He took a tentative step towards his downed elders, but then clocked another Carrion on the steps below the tower. Perhaps it was pragmatic threat response, perhaps it was blind fury – Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous charged towards the Carrion fighter, screaming for vengeance.

At the far end of the central zone, beyond a massive, dark pit in the domefloor, Redeemed-Are-The-Abased and his crew were advancing. Inexorable-Is-His-Judgement squinted with his good eye, spotting someone lurking behind a rusty barricade up ahead.

'By the Throne! That's Corvus himself cowering there!' cried Inexorable, darting forwards. Blessed-Are-The-Abject followed, ignoring Redeemed's warning to hold back.

Inexorable got as close as he dared – Corvus was as famed as Unstinting for his skill with a chainglaive – and raised his stubber and autopistol. Perhaps he'd have made the shots if he'd still had both his eyes, but the shells rattled off the barricade.

Blessed's clumsy shot fared similarly, and the three Middenmans paid the price as Corvus stepped from behind the barricade, drew his hand flamer, and rained fire them all.

Elsewhere, the fight was going equally badly as the Middenmans' ambush turned into a blazing rout. Abhorrence-Begetteth-Purity looked on aghast as Repent-Lest-Thou-Be-Damned staggered to his feet, still smouldering, only to be cut down by swarming Carrion gangers.

Abhorrence at last got to exercise his trigger finger, but in his desperation missed wildly and hit the still-burning Scourge-Thyself-For-Thine-Sins with a shot that popped the veteran's kneecap open.

The Carrion cawed and hollered, breaking into a wild jig as they savoured the prospect of victory.

Even a Cawdor juve knows when to run. Abhorrence and Shriven did what they could to smother the flames and drag their comrades out of the dome. It was too late for Torment and Repent, who would bleed out before they could reach a doc.

Still, Corvus seemed content to let his rivals go, having done enough to appease his dark god. 'Run, corpse worshippers! Run and tell your fellows how the Carrion cut up! Our mistress is no stranger to waiting, and we'll dance on your entrails yet!'

The fires burned bright and bloody that shift, even as the shadows of Foulnest turned ever darker and colder.

The Cannibal Wars of Old Foulnest Part 1: The Augury

Behold the Middenkirk: a rustbound munitorum container unit whose contents are hallowed and untouched even though it has been dragged from one end of E-Sec to the other over the long cycles. Inside, sputtering, stinking tallow candles cluster on lopsided ossuary stacks, and shadows flex and twist around the empty skulls and yellowed bones of Middenmans past. Dry sump-muck cakes the floor, and rat carcases crack underfoot – the stench is foul even by Cawdor standards – but it is forbidden to remove from the junk-kirk any item that comes to rest there. In pride of place is the altar, a crude assembly of dead archaeotech that not even the Iron Guild will touch, crowned by a long-dead cogitator unit. Its screen is blank, but Middenman lore holds that the founding fathers of the gang there beheld a vision: the Emprah Himself spoke through the unit, and bestowed the holy mission of reclamation upon the gang.

Now, the kirk stands in a dank warehouse down at Dogsump Docks, and Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance Middenman, Cawdor underlord, kneels before the altar and contemplates the events of the last shift-cycle. He is baring his jagged, gappy teeth in a lopsided grin, for the recent carnival of spontaneous violence - extreme even by Old Foulnest standards - is written in the scrap-divination that is laid out before the altar. He cast the scrimshawed bones and rusty junk trinkets, and spattered the fallen pieces with the throat-cut blood of a toxy rat. And now he sees what has happened, and what will come next.

At his left knee, the past: a speckling of blood across a twisted bolt, plans gone awry, denoting the ill-judged mission Unstinting had entrusted to Pity-Not-The-Recidivist and three of the brethren. They were supposed to preach temperance at a filthy drinking hole, but had instead copiously imbibed blindsnake and started a brawl with the Guiding Claw, who feign piety but tolerate the taint of mutation. Inexorable-Is-His-Judgement and Shriven-Are-The-Rancorous had lost an eye apiece in the fight, between them offering the a sacrifice of sight to the Emprah.

There also, a rusted corner of plating stamped with High Gothique, turned upside down. Here was the law in reverse, denoting the corrupt Enforcer who Salvation-Shall-Be-Paid-For-In-Blood and three Middenmans had ambushed. The lawman's bodyguards, more false-faith muties of Kreel's Ascent, could not save him from the faith and fury of the Middenmans. But the wrong-way plating signified another reversal: life and death, for Salvation paid a fatal price for victory. Unstinting commended his loyal follower's soul to Him-On-Terra.

Next, an overstretched coil of metal, now useless as a spring but surely signifying the overweening ambition of Pity-Not-The-Recidivist, who'd attempted to raid a storehouse belonging to C-Section, those grasping Enforcers who had so often claimed the choicest archaeotech from the Middenmans' salvage hauls. The curve of the coil reflected how the raid had gone awry, but Unstinting appreciated gangers' efforts, not to mention the head injury Pity had sustained, for which thanks must be given to the Golden Throne.

These emblems of the past lie close together, reflecting the sheer intensity of action during the shift cycle, but the bulk of the divinatory junk has fallen directly in front of Unstinting's knees, and speak dumbly of the present. The nuts, bolts, bones, teeth, rivets, nails – metal and finger – lie all in a jumble, piled up crossways and upended, spattered with a light shower of blood. Confusion and chaos. This confirms beyond doubt the rumours Unstinting has heard these past shifts: the fragile pax of Foulnest is fraying; unbridled violence is rising; incomers are stirring their gangmates to launch attacks unsanctioned by House overseers; other gangs new to the zone openly proclaim their loyalty to Wrong Gods; the Guilders are shutting their trading posts and retreating to fortified strongholds, or abandoning E-Sec altogether. An ill wind is blowing through the vents.

But it is when Unstinting turns to the scattered pieces at his right knee, which signify the future, that his heart leaps and he can barely stop himself from bursting into song with one of the old detritus devotionals. Here, the tox-thickened blood of the sacrificial rat rained down copiously, drenching the few trinkets that fell there. Even now, the blood is pooling and congealing in the crusty floor of the kirk, where it will remain forevermore as a marker of this blessed day. The future: lean cycles of hardship and meagre resources – so say the few trinkets. The future: a flood of violence and death – so says the abundance of rat blood. The future: suffering untold.

Unstinting-Is-His-Vengeance makes the sign of the aquila and bows solemnly, muttering a prayer, He carefully gathers up the tokens and trinkets and returns them to their rightful place on the altar. Then, he rises to his rough-shod feet and turns to leave the junk-kirk. He has good news for his Middenman brethren.

The end of the world is nigh.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 17: The Shift Before Fistmas

'Twas the shift before Fistmas, and all through Foulnest,

The creds were now counted, the gangers took rest;

The rackets were claimed, much blood had been spilt,

Rivalries kindled, and turf kingdoms built.

The Dreadhooks held court down at old Dogsump Dock,

And Foulnesters feared the Rustgaters' knock,

These crews above all were top of the pile,

Winthrop without mercy, Ray Void with a smile.

Still, others had prospered and plotted revenge,

(Or at least to lop off the last limb of Jo Genge):

The Smokestack Needles held the smuggling routes,

Which, along with the ghast trade, filled their Escher-made boots;

The Carrion boys and their ally stimm-lords

Offered prayers to the Emprah for ill-got rewards;

The cold trade was run by the Veiled Cartel,

With melta in darkness they raised merry hell;

The Guns of Jonn Gunn some vexation felt

As they strained at their bond to the Mercator Gelt;

And Precinct 13 were the heroes unsung

As they upheld the law - or elsewise took a bung.

(Doyle the captain was pleased as can be,

For he had Gunn himself under tight lock and key;

Now the Guns were a-planning a jailbreak bold.

But that downhive tale is still yet to be told...)

The pickings were rich and the gangers felt blessed,

This truly was boom time in New Old Foulnest!

The markets were teeming, the furnaces lit,

The wagers and blood filled the old fighting pit.

But for each cred the gangs took, the Guilders got five,

There's the sour-born wisdom running right through the hive:

From spiretop to sumpbed, it scans e'er the same,

The Guilds grab the credits, the gangs take the pain.

What can you do? That's underhive life,

All scrapping and scragging and violence and strife;

Yet there's wildsnake to swallow and stimms to be sniffed,

Happy Fistmas to all, and to all a good shift!

The Foulnest Rackets Part 16: The Scrag Trade

To say that Jonn Gunn was dissatisfied with his treatment at the hands of Coiner Guilder Lymeris Van Scultis would be like saying that Hive Primus is somewhat tall. Ever since his crew had been outlawed, Gunn had been trapped in a web of obligation to the Guilder, the promise of bounties revoked keeping him compliant even as his hard-won reputation was dragged through the sump. It rankled with him, painful like a gutshot wound.

But the grizzled venator figured he had a way out: the second chrono-crystal that the Guns had acquired during the Great Power-Down. It would surely be of interest to Van Scultis, perhaps enough to persuade her to issue writs of pardon. The tricky part was gaining an audience with the Guilder – all contact with the Guns was conducted at a remove by Skinflint Devinscar, and Gunn didn't want to risk revealing his hand too soon. There was only one option: sneak into a Guild mart and confront Van Scultis in person.

This was what brought Gunn, Drifter Zensen and Ashman Gwalt to the secure zone in Foulnest Core that shift. The op was to infiltrate the market, locate Van Scultis, and strike a bargain. Simple enough, but there was bound to be an enforcer presence, not to mention other guns-for-hire who might fancy claiming a bounty or two. Gunn's Guns came scrap-ready, but were keeping their hardware hidden under capacious robes.

Drifter convinced one of the perimeter guards to look the other way for a few clicks, and the Guns entered through a heavy blast portal. Inside, the secure zone was teeming with activity. The side chamber they'd entered connected to the main hallway of the market, which was well-lumened by underhive standards, and notably so in contrast to the gloomy side chambers. Room here for all kinds of trade, overt and secretive. From previous trips here, before the outlawing, Gunn knew that Van Scultis would be holding court at the far end of the hallway, off to the left. Up ahead, a shame-mob was in full swing, with a sonorous-voiced preacher driving a gaggle of Cawdors in a righteous beat-down of some poor chained-up sinner.

'Gwalt,' said Gunn, 'we'll be needing a distraction, something to draw eyes towards that shame-mob. See if you can't get involved, stir up a little dust.'

'Spire-straight, chief,' nodded Ashman, and darted forwards.

He sidled into the edge of the mob and aimed a clumsy slap at the chained recidivist. 'Take that, ya scum!'

The Cawdors cheered his efforts, but the gaunt preacher was running a tight affair – he dashed over to Ashman and gripped him firmly by the arm.

'Son,' he said, 'your enthusiasm is most welcome. Let me ask you, have you truly heard the redeeming word of Him-On-Terra?'

Ashman squirmed. 'Well, aye, sure I do, I have. I mean, he's the big guy, the big ol' Emprah.'

The preacher fixed Ashman with a steely gaze. 'And blessed are we all to bask in his radiant light. But there is the coarse belief of the common man, and there is the utter devotion of the unstinting believer. So again, I ask you, have you truly heard his redeeming word?'

Gunn and Drifter watched as Ashman continued to squirm in the preacher's grasp, and the Cawdors continued to pummel the prisoner.

'Well that's not quite how I scanned it,' said Gunn. 'But we're on a clock here. Come on.'

They moved to the edge of the main hall, stopping behind a cluster of mercs and merchants who were passing the time of shift and taking a vague interest in the shame-mob. Gunn eyed the hallway.

'Fragdammit.'

'What's up, boss?' said Drifter.

'See over there, that fella in purple, the fancy uphive clothes?'

'With the hat? So what?'

'That's only Slash Memento. Bounty hunter, a good one, too. I know him, and he knows me. He scopes me, that's the sneak job down the pipe, and there'll be blood.'

'Right, right,' said Drifter. 'But he doesn't know me...'

Gunn caught Drifter's drift. 'Alright, get over there, get him talking or something, see if you can keep him from looking my way while I move on.'

Drifter nodded and stepped out across the hall. The blast door off to the right, beyond the shame-mob, rumbled open, and Gunn glimpsed grey and red armour. Precinct 13. The game had just got far riskier for the Guns, but what choice did they have?

''Scuse me, sir,' said Drifter, tapping his mark on the shoulder, 'but ain't you Slash Memento?'

The bounty hunter turned, looking askance at this rag-draped scummer who's accosted him. 'So what if I am? Who's asking?'

'Ah, I thought it was you, I seen picts. I gotta say, sir, I am a big, big admirer of your, er, work.'

Drifter was laying on the blather like he had with the doorman. Gunn seized his chance and shuffled off past the cluster of traders. As he passed, he overheard snips of their chatter, talk of how this was a usual shift at the mart: guns-for-hire looking for work; docs offering their services in Cutter's Corner; thronebotherers looking to talk to anyone who'd listen. Apparently, it was worth steering clear of the chambers the other side of the main hall – Goliath and Orlock crews facing off there over some longstanding bad blood. And, of course, the wares for sale, the offers, counteroffers and back-and-forth haggling. Nothing Gunn hadn't heard before.

Ashman had prised himself away from the preacher and was now parallel to Gunn on the other side of the hall. Gunn was edging past three hooded Cawdors and heading into a shadowy side corridor when the crackle of an enforcer helm-vox sounded: 'Hey, you!'

Shrinking back into the shadows, Gunn glanced back up the main hall. One of the Precinct 13 officers had used his riot shield to bash his way through the shame-mob and was advancing on Drifter and Memento.

Drifter grimaced. No choice but to brass it out.

'Officer! Ah, um, glad to see you! Can I maybe introduce you to one of the finest – no, er, the finest venator this side of the heat sinks? This is none other than Slash Memento. Slash – you don't mind if I call you that, right -, meet Officer, er, sorry, I didn't catch your...'

'Officer Malone and myself are acquainted, as it happens,' said Memento drily as the enforcer loomed over them.

'O, I scope it, right right,' said Drifter, grinning weakly. 'Well, in that case I'll leave the two of you to catch up on all the goings-on. Who's hot on the wanted list, and all that...'

He stepped away, fixing to head back the way he'd come, but he didn't get five paces. Shouldn't have mentioned the wanted list.

'Freeze, creep!' barked Officer Malone. 'You're one of Jonn Gunn's boys, ain't you?'

Drifter would have broken and run, but he was penned in between Malone and a new enforcer arrival – Rin the cybermastiff, who powered through the Cawdor crowd up the hallway. In a few clicks, they had Drifter Zensen pinned and magnacled on the deck. The shame-mob preacher bustled over, keen to lay the word on this poor recidivist and maybe bag a new convert to his cause.

If Rin was in the zone, Captain Doyle himself wouldn't be far away, and there was real toxy blood between the enforcer captain and the Guns. Even less time on the clock than Jonn Gunn had expected. He ducked down the shadowy passage, hoping to loop round and reconnect with the main hall right next to Van Scultis and her entourage. The sound of shots echoed through the mart, presumably those Orlock and Goliath rivals throwing down; Gunn prayed to Terra that it'd distract the enforcers and draw them away.

He ghosted through the gloom, rounding a corner and clocking Ashman, who'd similarly dodged being recognised by the coppers, at the lit junction ahead. Just a fat merchant and his bodyguards to muscle past, no problem. It was all down to these last few metres – if he could reach Van Scultis and claim sanctuary from her, Precinct 13 would have to back down.

But then there was commotion over beyond the junction: two Orlocks ran into view, shoving past Ashman and the merchant crew. As they dashed by, Gunn heard one of them: 'That Ray Void, fragdammit, he's crazy!'

Back on the other side of the junction, a couple of bloodied Goliaths were running the same way as the Orlocks, but they didn't get as far. Shots rang out, and the Goliaths dropped. The fat merchant, panicked, had his crew hustle him out of the line of fire.

As bodies cleared out of the way, Gunn gazed across the junction, past Ashman on the corner, far into the chamber beyond. There was Raymond Void, strolling forwards with a smirk on his face, bolter muzzle smoking.

But he wasn't the only rival boss on the scene.

'Jonn Gunn!' The amplified vox echoed down the corridors. 'This is Captain Doyle. I know you're there, you damned dirty skuthead, and I'm taking you in, dead or alive!'

No point in the disguise any more. Gunn cast off his loose robes, revealing his battered armour. Ashman did likewise.

Ray Void. doubtless accompanied by some of the Rustgate OMC, was a wild card here. Sure, there was bitter history between the crews, running back to the long trek across E-Sec all those cycles ago, but the Guns and the Rustgaters had worked together before, at the Battle of Foulnest. Plus, they were fellow outlaws. Surely that would count for something?

'Void!' called Gunn hoarsely, 'We've got the heat right on us here! What say we set our iron on them together?'

Void was approaching the junction, but still out of sight of the approaching coppers. He called back over his shoulder, to one of his crewmates out of sight, 'Hey, Jo! I got Gunn himself here, he wants to strike a truce! Whaddaya think?'

Gunn couldn't quite hear Old Jo Genge's answer. But, whether or not he'd listened, Void's decision was immediately clear – he levelled his bolter and took Ashman down in a hail of shells.

So much for an alliance.

Malone was striding forwards over prone, bleeding Ashman. With him was Officer Riggs, clipping a fresh clip into her bolter. Gunn glimpsed Ray Void darting around the corner behind them, heading straight for an audience with Van Scultis, and no doubt a deal of his own. The enforcers must have clocked Void's presence, but it looked like Jonn Gunn was the only outlaw on their wanted list this shift. Ragged sheen birds were coming home to roost.

With his crew out of action and Van Scultis beyond reach, Gunn realised that all he could do was run.

He turned back down the shadowy corridor, ducking as Riggs's boltershells ripped into the bulkheads around him. He was hit: the shots tore up his armour and drew blood. Malone was on him, stimmed up and hammering down with his shield, but Gunn had his power knife out, the blade keening as it dug into the enforcers armour and put him down. With one smart stab, Gunn finished the job.

No time to take satisfaction, though. Gunn took another step the way he'd come, but the lumenlight from the main hall way was smeared out by a towering silhouette. Captain Doyle.

'You're not walking away this time,' snarled the enforcer. He'd slung his shotgun and drawn his stubber for close-up scrapping. Gunn didn't doubt it was loaded with dum-dums.

'Let's see about that,' said Gunn, smoothly reversing his grip on the knife.

The two men traded blows, but each was a veteran of countless downhive death duels. Doyle sidestepped Gunn's knife swing with alacrity that belied his bulk; Gunn turned Doyle's stubber aside with his elbow and ducked beneath the enforcer's jabbing fist. Gunn dragged the knife back, but Doyle twisted to the side and the energised blade only scraped his armour. Doyle fired blind, point blank, but the dum-dum merely grazed Gunn's ear.

This could have run on all shift, but Riggs was muscling in, looking to back up her captain. Gunn's attention was split between his two attackers, and Doyle pressed the advantage. He drew his fist back, shifted his weight and threw a punch that connected squarely with Jonn Gunn's jaw, sending him reeling onto his back.

The scrap, the op, perhaps Gunn's life as a free man - all over in less time than it takes to reload a las clip. Enforcer Captain Doyle laughed grimly and unclipped the magnacles on his belt as he loomed over the fallen venator.

'You're nicked, my scum.'

The Foulnest Rackets Part 15: Get Glaw

Gunn's Guns heard tell that the Veiled Cartel and their rogue noble benefactor, Lady Astrid Glaw, had been scoped in the lower levels of Foulnest – this was tattle that demanded an armed response. There was a lingering score to settle, particularly with Glaw herself, but with Jonn Gunn otherwise occupied, it fell to Noomena Greyz to lead Snags, Mumbles and Lazko, as well as allied mercs Kayles Djyf and Bludgeoner Borb, on a takedown op.

The Guns tracked the Cartel down to a stretch of tunnels overgrown with aggressive vegetation – the Delaques were on the hunt for tox-sap and other derivatives which might make for good blade venom – and experience warned that the badzone plant life was liable to be as much a threat as the opposing gang. Scragging Glaw was the priority, and the plan was to split in two and pincer the crew she was running with. The op called for swift action – Glaw's entourage was small, but reinforcements were doubtless nearby and would turn up quickly once things got hot.

Noomena, Snags and Borb started moving through the tunnels, straight towards Glaw's last-scanned position. Snags was back in action after the chrono-crystal incident, which had affected him worse than any of the Guns except poor dead Ratbite. Considering how much he'd aged, Snags was looking remarkably spry, scuttling ahead and brushing aside the grasping tendrils of a stand of tangleweed that had shambled into his path.

'Take it easy, geez,' said Noomena, peering into the flickering gloom beyond. 'The Cartel are wily fraggers.'

'Heh, don't I know it!' said Snags, his face doubling its wrinkles as he grinned. 'I've scrapped with these creeps enough times to know what to expect.' He paused, unsure. 'Wait, have I already? Or is that's what we're here for?'

Noomena shrugged and moved past him. She could sympathise with his confusion, having endured a less intense but still confusing blast of time-displacement from the shattered crystal. 'I dunno, old man – but let's keep our scopes on the prize.'

Borb the Bludgeoner, scum for hire, shuffled along behind them, wondering what the frag these people were blathering about.

A tunnel or two over, Mumbles and Lazko were following Djyf into the gloom. They moved carefully so as not to trigger a barb-flurry from the jagged row of shardwrack spines that lurked in the corridor behind them.

Djyf suddenly stopped with a sharp intake of breath. He stared ahead into the dim lumenlight.

'What?' said Lazko. 'What is it, man?'

'Cicero...' hissed Djyf.

'Hrrrgh?' said Mumbles.

'I didn't think I'd cross paths with him again...' said the Delaque merc. Without warning, he sprinted off into the chamber beyond.

'Hey, baldy! Wait!' barked Lazko. 'Ah, skut, there goes the plan...'

And then the lights went out.

'Hrrgh hrr-rr,' said Mumbles.

'Plan beta is right,' said Lazko, turning back. 'Just as well we figured these creeps would pull something like this.'

Plan beta was for Lazko's sub-crew to drop their pincer move and reinforce Noomena and the rest on the main line of attack. There were bound to be more Cartel members in the zone now; better to scrape some safety in numbers than stay dispersed and get picked off piecemeal in the darkness. Lazko and Mumbles turned back the way they'd come, leaving Djyf to his fool vendetta – a showdown with the Cartel's resident spyker which ended with the bounty hunter on the deck, twisted in mind-wrought agony as Cicero floated over and slipped a dagger between his ribs.

Meanwhile, Noomena, Snags and Borb had muscled their way past the grappleweed to a heavy blast door. The zone's ancient security array was just about still running, and the venators clocked a staticky vid-display on the wall: Glaw and two of the Cartel were just the other side of the blast door, likewise advancing past grappleweed and shardwracks.

Noomena and Snags hadn't worked together that many cycles, but, perhaps aided by the skewing effects of the chrono crystal, they'd hit on a decent understanding of each other's tactical thinking: both favoured the high-risk move. Bludgeoner Borb had no such insight, which was why he was taken aback when Snags readied his shotgun and Noomena abruptly pressed the control switch for the blast door.

A lot happened in just a few clicks. The crews were close enough that it barely mattered that the lumens were out. As Noomena and Snags had expected, bloodthirsty Astrid Glaw was unable to resist charging, her expansive skirts billowing as she vaulted over a rough barricade and into combat with Snags. Perhaps it was his time-warped battle-nous, perhaps just sheer luck, but he weathered the rain of digiblasts with ease. Noomena darted fluidly into the fray, discharging her plasma pistol and lashing out with her stiletto blade. A sharp play which could have worked, but the Guns hadn't reckoned on Glaw's displacer field. As Noomena's blows landed, Glaw blinked out and reappeared a few feet away – just behind Snags and Noomena, and just next to Borb.

The scummer was utterly surprised by the noble teleporting in half a metre away. Borb's whole body twitched in alarm, his finger wrenching the trigger of his sawn-off shotgun, which fired jerkily. And blasted Lady Astrid Glaw's head clean off.

The disgraced uphiver stood for a moment, her towering wig balanced precariously on what remained of her skull, before dropping like a lump of rockcrete, her skirts settling on the rusty deck.

Op accomplished – but the Veiled Cartel were still on the prowl. Glaw's bodyguards were in the doorway. One of them, veteran Delvin, levelled his web pistol and fired an expanding tangle of goop that wrapped around Noomema, Snags and Borb. All three dropped to the floor, writhing as the web-chems constricted them.

Back around the corner, Mumbles and Lazko were sneaking forward, still looking to bolster their crewmates.

'Hhhm hhhrrr grrrh.'

'Yeah, I can't raise them on the vox either,' said Lazko. 'Something's gone sumpwards.'

Mumbles, a step ahead, peered out into the gloom. He couldn't make out anything. Then, there was a sharp hiss which built from silence to searing crescendo in a split click. Mumbles was on the deck, screaming through his rope gag before slipping unconscious. A solid melta hit, which could mean only one thing: the notorious Lucien, mastermind of the Veiled Cartel, was out there nearby, in the darkness.

But this wasn't Lazko Ozwik's first gang fight, not by a long stretch. Bitter-borne instincts kicked in and he levelled his plasmagun in the direction where, judging by the sound and Mumbles's reaction, Lucien was most likely to be lurking. He flicked the blast limiter off and opened fire, full power.

The scene was briefly fully lit as the plasma blast caught Lucien in the arm, cooking his hand. He didn't scream, but as the plasmalight faded, Lazko saw him drop. Job done – but then he felt a stab at the base of his spine. It wasn't a Delaque dagger, but a jabbing knot of grappleweed. Lazko gasped and went down, tendrils of weed wrapping themselves around his limbs.

Noomena was likewise entangled as she fought against the web that was digging into her flesh, drawing blood. She could just about see that Delvin and his crony were holding back, but she couldn't figure why. There was a grim moan behind her, and she twisted round. Just enough light to see that Snags was free of the web. Only it wasn't Snags. There was something clamped to his head. Another peril of scrapping in a jungle badzone. A brainleaf.

'Ah, skut,' growled Noomena as not-Snags lurched forward and fell on her. She just about had enough time to scan through what would happen next – provided he didn't bite her throat out straight off, the leaf on Snags would slough off a copy of itself onto her, and then she'd be...

Devlin held his gangmate back as the ancient man and sharp-haired woman – now drooling brainleaf zombies, lurched to their feet. Word had just come through on the Cartel's whispervox that Lucien was down and needed recovery, but actioning that depended on what the zombies did next.

To the Delaques' relief, they turned and staggered over to the still-webbed Borb, who'd used up his luck with the killshot on Glaw.

'That's that,' muttered Delvin. 'Let's grab the maestro and vanish.'

The Veiled Cartel vacated the badzone.

Half a shift later, the lumens were back on, the jungle had calmed down, and the brainleaves had withered and dropped off Snags and Noomena. Lazko, who'd frred himself from the grappleweed and was half-carrying the badly-burnt Mumbles, found them slumped against the blast door near what was left of Borb the Bludgeoner.

'You folks okay?' said Lazko.

'Aye,' said Noomena, wincing as she rubbed her scalp where the leaf had dug in. 'Frag me, I feel like I just got dredged out of the sump. What a shift. I hope the boss had a better time on his trip to the trading post.'

'Look at it spirewards, though,' said Snags with a grimace. 'We came here to get Glaw. And we got Glaw.'

'Well, he got Glaw,' said Noomena, nodding at the scattered bits of Borb.

Snags punched her arm gamely. 'Come on, that guy's the best scummer we've ever hired! He took out the target, didn't rat on us to Precinct 13 and – best of all – you and me ain't gonna need to be fed for a whole shift cycle!'