Roddy awoke to a red and black world of pain.
His mind was reeling and his senses were filled with shapes, colours and noises, though he couldn't understand what they meant, nor fathom their position in the world around him. An abstract sense of floating away filled him and with this, the pain ebbed. He was content, happy, relieved. Then rough hands held him by the ankles and started dragging him back towards some intangible surface. The pain came back; and with it, the cold black and red agony rolled over him like a wave.
He opened his eyes and hurt. He could see but it was blurry in most of his vision. He could only make out that he was in some kind of dwelling. It was poorly lit, with only embers of a hearth-fire still illuminating the interior. He was tied to his bedding and he was scared. Attempting to wriggle free made his hurts even worse and nearly dropped him back into blackness, so that when the opening of the dwelling was pushed aside to reveal a large, shambling, furry creature he was tipped over the edge and lost consciousness.
The third time he awoke, the creature had gone. In it's place was a man wrapped in furs, tending the fire. Roddy's hurts were mainly gone, with a dull ache remaining in his chest and some very sharp pains in his upper arm and shoulder. The man rose from the fire and; carrying a knife, walked over to where Roddy was laying. Roddy flinched back as the man's face came into the light, for it was scarred and weathered in a frightening fashion. Despite his fear, he stayed still and kept his body loose. The man cut his bonds and said,
"Drink water, little one." In a deep, bass tone. Roddy didn't refuse the offered flask. Though the water was brackish, it was needed; and went down like a measure of cold synth-ale after a battle.
The man settled in beside Roddy. His clothes were of rat fur, taken from a particularly large example of the genus, perhaps more than one. He stank of fat-grease and hive-brewed spirits and something else ... not corrupt but not entirely human. Roddy started to feel his calm coming.
The Man-Rat reached over the fire and brought forth an iron kettle filled with some sweet smelling stew and poured a bowl for the Ratling, who shuffled forward on his bedding and leaned in for the much needed meal. When Roddy had taken his fill, he looked quizzically toward the Man-Rat and shot him a look which spoke volumes. It demanded answers, it was not afraid. It was a look that knew the value of the thing given and wanted to know the price to pay.
The Man-Rat took a breath and; at length, explained the shape of things. He spoke of the pattern which brought forth this point in time. He spoke of the scent of what was to come and the manifold ways of their divergence. He spoke true, with tears of loss and prayers of hope. He spoke of a shared destiny and the danger of free will. He talked long about family and responsibility, at times he jested with Roddy and they shared an understanding of futility. There was much to be discussed and more that would never be touched upon, in the brief meeting between the two.
Bullet-Nose, the Ratskin and Roddy the Ratling, of different worlds and species became firm friends and close family, in the course of one conversation. They shared time, discourse and the knowledge of different tribes. One had healed the other and in repayment, the other would help the one. It was not certain what the outcome would be but they had reached an understanding that if either should be passive in the coming times, here in the Necromundan Hive Primus, then the foundations of their own separate existence would crumble; and nothing that either recognised would remain.
The alliance was sealed. All that remained in the way were loose ends.
_______________________________________________
Senior lay, shackled to a wall and battered. Though not broken yet, he was probably the only Ratling who wasn’t cowering and shaking in fear and confusion. There were nine of them, all thrown into the same cramped holding cell, with manacles linking their wrists through large steel rings in the walls. The Enforcers’ rough treatment had left the Ratling Elite Squad cowed and nervous. A few, including Twitch and Senior had drawn knives and charged out as the Guild-Funded Law-Men threw smoke grenades into the room. Twitch had been the only one swift enough to find a gap in the armour of the lawmen and though he had not killed or severely wounded the man, the Enforcers had exacted a brutal and unbalanced form of vengeance on the diminutive and savage little Rat-Man. Twitch lay there and just … twitched.
Senior was disgusted. He was calm but he was hugely disappointed with himself and their Squad Sergeant. The only one among them who had been armed to protect the pack, even remotely, had fled and left them to their fate. Senior couldn’t truly decide if he’d rather have escaped with Roddy now, or stuck here with the rest of his pack and what remained of his pride.
It had been six days now without any word of why they were being held and Senior suspected that Summers, nor anyone in the Imperial Regiments had been informed of their arrest and mistreatment. Senior was calm for now but another day with no news might break him. The proximity of his frightened, nervous and injured pack was having a negative effect on his own psychology. He hoped that he could think of a way out for them soon.
_______________________________________________
Roddy had accepted gifts and tokens of brother-hood. He now carried an antique hunting rifle and a bag full of krak and frag. In return he had given his las-pistol to the Bullet-Nose. The Ratskin clearly knew the value of Imperial equipment and added it to the rest of his camp, which he carried around on his back in a giant huddle.
They had parted ways. Out of necessity, for there was a great work to be done and only by splitting their efforts would there be time to accomplish everything. Roddy had a great debt to pay before he could continue with his side of the bargain and headed off up-hive, with a map given to him by Bullet-Nose, to find his stricken pack-members. According to the knowledgeable native, there was only one sector house close enough for them to possibly have been taken to and only one viable way in. Roddy headed straight for it, with his plan, his debt and his determination in tow.
_______________________________________________
From inside SH-7-B, you could only hear a pop, a smash or a tinkle … after which you could hear the Sector House Alarm going absolutely crazy as the building burst into life. Panicked humans struggled to put their cumbersome and clunky armour on and equip themselves. Within mere minutes, the sector house was practically empty, with only a skeleton watch of administrators and two armed guards. The front hatch was locked down and the outer servo-guns clicked and whirred into some aggressive stance as they actively began seeking targets. It was a riot protocol and the guns were looking for ground based hostiles…
This would probably explain why nothing noticed Roddy dropping from a vent and rolling on the Plas-Crete roof.
_______________________________________________
When the Sector House shook and the roof started falling in, the Ratlings scattered back as far as they possibly could. A bag was dropped through a new hole in the roof and afterwards, a small, bedraggled figure. When the dust cleared, Roddy stood up holding his antique rifle and aimed through the bars to the holding cell, toward the hallway door. He kicked the bag over to the nearest Ratling, who happened to be Senior, whose jaw was dropped like a drugged yak.
“Cuuttin Ghee-aar! Huu-rreee!!” Senior snapped out of his shock and began rooting in the bag, amongst grenades and charges, before finding a las-cutter which would make very short work indeed of steel bonds. He was halfway through releasing his pack-mates before a loud shot rang out and Roddy cocked, again, the bolt action repeater rifle. Another shot and Senior was starting to sweat with the heat of the torch and sheer fear. He thought he might not be able to make it.
Another shot and there were only two Ratlings left chained but there were voices coming from outside now. More voices than there should be by this stage. Maybe the break out had happened too soon and the Enforcers had returned too early from the diversion! Only one left and the Enforcers burst through into the corridor, each and every one in full carapace armour, springing toward the cell.
Roddy turned to Barrow, still chained, aimed at him … fired …
The chain clasp popped from his wrist and barrow yelped, before looking angrily at Roddy, who was already heading for a rope hanging from the ceiling. The last four out were Roddy, Senior, Barrow and Twitch who had to be pulled up as he was still too weak to climb.
By the time the Enforcers arrived at the cell door, there was only the dangling rope and the scent of burned Plas-Crete… Oh yes … and the noise of a detonator triggering somewhere in the cell. The Enforcers never knew what hit them.
_______________________________________________
Somewhere in the vents above, the mood was somewhere between jubilant, exhausted and terrified. They were happy to be free of the cell but knew there was less than a day to get to their pick-up or they’d be stuck on Necromunda forever. This was a prospect that none of them cherished. Roddy stayed silent on the matter and instead, tucked himself up with his pack-mates and went to sleep.
_______________________________________________
Bullet-Nose walked far. He walked deep as he possibly could into the Underhive, knowing every step along the way. He walked, climbed and crawled as deep as he would dare to go, for there were those there that he must see and speak with. There was so much to do in such a short time that he could waste no step on rest or meaningless talk. The one who he needed to speak with would not require much in the way of convincing but may exact a greater toll on his time, by way of a favour, a service or a boon.
Bullet-Nose could think of no one that he would rather have on his side in a fight than the person he was seeking out. Failing the necessity of combat, he could think of a vast number of people he’d rather be beside at any other time. The man and his ilk stank to the highest point of the Spire, they were noisy, stubborn, proud and mad, with equal abandon. Easy to insult and hard to put down …
… The Second Pit Slave Army was coming back to town.
_______________________________________________
King Narcissus, a fat and bloated man, was once the envy of the Pit Slavers everywhere. With the rebellion and subsequent disappearance of Bull Gorg, he was able to sweep aside the remaining competition. Being one of a few very powerful pit-slaves that weren’t connected to the greatest rebellion of all time meant that in a relatively short run, Narcissus was able to sweep aside all comers, utilising his powerful frame to deliver rapid thrusts with an incredibly heavy rock-drill in place of his right arm. In his left hand he carried a maul which he used with surprising skill, parrying blades and massive axes deftly, the legend was that he was a Fallen Marine sent to die in the mines of Necromunda … due to his size and the fact that Marines rarely graced even the Spire of the Necromundan First Hive, let alone the Underhive meant that this was quite believable.
The real history of the overweight ex-slave was very different though. He was an orphan, raised into slavery and had tended the pits since he was a young boy. He had watched more brutal fights than most men in the universe would get to witness by the time he was in his teens and had become utterly fearless of the prospect of death by the time he was a young man. He was more used to a dying man’s screams than a battle-hardened, veteran guardsman. More prone to fits of rage and violent outbursts than a frenzied Ork.
When he eventually turned on his masters, he had painted his cell with their blood and decimated their guards, ignoring the blows of shock-mauls, clubs and swords. By the time he had left his prison they had had their pound of flesh from him but he had taken so much more, plus his freedom.
Bullet-Nose walked into the lair of the one-time Usurper-King of The Pit Slaves with a sense of trepidation bordering on fear. Ratskins aren’t afraid of that which is of the Hive but Narcissus was something entirely of his own devising and no-one alive was entirely sure what that self-image truly was.
His mind was reeling and his senses were filled with shapes, colours and noises, though he couldn't understand what they meant, nor fathom their position in the world around him. An abstract sense of floating away filled him and with this, the pain ebbed. He was content, happy, relieved. Then rough hands held him by the ankles and started dragging him back towards some intangible surface. The pain came back; and with it, the cold black and red agony rolled over him like a wave.
He opened his eyes and hurt. He could see but it was blurry in most of his vision. He could only make out that he was in some kind of dwelling. It was poorly lit, with only embers of a hearth-fire still illuminating the interior. He was tied to his bedding and he was scared. Attempting to wriggle free made his hurts even worse and nearly dropped him back into blackness, so that when the opening of the dwelling was pushed aside to reveal a large, shambling, furry creature he was tipped over the edge and lost consciousness.
The third time he awoke, the creature had gone. In it's place was a man wrapped in furs, tending the fire. Roddy's hurts were mainly gone, with a dull ache remaining in his chest and some very sharp pains in his upper arm and shoulder. The man rose from the fire and; carrying a knife, walked over to where Roddy was laying. Roddy flinched back as the man's face came into the light, for it was scarred and weathered in a frightening fashion. Despite his fear, he stayed still and kept his body loose. The man cut his bonds and said,
"Drink water, little one." In a deep, bass tone. Roddy didn't refuse the offered flask. Though the water was brackish, it was needed; and went down like a measure of cold synth-ale after a battle.
The man settled in beside Roddy. His clothes were of rat fur, taken from a particularly large example of the genus, perhaps more than one. He stank of fat-grease and hive-brewed spirits and something else ... not corrupt but not entirely human. Roddy started to feel his calm coming.
The Man-Rat reached over the fire and brought forth an iron kettle filled with some sweet smelling stew and poured a bowl for the Ratling, who shuffled forward on his bedding and leaned in for the much needed meal. When Roddy had taken his fill, he looked quizzically toward the Man-Rat and shot him a look which spoke volumes. It demanded answers, it was not afraid. It was a look that knew the value of the thing given and wanted to know the price to pay.
The Man-Rat took a breath and; at length, explained the shape of things. He spoke of the pattern which brought forth this point in time. He spoke of the scent of what was to come and the manifold ways of their divergence. He spoke true, with tears of loss and prayers of hope. He spoke of a shared destiny and the danger of free will. He talked long about family and responsibility, at times he jested with Roddy and they shared an understanding of futility. There was much to be discussed and more that would never be touched upon, in the brief meeting between the two.
Bullet-Nose, the Ratskin and Roddy the Ratling, of different worlds and species became firm friends and close family, in the course of one conversation. They shared time, discourse and the knowledge of different tribes. One had healed the other and in repayment, the other would help the one. It was not certain what the outcome would be but they had reached an understanding that if either should be passive in the coming times, here in the Necromundan Hive Primus, then the foundations of their own separate existence would crumble; and nothing that either recognised would remain.
The alliance was sealed. All that remained in the way were loose ends.
_______________________________________________
Senior lay, shackled to a wall and battered. Though not broken yet, he was probably the only Ratling who wasn’t cowering and shaking in fear and confusion. There were nine of them, all thrown into the same cramped holding cell, with manacles linking their wrists through large steel rings in the walls. The Enforcers’ rough treatment had left the Ratling Elite Squad cowed and nervous. A few, including Twitch and Senior had drawn knives and charged out as the Guild-Funded Law-Men threw smoke grenades into the room. Twitch had been the only one swift enough to find a gap in the armour of the lawmen and though he had not killed or severely wounded the man, the Enforcers had exacted a brutal and unbalanced form of vengeance on the diminutive and savage little Rat-Man. Twitch lay there and just … twitched.
Senior was disgusted. He was calm but he was hugely disappointed with himself and their Squad Sergeant. The only one among them who had been armed to protect the pack, even remotely, had fled and left them to their fate. Senior couldn’t truly decide if he’d rather have escaped with Roddy now, or stuck here with the rest of his pack and what remained of his pride.
It had been six days now without any word of why they were being held and Senior suspected that Summers, nor anyone in the Imperial Regiments had been informed of their arrest and mistreatment. Senior was calm for now but another day with no news might break him. The proximity of his frightened, nervous and injured pack was having a negative effect on his own psychology. He hoped that he could think of a way out for them soon.
_______________________________________________
Roddy had accepted gifts and tokens of brother-hood. He now carried an antique hunting rifle and a bag full of krak and frag. In return he had given his las-pistol to the Bullet-Nose. The Ratskin clearly knew the value of Imperial equipment and added it to the rest of his camp, which he carried around on his back in a giant huddle.
They had parted ways. Out of necessity, for there was a great work to be done and only by splitting their efforts would there be time to accomplish everything. Roddy had a great debt to pay before he could continue with his side of the bargain and headed off up-hive, with a map given to him by Bullet-Nose, to find his stricken pack-members. According to the knowledgeable native, there was only one sector house close enough for them to possibly have been taken to and only one viable way in. Roddy headed straight for it, with his plan, his debt and his determination in tow.
_______________________________________________
From inside SH-7-B, you could only hear a pop, a smash or a tinkle … after which you could hear the Sector House Alarm going absolutely crazy as the building burst into life. Panicked humans struggled to put their cumbersome and clunky armour on and equip themselves. Within mere minutes, the sector house was practically empty, with only a skeleton watch of administrators and two armed guards. The front hatch was locked down and the outer servo-guns clicked and whirred into some aggressive stance as they actively began seeking targets. It was a riot protocol and the guns were looking for ground based hostiles…
This would probably explain why nothing noticed Roddy dropping from a vent and rolling on the Plas-Crete roof.
_______________________________________________
When the Sector House shook and the roof started falling in, the Ratlings scattered back as far as they possibly could. A bag was dropped through a new hole in the roof and afterwards, a small, bedraggled figure. When the dust cleared, Roddy stood up holding his antique rifle and aimed through the bars to the holding cell, toward the hallway door. He kicked the bag over to the nearest Ratling, who happened to be Senior, whose jaw was dropped like a drugged yak.
“Cuuttin Ghee-aar! Huu-rreee!!” Senior snapped out of his shock and began rooting in the bag, amongst grenades and charges, before finding a las-cutter which would make very short work indeed of steel bonds. He was halfway through releasing his pack-mates before a loud shot rang out and Roddy cocked, again, the bolt action repeater rifle. Another shot and Senior was starting to sweat with the heat of the torch and sheer fear. He thought he might not be able to make it.
Another shot and there were only two Ratlings left chained but there were voices coming from outside now. More voices than there should be by this stage. Maybe the break out had happened too soon and the Enforcers had returned too early from the diversion! Only one left and the Enforcers burst through into the corridor, each and every one in full carapace armour, springing toward the cell.
Roddy turned to Barrow, still chained, aimed at him … fired …
The chain clasp popped from his wrist and barrow yelped, before looking angrily at Roddy, who was already heading for a rope hanging from the ceiling. The last four out were Roddy, Senior, Barrow and Twitch who had to be pulled up as he was still too weak to climb.
By the time the Enforcers arrived at the cell door, there was only the dangling rope and the scent of burned Plas-Crete… Oh yes … and the noise of a detonator triggering somewhere in the cell. The Enforcers never knew what hit them.
_______________________________________________
Somewhere in the vents above, the mood was somewhere between jubilant, exhausted and terrified. They were happy to be free of the cell but knew there was less than a day to get to their pick-up or they’d be stuck on Necromunda forever. This was a prospect that none of them cherished. Roddy stayed silent on the matter and instead, tucked himself up with his pack-mates and went to sleep.
_______________________________________________
Bullet-Nose walked far. He walked deep as he possibly could into the Underhive, knowing every step along the way. He walked, climbed and crawled as deep as he would dare to go, for there were those there that he must see and speak with. There was so much to do in such a short time that he could waste no step on rest or meaningless talk. The one who he needed to speak with would not require much in the way of convincing but may exact a greater toll on his time, by way of a favour, a service or a boon.
Bullet-Nose could think of no one that he would rather have on his side in a fight than the person he was seeking out. Failing the necessity of combat, he could think of a vast number of people he’d rather be beside at any other time. The man and his ilk stank to the highest point of the Spire, they were noisy, stubborn, proud and mad, with equal abandon. Easy to insult and hard to put down …
… The Second Pit Slave Army was coming back to town.
_______________________________________________
King Narcissus, a fat and bloated man, was once the envy of the Pit Slavers everywhere. With the rebellion and subsequent disappearance of Bull Gorg, he was able to sweep aside the remaining competition. Being one of a few very powerful pit-slaves that weren’t connected to the greatest rebellion of all time meant that in a relatively short run, Narcissus was able to sweep aside all comers, utilising his powerful frame to deliver rapid thrusts with an incredibly heavy rock-drill in place of his right arm. In his left hand he carried a maul which he used with surprising skill, parrying blades and massive axes deftly, the legend was that he was a Fallen Marine sent to die in the mines of Necromunda … due to his size and the fact that Marines rarely graced even the Spire of the Necromundan First Hive, let alone the Underhive meant that this was quite believable.
The real history of the overweight ex-slave was very different though. He was an orphan, raised into slavery and had tended the pits since he was a young boy. He had watched more brutal fights than most men in the universe would get to witness by the time he was in his teens and had become utterly fearless of the prospect of death by the time he was a young man. He was more used to a dying man’s screams than a battle-hardened, veteran guardsman. More prone to fits of rage and violent outbursts than a frenzied Ork.
When he eventually turned on his masters, he had painted his cell with their blood and decimated their guards, ignoring the blows of shock-mauls, clubs and swords. By the time he had left his prison they had had their pound of flesh from him but he had taken so much more, plus his freedom.
Bullet-Nose walked into the lair of the one-time Usurper-King of The Pit Slaves with a sense of trepidation bordering on fear. Ratskins aren’t afraid of that which is of the Hive but Narcissus was something entirely of his own devising and no-one alive was entirely sure what that self-image truly was.