A/N: Busy, busy, busy. Took a lot longer to get this chapter written, partially because I rewrote half of it about four times. To the reviewers:
ErnestShippinglane89- If I went back and rewrote the story (Which I promise I will not do, because that would send this story into LIMBO. I've done it before), I probably would have given her a slightly different role. But if I put every bit of the characters I had planned into the story, this single story would be a full-on Trilogy's worth of books. I more or less have everyone's storylines in my head, so everyone is actively doing things off paper. With the limited perspective of the story, though, I've found it almost impossible to fit a lot of it in without effectively dropping spoilers. But yes, I understand your point. In an alternate story, it probably could work really well.
Therockyroad- Thanks! I appreciate the compliment
Disciple of Ember- Yeah, I'm trying really hard to portray the fact that this isn't a fairy tale Eldar-and-human-fall-in-love story. Louk really has no idea what he's doing (in case it isn't obvious). He's just a poor boy, from a poor family...
BIBOTOT- There will be ALL of the Heresy... eventually. One of the main points of this relationship that I'm trying to show is that he is fumbling in the dark on this one. He isn't used to being at a disadvantage, and it leaves him absolutely wrongfooted, which translates into him doing a fair amount of panicking where the witch is concerned, hence a bunch of the awkward moments.
The Wrench Guy- Is that a "That was your chance" Idiot or a "Are you mental" Idiot?
OR99- Well, someone's gotta tell them!
Aberron- Glad you are enjoying it. There's a lot going on in this story (technically, stories). Jadus will return.
Plebian- Well, the Warp isn't a purely bad thing. There are actually an almost infinite number of Chaos Gods, a lot of whom are quite 'good.' Being manifested entities of emotion etc... they merely are weak and rarely worth mentioning. Because there is very little good in the 40k universe to fuel them. But, ya'know. There's always that Emprah guy. I heard he likes to gather up the nice people and suck out their souls to fuel his giant toilet.
Hound's Call
Helsing met them at the establishment. Once again, he had abandoned his heavier coat and fancier clothes in favor of street leathers and a concealing duster. His favored bush hat. Brace of ancient pistols tucked into quickdraw holsters on his belt. Freshly rolled cigar perched between his lips. His eyes seemed to glow in the half-light of the flickering bulbs overhead. Offering a soft nod, expression as patient as if he had just arrived and not been waiting for hours. Then, turning into the doorway, he stepped inside with the assuredness of a man who knew they would follow him, and have his back. Penance remained outside, standing vigilant over the streets.
The scene reminded him of a wartorn battlefield, or one of the butcheries in the Chopshop. Almost every piece of furniture shattered and hurled about like a tornado had passed through. Blood decorating the walls in macabre paintings. Limbs scattered away from their bodies, some ripped and torn, other riddled with holes. One bouncer's head stood proudly in the center of the room, hoisted by a chandelier. Another one lay piled through the railing of the stairs, his legs shoved under a crushed piano halfway across the room. The infamous Sister Joy, plastek fake armor embedded in her chest up to her ribs from a bone-crushing impact. Kor'in's left hand, attached to the bartop by a bone cleaver, nerveless fingers still wrapped around the snub-nosed shotgun she kept under the counter.
Something had torn through this place like a pack of Orks through a grox kennel. He estimated twenty bodies, though it was hard to tell because of the lack of definable parts. Most every patron had been armed; bullet holes and scorch marks littered the walls and furniture parts. Mostly small caliber rounds and buckshot. It looked at one point like an explosion had gone off. Blast pattern indicated grenade-sized, home made. Blasting powder, most likely. Flash burns on the nearby bodies agreed. The stench of cooked meat did too.
"I thought Kor'in got out" Louk muttered, striding past his Inquisitor to inspect the severed hand. Finger tight around the trigger, weapon unfired. Whoever had got to her had been just in time. Angle of the cut, they had definitely been standing directly in front of the barrel. An expert with the blade. Must have happened in the time between her drawing the weapon and settling her aim. Could not have been more than a couple seconds. Which told him lightning fast reflexes and inhuman mastery of his muscles. The precision was perfect, cut the nerves before her mental impulse ordered her finger to squeeze the trigger. Impeccable.
"Not all of her." Helsing's voice was grim. Picking up a mostly intact chair, he set it upright and sat down on it. One hand drifted to the butt of one of his pistols, the other fished out a match and lit the cigar. Waving it out, he flicked it away and took a long drag. "Mullison has her in the infirmary. Significant blood loss and shock."
"Hmm." Louk stepped away from the bartop and went to inspect the late Sister Joy. Brute force impact, delivered with the kind of force he had seen Ork's do to Guardsmen. Ribcage shattered, internal organs pulped, blood exploded out of her mouth, nose, and eyes. Her body lay here, caught by a table that had broken in half on impact, which meant the blow had struck her… there. Little indents in the floor, boot prints. Recoil force, the power of the blow had driven the wielder into the floor. Powerfully enough to leave an impression in the plasteel flooring.
"That is the one that has me wondering." Helsing's gaze did not leave him as Louk knelt to study the bootprint. "Footprint is small, human-sized. But the force of that blow could have come from Dunk'er."
"You aren't wrong." Louk traced the print, trying to picture the footwear. He had known most of them, the assassins. At least on that planet. Doubtful he could put a shoe to a face, though they had been trained in that sort of thing. Psymonic memory technique. Trigger details extrapolated into the entirety of the being. Size ten print. Ten assassins with that shoe size. Two female, eight male. Wide and shallow print, male. Four thin and lithe, four heavy and broad. Foot placement, beyond his shoulder's width. Broad. Four. Four that he remembered. Could have been any number beyond that recruited since or that he had not known.
It didn't help.
"We were trained to channel out entire body of force into a single blow. They called it the Ki. This, this was a regular-sized person, irregular-sized blow."
"I know the concept." He let out a puff of smoke. "Does this narrow down a suspect?"
"No." He next went to the bodyguard on the stairwell. The upper half, at least. A casual observation would show the man had been torn in half, a monstrous occurrence if ever there was one. Something designed to scare the witless and instill abject terror. Closer inspection from one who knew what to look for could spot the hidden signs. The cuts had been brutal, intentional. No clean slice against the spinal column, but a systematic hacking job that had severed enough meat and bone to leave a visceral, animalistic trail. Completely the opposite from the perfect cut against Kor'in's wrist. One of them had been accidental, a slip. Judging by the carnage surrounding them, it wasn't this mess on the stairs.
Operation: create havoc and cause fear.
Intention: distraction and misdirection.
Helsing had already discovered that. Peppe's room had been the object of the search. This charnel house had been meant to throw off anyone tracking its progress. On a whim, he leapt over to the other side of the bartop and went sniffing. Kor'in kept a safe down here. Not a cash safe, but a security one. Pict logs of trouble customers, notes from potential clients for blackmail purposes. Contraband she had confiscated from the girls. Daily feed from the pict recorders. Peppe had told him about it. Somewhere under the headboard, opposite the whiskey… there.
Kor'in hid it well. The attacker hadn't found it. Sliding his thumb along the recess, placed deep into the bartop, he felt around until his skin touched metal. A small strip of film-quality material. Fingerprint scanner. Fumbling blindly above the counter, he searched for the severed hand of the establishment's owner.
"Got a safe down here, boss."
Helsing appeared at the edge of the bartop, the sought-after hand in hand. Passing it over without question, he watched Louk fiddle with the scanner until the right finger passed at the right angle. With a click and a pop, the safe fell out into his waiting hand. Placing it on the bartop, he slid it open and inspected the contents. There was a pict of Louk sitting on top of everything else. Taken the day before Peppe died. Flipping the pict over, he checked for notes. Peppe said she always wrote notes. Louk - asshole. Works for Boss. Soft for Peppe.
He slipped the pict into his pocket, choosing to dig deeper. Helsing did not need to see that one. That was personal. The others, not so much. Regulars, irregulars, troublemakers and big tippers. Ding. "This one."
The pict showed nothing to work off of, as he had expected. Hooded, cloaked, limbs held close to the body to give nothing away. He more or less expected the note on the other side, word for word: Creep. Interest in Peppe. Connection to Louk? Warn Boss.
"This is him."
"You are certain?" Helsing took the pict and turned it over. His eyes closed, yet somehow seemed to focus. Louk could sense the ambient pressure emanating from the Inquisitor, a psychic probe to draw memories from the physical clue. After several seconds, they opened again. Louk was not used to seeing his Inquisitor appear frustrated. "This assassin is cloaked. I cannot sense a trace."
"We were trained well" Louk replied. Of course, Helsing had already known this. Helsing knew everything. Almost everything.
"You have thoughts."
"Ideas. Four that I can think of." Louk shrugged, locked up the box, and offered it to the Inquisitor. "Better get this to Kor'in."
He slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket. "Anything else?"
"Nothing that can be useful. Faces might have changed, personalities reprogrammed. I could have known them a month ago and they'd be a completely different person, down to their genetic coding. Standard procedure on a value target."
"They are quite resourceful, this cult of yours."
"Yeah. The money ran deep." Pushing the memories aside, he motioned to the stairs. "Want me up there?"
"I do not think it is necessary." Helsing let the comment sit, waiting for a reaction. When Louk did not press the issue, he slapped the rogue on the shoulder. "Come, I picked through the rest of it already. There is nothing more to find here. No sense in searching a thatch roof for needles."
Thatch.
"Give me the pict." Louk shoved his hand out, not bothering to explain. Offering his trust, he withdrew the safe and allowed Louk to open it again. He fished out the pict and examined it more closely. There was someone standing nearby, not at the robed figure's side, but close enough to be part of a group. Gov'na Thatch. That sly little bastard was standing almost out of pict-range, arms folded, not quite staring at the robed figure with familiarity. There was something there, he had to know something.
"Louk?"
Shoving the safe back to the Inquisitor, he stomped outside and cast his gaze about for Penance. She had plenty of weapons on her. Always did. Right now he wanted one. But the heavily armored woman had disappeared. Checking the streets, he tried to spot her familiar white-haired topknot. Nothing. No tall woman, no carapace armor. Not a trace of her anywhere.
"Feck me," he muttered, a chill sliding along his arms. "Boss, weapon. Now."
The Inquisitor handed over nothing, but he did allow his hands to slip to his holsters. Taking a step back further into the shadows, they continued to sweep the street for signs of their comrade. Louk muttered a string of curses, fingers clenching and unclenching where his own weapons would have been. He recognized a lot of hired guns, thugs, and other criminals wandering about. Too many to search through, but he didn't expect any better, Every other person in the Dregs was a hostile, a potential enemy. Any number of them could be biding their time, waiting to have a go at them. If Thatch was involved with this person, assassin, who knew how many he might have hired out.
"Where'd she go, boss?"
"You are asking that as if you expect me to know." Helsing activated his microbead, a carefully hidden chip looped under his earlobe all-but invisible to the naked eye. "Hunter seeking Seraph. Check?"
Apparently, dead silence on the channel. Helsing frowned. That was never good. Louk considered asking for a weapon again. Somehow, he doubted he would get anything. So he had his fists. Wonderful.
"Hunter seeking Seraph. Seraph responsive?"
"We need to move, boss." Louk gestured towards the alleys. "This is exposed. Whoever hit this was probably watching it, waiting for us. Could have sights on us right now."
"I am aware." Helsing gave a curt shake of his head, raising a hand as he did to stall further talk. A carefully patterned series of blinks activated an ocular film lens over his right eye. A faint green glow emanated from over his pupil. Using the lens, he changed frequencies. "Hunter seeking Shield. Check? … Hunter acknowledge. Request arrival, Dregs. … Verity. Maximum Effort." Switching his attention back to Louk, the Inquisitor drew one of his pistols and offered it. "And now we can clear the streets. Following your nose, Reaper. Hard contact authorized. Discretion open."
"Boss?"
"No contact with Penance. I called the Thracians down. You seem to think that the esteemed Mister Thatch is involved, correct? We will need firepower to deal with him."
"I don't know for certain." Louk checked the pistol for its charge. He had never used Helsing's pistols, but he had observed them in action.
Helsing shot him a sidelong look, corner of his mouth curled in an almost amused smile. "A month ago you would have insisted on charging out and kicking down the door."
"Been a long month" Louk replied, head twitching towards one of the alleys to their right. A slim dark-haired figure emerged out of the shadows, a cowl pulled so low over her face he could barely make out her chin. Sliding forward on slippers that made no noise, she approached them both and addressed the Inquisitor as if they had been in conversation the entire time.
"She's back around the corner. Had a couple friends keeping an eye on you." Tipping her head back, she offered an exaggerated grin. Her hood slid down her curly locks, revealing those lightless eyes that set Louk on edge. Anna lifted her right hand, synthglove held tight by a razor-sharp garrote wrapped over her wrist. "She went to go introduce herself. They seemed not very nice. I think one of them tried to shoot her."
"Did she take them down?" Louk started forward in the direction she had indicated, but Helsing halted him with a hand on the shoulder. The Inquisitor eyed Anna expectantly, knowing she would continue in a moment.
"Didn't stick around to watch. She's a big girl. She can handle herself."
One of the prefab walls behind her fractured as half of a man's torso plowed through its plastek frame. Blood hid his features, and before Louk could try and inspect the man there was a sizzling crack, and the impact of a second body collapsed the wall outwards, spilling both bodies and half of the hab's roof into the alley. A thick coat of dust and grime billowed outwards, caking the alley in a cloud of white. Penance stalked out of the cloud, her armor coated in a ghostly powder that brought to mind the the ivory statues of Saints that decorated the primary chapel onboard. Her power maul crackled and snapped at her side, humming with excess energy as she mechanically swept her surroundings for more enemies. On seeing none, she deactivated the weapon and swung it against one of the prone men, discharging the leftover energy in a flesh-searing crackle that left the man jerking for a few seconds.
"Anna" she stated, giving the little woman a curt nod. "I see you found Lord Helsing."
"Didn't want to distract you" she replied, a mockingly cheerful tone in her voice. "The four of them had you pretty occupied."
"Six" the white-haired warrior corrected. Dismissing Anna from her attention, she focused on her master. "Six observers neutralized. One had a local range vox bead. I was unable to stop him from reporting our location."
"Good enough." Helsing stepped past her and knelt to inspect the bodies. "Still breathing, I see. Good. Let me see what I can see." His hands settled on the two men's heads. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back to them. "Anna, do you mind going that ways? Keep an eye on the crowd for me."
"Sure thing, Boss." She drew her hood over her head and sauntered off in the direction directly opposite of the Inquisitor. Not knowing which way to go, Louk followed her and kept his gaze averted from the alley. No one had stopped to gawk at the scene. Brawls were common enough here that a wall getting smashed in had only drawn a couple seconds of notice. Who had noticed, in those couple seconds? He cursed himself for not having paid attention. Stupid mistake, to not watch his back in a place like this. Especially when they knew they were in potential danger.
Once they had placed sufficient distance between themselves and Helsing, Louk stopped and took up a stance leaning against a corner, attempting to blend in a bit as the faces in the crowd shifted and blended around them. Nothing that stood out. No one he knew to be trouble. He didn't like this sensation of being watched in the Dregs. He always had been, one way or another, but this was far more sinister than a pickpocket gauging his alertness, or a thug looking for a score. This was a game of Genestealer and Guardsman, and he knew full well which role was his.
"You still haven't picked up your box" Anna muttered, her voice nearly lost in the folds of her hood. Louk resisted the urge to look down at her. Keeping his eyes fixed on the shifting faces of the Dregs, he whispered back to her. Didn't know why he whispered. Maybe because he was nervous. It was hardly necessary.
"What box?"
"The box with the rocks." She laid just enough emphasis to kick his memory into gear.
Feck. He had forgotten all about those.
"What do you mean, I haven't picked it up? Gutterball delivered it to my room."
"And then I took it" she added, as if the whole thing made sense. "Couldn't have it sitting around all nice and easy-to-steal, not with the ruckus you have been getting. Damn, the things a girl has to do to get attention around here."
"Anna. Why did you take the box?" His fingers curled into fists, and the irrepressible urge to bash her skull in with his knee rose inside him. She offered her most insincere smile in response.
"Because Gutterball wanted to steal it, of course. He thought you were taking too long to sell it off. I caught him looking in it once. Said he was looking for a particular one."
"Gutterball took one?" Louk's heart skipped a beat.
"Nah. I slammed the case on his hand. Reminded him that making you angry is a bad idea. That being said, they're burning a hole under my mattress."
"...thank you." He did not know what else to say. Anna didn't usually do that kind of thing. Usually she was all for herself.
"I want my fair share" she shot back, showing no inclination towards his unusual response. "Gutterball's getting his part. But I want one too. Call it a safety deposit fee."
He did not bother telling her that selling them wasn't an option anymore. Not now that he knew what they were. Well, sort of what they were. The book had given him a vague idea. But there was no mistaking how important it had been to the witch. She kept it on her at all times, usually clutched in her hand or tucked in a pocket. Helsing must have known. Nothing that important could have escaped his notice. But he had said nothing, and Louk was content with that.
She needed an easier way to hold onto it. Necklace would be easy, simple. Free her hands and keep it close. She'd like that. Gold? Too flashy. Feck, he didn't even know what kind of stuff the Eldar liked. They seemed to like bland food and efficiency. String would be too simple. No, he couldn't do that. Even he wouldn't feel good trying that. Something in between would be nice. Leather, maybe, or a metal.
Anna nudged him in the side. "Hey, Reaper. Let's go already."
He drifted back to the present, and found Helsing waiting for him, Penance at his side. Both had their weapons drawn but held low. The Inquisitor tipped his head, an expression of quiet concentration etched on his features. They were all staring.
"What?"
"Mind on the present, Reaper." Helsing flicked his eyes down to the archeotech pistol at his side. "These men were indeed sent by Gov'na Thatch. A wealthy benefactor has informed him of my… presence."
"Oh." Louk shook his arms to get the blood flowing. "Let's get going then. I can lead you right there."
"Sergeant Nicolai is on his way. As is Officer Rojack and a platoon of armsmen. We will converge on the location and secure all personnel on site."
"They'll scatter to the wind before the armsmen step off the elevators." Louk shook his head. "No good. Gotta hit them hard before they get a move on. Besides, he probably already knows his men were blown. Gotta be packing his bags as we speak. We need to go in now before the trail starts."
"Now that is the Reaper I remember." Helsing's mouth curved in a predatory smirk. "After you, then."
They started off in the direction of the Gov'na's place, four bodies moving with purpose against the flow of traffic. Penance's heavy armor and withering stare kept the nervous out of the way. Anna's aura of unpleasantness gave them a wide berth as well. Louk guided the way, pistol kept at his side to limit its visibility, eyes scouring the corners for lookouts and pickets. Gov'na had them all over the place.
"Right side, under the red sign. Black hood."
He did not see or hear a response from his Inquisitor, but a moment after speaking the man in question jerked spasmodically and slumped to the ground. Another man a few feet down started in alarm, one hand slipping into his pocket. He also dropped, a sudden surge of blood trickling from his nostrils, eyes, ears and mouth.
"Bastards" Helsing muttered ever so slightly. "Clear."
"Left side, blue do-"
The target jerked and toppled to his knees, dragged down by a dark-haired imp. A flash of silver covered his throat, then blood spurted out in time to a sudden wrenching motion that pulled him out of sight. Several seconds later Anna reappeared at his side, idly wrapped her blood-coated garrotte around her wrist.
"Too slow" she chided.
"Show off."
"Can't help how good I am."
They kept moving, taking down one more spotter before reaching the Gov'na's establishment. Right away, Louk could see that something had changed. The streets were empty, abandoned. The lights were still on, the signs still flashing. But the doors were closed and the windows blacked out. A sure sign of trouble if ever there was one. Louk slowed down at the last corner and pressed to the wall, inspecting the ramshackle building for spotters or hidden gunmen.
"Boss?"
"Hmm." Helsing strode right past him, approaching the main doors. If he had any worries about a sniper watching, he showed nothing. Holding his pistol out and down, and drawing an elegant and rune-etched sword in his other hand, he stopped a good dozen paces in front of the main doors. Penance followed in step, her loyalty and faith holding any of her own doubts in check. Anna had disappeared, probably to find her own way inside. Which left Louk holding the rear. He waited for the inevitable shot.
The Inquisitor turned back to regard him expectantly. "Coming, Reaper?"
Wary of a sudden ambush, Louk slunk out from the shadows and scurried across the the doors. He threw himself up against the wall on the right side, ready to go in the instant Helsing gave the order. The doors were solid steel, salvaged bulkhead pieces, but they had poor shoring and a good blast to the hinges would take them down with no trouble.
"No, not on that side." Helsing lifted his pistol and aimed it just behind Louk. "They are waiting on that side. Cross over, if you please."
He did, startled by the Inquisitor's prescience. The instant he cleared the door, Helsing fired three times with his archeotech pistol. The marvelous relic of technology hardly made a sound, save for the clicking of the bolt as it cycled whatever sort of ammunition it used into place. The only evidence of the weapon's discharge were three pinprick holes that lined the wall at roughly head height. Louk heard no tumbling bodies, or shouts of alarm. But he sensed the blood. It seeped from the holes and welcomed him, tickling his tastebuds. A sudden rush of warmth flooded his chest. Fresh blood. It exhilarated him, filled him the same tingling that accompanied his stimms, but so much more.
"That was three of them. Now, the door if you please, Penance."
She thumbed the switch on her maul to maximum discharge and launched herself forward. Gaining momentum in the span of mere heartbeats, she brought her power maul down in a blistering swing that struck the hinge of the right door and sundered it with a resounding snap. Slamming against the door even as gravity took hold, she plowed through the threshold and continued into the sudden panic fire of a dozen solid projectile weapons. Pausing a half-breath to allow the fire to track away from the entrance, Louk double-checked the archeotech pistol for charge.
"Onwards, Reaper!" Helsing sprinted into the doorway, defiant of any incoming projectiles. Shouts and screams began to rumble out from inside as Penance and Helsing set to work on Gov'na Thatch's thugs. Electrical discharges rattled his teeth, felt even from outside. She had her power maul turned up to maximum with no intention of lowering it. Good Penance.
"Feck me" he breathed, and turned into the door and gunfire. Bringing the pistol up to level, he swept right to left, tracking movement and searching for anything that was not Penance or Helsing. Bodies lay strewn behind overturned tables and makeshift barricades. The pair had torn through the Gov'na's defenses with no effort. His untrained bruisers were no match for the battle-hardened monstrosities that had been unleashed.
Knowing full well that to follow them would be pointless; either he would get in their way or have a hard time keeping up, he chose to go right. The bodies of three men lay splayed away from the outer wall, their heads a bloody mess of pulped bone and brain matter. Stepping past the dead, Louk kicked in the door of the 'reception room' where Thatch's visitors waited before going in under escort for private audience. There was a back door there that led into some hidden paths. Maybe he could find something there.
A pair of shotgun blasts greeted his approach, blasting chunks of ferrocrete out of the wall. Dropping to a knee, Louk risked a half-second peek before ducking further back for cover. A smattering of curses and the clacking of slides told him they were just waiting for him to show his face again. He took a deep breath, picturing the room in his mind. He had snuck a look in once before. His memory wasn't very good with this room. Too little detail, too much space.
He did hear the heartbeats though. The rapid fluttering of two hearts as the men inside fumbled to ready their weapons against another sally. They beat like beacons in the night, guiding him unerringly to the exact point where they crouched behind their cover. The sound of them filled his ears. His eyes drew a line through the wall. Right there, and there. Rising silently to his feet, he reached out and slapped the wall just by the edge to draw their attention. Both fired, blowing fist-sized portions of the wall away, and leaving them vulnerable for the frantic seconds it took to pump and realign their weapons. Not enough time to rush the room and kill them both. One of them would get a second shot off, and he doubted he could dodge it. Not at this range. Judging by the size of the wall torn out, they had scatter guns.
He did have time, however, to extend his pistol-hand out around the corner and fire two rapid shots, homing in on their beating hearts. Unlike Helsing's other archeotech marvel, this one had a much heftier punch. The boom of the pistol popped his ears, and the recoil nearly sent the pistol leaping from his hand. The two men did not scream in pain so much as squeal as they and their couch cover went hurtling across the room, smashing into the far wall with enough force to audibly shatter bones. Neither survived the impact, much less the gaping holes in their upper torsos. Louk stepped around the corner and whistled at the destruction caused by the weapon. Helsing claimed it was a supremely ancient firearm, small enough to be palmed if he wanted to hide it. Called it the Cricquet.
It was a small weapon, but damn if it wasn't a noisy one. His ears rang from the blasts, and his vision wavered as he reoriented his equilibrium. Stepping past the scratch marks left by the couches, he crossed to the back of the room. Their blood had splattered as far as the walls on either side. He ran a hand across the mark, tasting the blood on his fingertips, grimacing at the impurity of it. Drugs and alcohol made for dirty blood. It tasted nothing like hers…
The door. He felt along the hinges, lock, corners. No reinforcement, no traps. Just a simple door. Thatch must have some other layer of defense behind the door. He sensed no heartbeat on the other side. Clear. Twisting the handle, he pushed inwards and entered the darkened corridor. No lights inside. Just the claustrophobic walls and long corridor. Another door at the end. One dull light in the center of the passage, casting just enough light to make out shapes.
Halfway down the passage, directly under the light, he sensed a heartbeat.a strong and thudding drumbeat, a trained soldier. Racing with adrenaline, but under control. Sending thick spurts of blood racing through the veins. A good body, a clean one.
Louk raised his pistol and fired through the wall. In the confined space of the the passage, the report was deafening. His vision blurred, stung by the sudden snap of lightning that erupted from the barrel of the small palm-sized pistol as it disintegrated a portion of the wall. There was a smear of blood on the far wall, and a sizzling lower torso lying beneath it. The sound of battle spilled into his corridor; the screams of the dying mixed with the bark of stub weapons. That way was busy. He had another way to go. The throbbing behind his eyes was growing, driving him onward.
Venturing to the end of the hallway, he felt the door. This one was secured, barred by a hefty lock and no doubt something heavier on the other side. Louk fired another round into it without a second thought. The sturdy metal door caved nearly in half, propelled from its hinges as it careened into the room beyond. A chorus of curses were silenced by the crash of metal on flesh. Louk charged into the room, picking a target as he moved. Four men in the room, two pinned by the malformed door. The third on his right side, the fourth on his left. Louk fired right, launching the man a dozen steps into the wall. Dodging left, ducking under a snap-firing pistol, he rammed the smoking barrel into the last man's stomach and squeezed the trigger.
His target did not die so much as explode. Torso evaporated, limbs shivering themselves bloody chunks. Searing gore flashed across his hands, scalding his exposed skin. Nothing remained of the man save for his boots. Taking a step back, he surveyed the room. This he recognized. One of the private rooms that watched over the Pit. The shades were down, preventing him from seeing outside. That was good. No one could see in. Giving the two groaning men under the door a contemptuous glance, he moved on and checked the door that opened into the Pit. Unlocked. More gunfire on the other side. He heard the roar of Thatch's slave-servitor on the other side. Guess Gov'na had brought out the big guns. Good thing Louk had his own.
He waited for the gunfire to grow louder, for the forces inside the Pit to engage. As soon as they did, he threw the door open and entered the Pit. What lights remained on were dimmed, flickering weakly in perhaps a planned attempt to disrupt the attacking force. Shadowy figures crouched behind pews, bartops, and pillars. He had never seen it so empty. Ordinarily there were throngs packing the seats, blocking lines of sight, keeping everything contained and compact. It looked so different like this. So… quiet.
He could see Thatch's men. Their beating hearts drew his eyes from place to place, singling their dark shapes out from the shadows. Erratic, nervous breathing. Sweat slicking their weapon grips. Adrenaline and drugs sloshing in their veins. Louk tasted their fear, felt the chill of pleasure ripple through his senses. So much blood to be shed. He needed a weapon. Not the pistol that rended bodies into a pathetic mist. He needed something visceral.
The men under the door had weapons. Blunt, jagged machetes. Butcher's weapons. He grabbed both of them, silencing the men's groans with their own weapons to test their effectiveness. Tearing, not slicing. Effective for his purposes. Returning to the door, he slipped out and entered the shadows of the Pit.
There were a dozen of Thatch's men scattered about the arena. None clustered more than two together. Intelligent, obviously directed by someone. The strongest of them, the smartest. There, in the rear, closest to Thatch's doors. Red coat, tricorn hat, blunderbuss and a chainaxe. Aside from that, in the center of the arena, the combat servitor waited, chained to the ground, ready to be unleashed at the opportune moment. Judging by the incoming sound of battle, it would be in mere moments.
He wasted no time devising a plan. He had waited too long for this. Too much time waiting for a foe. Too many had died. Now he had a target. Now he had something to kill. The sweet tang of blood filled the air. Striding forward like a wraith, he approached the closest man and swung his new blades. Caught unawares, the unsuspecting thug had no chance to cry out as both blades hacked into the base of his skull. Blood spurted high, ripped from its veins and hurled across the seats. Moving past the limp body, he rushed for the next one. This one started to glance his way, expression slackening as he tried to piece together the onrushing shape. A slice across the throat silenced his shout of alarm. Flailing arms knocked over seats as the body tumbled backwards. The man's head slammed into a support post, sounding a dull clang that rang like thunder across the arena.
Not pausing to see the response of those around him, Louk charged forward in the direction of the tricorn hat. A third man rose from his cover, too stunned and confused to remain in position. Leveling a short-barreled stub automatic, he called out for Louk to stop. Louk didn't. Lunging over a pew dragged from an abandoned chapel, he delivered a shoulder to the man's chest that sent them both skidding into the chairs. Someone fired overhead. Bullets sparked off of metal frames. A lucky shot punched through the Pit's railing and struck his opponent in the leg. The man's scream of pain was drowned by the vacuum of his lungs, air already driven out by the impact on the ground. Another body came rushing forward, closing the distance to aid his comrade. Louk rolled back onto his feet, hooking a chair with his machete and hurling it into the man's face. Sidestepping a wild blast from a shotgun, Louk stomped down on the man on the ground, crushing his throat as he struggled to recover his wits. The charging one stumbled past him, blindingly firing another shot that went nowhere. Turning with the man, Louk brought both blades slashing across his unprotected back.
The man had some sort of armor underneath his coat. One machete caught in it, wedged between plates, wrenched out of his hand. Louk did not allow the surprise to slow him. Jumping after him, Louk tackled him and rode him to the ground, using him as a shield against the incoming fire as more of Thatch's men turned his way. A hail of fire began to pepper the seats around him. Stub automatics, heavy slugs, a single las weapon. He stuck to the ground, dragging the man across the line of fire. Several jerking impacts rattled the man's body. The dry hissing death rattle sang in Louk's ears. Snatching up the man's shotgun, Louk fired a shell into the air to ward off any incoming foes.
If any of them were trying to make a move, their moment was spoiled by a dull explosion from the direction of the front. The piercing tones of Penance's voice reached his ears, the sound of battle and war echoing in the rafters. Her words were ancient, time-honored melodies sung by saints across the millennia. Interspersed between the noise came the less melodic thunderclaps of her power maul and the bark of her bolt pistol.
All at once, everything went to hell. A grumbling roar emerged from the center of the Pit as the combat servitor was let free. Weapons fired from all directions in all directions. A lone voice attempted to organize Thatch's men, but it was drowned out by the sheer volume of gunfire. He homed in on the voice, ignoring everything else. A bullet whipped out of the air towards him. A flick of his wrist sent the machete in intercept. A spark of fire scraped the blade, and the ricochet buried itself in the ceiling. Chasing the shot back to its origin, Louk fired the shotgun one handed. The scattershot knocked the man back a step, but did not take him down. Not allowing the man time to catch his breath, Louk slid behind a pillar, chambered another round, and concentrated. He aimed at the man's thumping heartbeat, placing it amidst the gunfire and smoke like a beacon. Eyes closed, he oriented the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The man's shriek could not be heard, but his heartbeat dropped away, as did the sound of his stub automatic.
The aroma of blood saturated the Pit. He savored it, the good and the bad, even the polluted sludge of the servitor. It was intoxicating, filling his head with a pleasant buzz that was rapidly turning into something more. There was blood on his lips. Not his. He licked it up, shivering at the sensation that tickled through his bones. The small of his back radiated heat, he could feel the steel wriggling around his spine. It hungered. He hungered.
One of Thatch's men flew past him, hurled by an unseen force. Louk unloaded a blast as he whipped by, changing the man's direction and sending him crashing into the rails. Ducking around the corner, he scuttled forward, keeping low to keep his profile underneath the wall. The servitor roared on the other side; the heavy impacts of its fists shook the rickety walls of the Pit. It sounded like Penance was dueling it, the crack of her maul timed to the grunts from the servitor. He could not hear Helsing. The Inquisitor was somewhere in the melee. Someone had to be tossing people about.
As he came around the bend, he caught sight of the tricorn hat. It peeked out from behind an overturned table, watching the battle unfold. Another one crouched beside him, a scraggly woman armed with a rusty knife and laspistol. They were looking away, towards the other side of the Pit. In the chaos of the battle they had forgotten about him, considering the others a greater threat. Their mistake.
He closed to within throwing range, keeping to the shadows to avoid their attention, before the woman turned in his direction. Her eyes were hollow and deep-set in a bony face, the skin of her arms taut across well-defined muscles. She opened her mouth to shout, twisting to face Louk as she did. Before the noise escaped her lungs he leapt forward, smashing into her and sending them tumbling into the tricorn hat. In an instant Louk found himself surrounded by flailing limbs. The woman's knife jabbed for his gut; he pinned it to the floor with his knee while pushing her against the floor. A hand clawed at his face, nails drawing blood, spit splattering against his face. Abandoning the machete, Louk grabbed the woman's throat and squeezed. She swore and thrashed, trying to free her knife, other hand groping for his own throat. Louk dug his chin into his chest and slammed her head against the floorboards. Her grip wavered, eyes losing focus. He felt her blood on the floor. Lifting her again, he pounded her into the floor, doing it again and again as she slowly lost her strength.
Before he could finish her off, the tricorn hat scrambled out of the tangle and snatched up her laspistol. Leveling it at Louk's head, he snarled a warning to stop. Louk glared up at him, the woman's gasping body in his hands. His world was red. He could see the weapon, he could see the man's heart thumping in his chest. There was no way he had the speed t-
A darting shape flew past the man's head. The faintest glint of metal wire was the only explanation for why the man jerked to the side, chasing the black shape into the seats as his legs kicked wildly after his torso. There was a crunch of bone snapping, then Anna rose from the seats and offered a wink. The sight of her made his eyes ache. Shuddering away the feeling, he snapped the woman's neck and stood up. The sound of battle had faded away. The servitor lay on the floor of the Pit, its skull crushed into an oozing paste, its arms crushed beyond recovery. Penance stood over its corpse, her chest heaving, blood flowing from a deep scratch across her temple. Her left arm hung limp at her side, bolt pistol dangling from the strap around her wrist. There was a fierce scowl on her lips, her anger at having been injured showing. The Inquisitor was nowhere to be found. Louk tried to pick him out of the carnage, but nothing showed.
Collecting the machete and the woman's laspistol, he hurried around Anna towards the door that led to Thatch's office. Anna trudged along beside him, picking splinters out of her hair, complaining about the dust. He checked the door, and noted that it was unlocked. Perhaps Helsing had snuck in ahead of him. The thought sent a sliver of anger shooting through his veins. Thatch's life belonged to him. If anyone would claim it, it would be Louk.
"You going in or what?" Anna made to step past him, but he stuck out his arm, machete lined with her throat. She hesitated, one brow arching in amusement, flexing her fingers around the garrote she carried. Choosing to say nothing, she tipped her head and heaved a patient sigh.
The stairs up to Thatch's office were well-lit; half a dozen lamps decorated the walls, bathing anyone who climbed the steps in light. Louk kept the laspistol trained ahead, not worrying about traps or gunports in the walls. Thatch was a paranoid shit, but all of his men had been outside. He could detect nothing ahead. Taking it one step at a time, he strained his senses to the front. He heard nothing. He smelled nothing.
The man's door was open, just barely cracked open. The rancid odor of rotten meat seeped out.
Abandoning caution, he charged into the room. Exploding through the door, he swept the room right to left, laspistol ready to fire. It was only by long-honed reflex that he kept off the trigger as his barrel passed over a coated figure standing before Thatch's desk. A decomposing corpse lay hunched on the other side, skin waxy and grey. In place of a face, it bore a gaping hole from which flies buzzed in and out. Maggots were already crawling about in the exposed flesh.
Helsing did not acknowledge Louk's entrance. Tapping his fingers on his arms, he swiveled his head, drinking in the sight of Thatch's office. There was a pensive frown on his face, a dangerous squint in his eyes. He was mad. Someone was a step ahead of him. Louk not like that. When Helsing got angry, he made Decisions. And Decisions were never good.
"Well?" Anna poked her head in through the door. She stared at the body, chewing idly on her lip. "Is he dead?"