Regia Barracks, 08:03

Five cots sat empty in the gymnasium. Four kitbags beside them were now ownerless. Stazak and only Stazak handled the missing men's affects. Knelt beside Drow's kitbag, Stazak shoved the gunner's rolled-up greatcoat and sewing kit inside, never mind that his hand was still wrapped up. The men of Battery B watched, silent, as the great green machine sucked up the names attached to the gear, dissolving any individuality they may have known in their short period belonging to someone. Soon be another someone using this. Stazak rubbed his thumb across the polished brass badge pinned to Drow's beret. And another, and another. Do those lads think the Guard cares?

"I'm to go look for 'em, sir," were Stazak's first words on entering Ahern's billet. Ahern, grey-faced, looked up from the letter he was writing. "I'm to go look."

"Denied, Bombardier. This must be carried up through the proper channels." Ahern glared. "Remain within this compound with the battery for further orders. That's all."

"Sir!" Stazak's heels slammed together. The rigid salute Stazak gave was held for a moment even after Ahern muttered a dismissal then, about-facing, Stazak marched out, shutting the door behind him. Ahern swiped the letter aside and dove face-first on to his folded arms. Shit. Oh, shit, I've let them all down. Ahern groaned. What do I do? There were no operations scheduled for the morning, though half an hour's notice was all Ahern was given to brief his NCOs, and for them to organise the men if the battalion passed on orders from Regiment. Five men. Ahern cupped his chin in his hand. GRA abduction? Assassination? Absent without leave even? Ahern's thoughts took him outside. Even with a woolly-pulley underneath his jacket, the wind still found a way to carry its cold fingers inside his clothes. "Sir." A Joparr guarding the para's vehicles saluted Ahern when he trudged by. Joparr! Why aren't they out there looking for my missing men? Ahern imagined haranguing the lone sentry for the battalion's lack of activity. Sheer pettiness on my behalf. Nothing to be gained from it. Ahern passed by the sandbagged gatehouse and went out in to the street, skirting deep puddles in the gutter. Neither sentry, Joparr, called out to him. Rather a loose adherence to barrack regulations, but what the hell. Ahern patted his breast pocket. His cigarettes rattled inside the partly-crushed packet.

"Thank you for last night, by the way."

"Emperor!" Ahern dropped his cigarette in to a puddle. "You've got a way haven't you, woman?"

Lieutenant Pripinec sat upon a bench a little way down the street. A raincoat was spread underneath her.

Amelia and Luka last night. Ahern tried with his second cigarette. "Thank you, I should say."

"Careful, it's wet there." Pripinec tugged a piece of her coat out from under her and covered a spot on the bench. "Think I may have caught a cold."

"Hm, can't have been from lack of warmth." Ahern dropped his lighter at his feet, the tiny flame promptly extinguishing.

"What troubles you? Tell me, Luka, you're all a bother this morning."

"Oh…" Ahern tutted. "You're not – you're not on ops today, are you?"

"Bird's being serviced. Are you?"

"No. You know, I hoped that because it's not all-out war here like it was on Platis, that we'd have it easy. A bit of light security. But, oh-no…"

"What happened?" Pripinec leant forwards, smoothing the creases on the back of Ahern's jacket.

"Five of my men, each on liberty last night, went missing." Ahern blew water from his lighter. "…Useless."

"Oh."

"And there's not a damned thing I can do about it." He shook his head. "We should be searching high and low, kicking in doors, questioning locals…"

"I'm sorry. Would you?" Pripinec held out her own cigarette. "No smoking indoors?"

"Not inside, no."

"And my crew chief has the nerve to do it around my bird." Pripinec crossed her legs, resting her arm upon her knee, her cigarette dangling from her fingers. "Smoking kills…"

"Your one and only problem," Ahern muttered.

"My dear, yours are rooted to the earth. There is no such simplicity in my world."

Ahern straightened up, glimpsing an OG smudge behind Pripinec. "My sergeant, Amelia."

"Lunch tomorrow?" Pripinec dropped her cigarette on the ground.

"Er, I'll take a note of that. Er…" Ahern stood up. A dampness now presided in the seat of his trousers. "Sergeant?"

Reimer, in barrack dress, approached from the direction of the gate. "Sir, O-Group in ten. Battalion OC in attendance. His office."

"Alright, thank you, Sergeant." Ahern tugged the hem of his jacket down, straightening the creases out. Pripinec blew him a kiss and rolled up her raincoat.

"Sorry for interrupting, sir. I was unable to determine your present location."

"Well, you've found it. Ten minutes you say, Sergeant?" Ahern passed back through the gate with Reimer alongside. Joparr watched them before turning eyes back towards the world outside the little enclave.

"Ten minutes until the battalion OC wants his officers on his location, sir."

"Any chance of a quick brew-up beforehand?"

"Not unless you want to drag in one of the gunners from their billet, sir. Your batman is among those AWOL-as-yet-undeclared-MIA."

Ahern bit the inside of his mouth. Larn. Of course, I haven't seen him at all this morning, and he's about to be transferred out of the regiment. "AWOL, you say, Sergeant?"

"I did say that, sir."

"Doesn't it seem odd that one man, on the verge of receiving new posting, should desert?"

"Honestly, if you want my honest opinion, sir, it doesn't. GRA could have snatched one or more, maybe. Except…"

"Except?"

"Wouldn't have happened had the lads not strayed out of bounds."

"What are you saying? That the five fell—"

"Off-grid, if you'll excuse me, sir. Then they fell afoul of the paramilitaries. Reckon it was on the west bank as well. We would've heard about it if it was closer to home. That's just my present hypothesis, sir."

"So, they might still be alive?"

"Wouldn't hold out hope…" Reimer held open the door to the battalion's headquarters. "Just sayin', sir. Hope for the best, plan for the opposite."

"Encouraging." Ahern raised his eyebrows and headed inside. Down in the school's basement, a white-washed arrangement of corridors each led to small, stuffy rooms, where field phones buzzed constantly. Ahern was admitted to the nucleus at the very end of the corridor after showing his ID to an MP. "Alright, sir. In you go." The MP tapped on the door, which beeped and slid upwards.

"Good of you to join us, Ahern." Major Delica sidled through yet more desks, these bearing the weight of desktop cogitators and hosting clerks in neat barrack dress. "Weren't turned off by the weather, were you?"

What's got his star riding so high? Ahern followed Delica to the battalion commander's office. My men are out there and all he can chat about is the weather!

"Lieutenant Ahern, Colonel."

Lieutenant Colonel Brecher sat not at his desk but leant against a tall filing cabinet behind his chair. Arms folded, Brecher growled. "Shut the door please, Delica." Ahern joined the ring of officers crowded in to Brecher's office and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Good morning to you all. Before we start, there's tea on the table over there. No tanna I'm afraid. We're poor." Major Delica and a few captains laughed. The younger subalterns, Ahern among them, kept their silence. "Oh, if you're after recaf, you can hand your commissions in to Major Delica." Ahern glanced at his feet as polite laughter spread through the subalterns. He shook his head when a warrant officer armed with tea came round to him. Who drinks without milk anyway?

Brecher waited for the tea-drinkers before continuing. "Now that we've had our orientation, I expect nothing but good conduct exercised by you and your men. We are here to provide security for the local populace, protect them from paramilitary action, and keep the GRA and other undesirables off the street." Brecher paused. "This is not Platis. There exists a state of civil unrest here due to rising tensions between rival paramilitary factions. Our presence is not one of an army intent on destruction. We are not the hammer."

I thought this was about my missing men. Ahern zoned out of Brecher's speech, his eyes roved around the polished toecaps crowding the dirty floor. God, doesn't anyone care?

"…I'd like to say, sir, the men were rather bucked to be serving alongside Joparr Five Hundred again, especially after their sterling work on Platis." Ahern heard Delica say.

"Good, I'm very pleased to hear it," Brecher replied. "Let us look forward to the continued co-operation between our regiments during our tour here. Security work is considered by some a step back from protecting imperial interests, but rest assured, our presence on the street reassures. If we can look the locals in the eye, we will have gained their trust. That's all, gentlemen." Is that it? Ahern stood still as the subalterns filed out. Is that it?

"Shall I bring GSO 2 in, sir?" Delica remained with Brecher. "Go over today's ops?"

"Mm." Brecher sipped tea from a cup and saucer. "First class brew… A problem, Lieutenant? By the Emperor, spit it out!"

"Ahern?"

"Sir, why aren't we out on the street looking for my missing men?"

Brecher placed his cup and saucer on his desk and lifted up a newspaper. "No connection, Lieutenant?"

"Sir?" GRA strikes home turf, the headline read.

Brecher dropped the paper back on the desk and shook his head. "No, of course. A plain old whorehouse going up in flames on the other side of the river is no concern of ours…"

"Sir, he has a right to know." Delica folded his arms. "His gunners after all."

"To trim a tiresome tale down, Lieutenant, three bodies wearing military tags were found among the wreckage of the fleshpot. Their names correspond with the MIA in your battery. Another was found on this side of the river lying in an alley with a broken neck. There's your missing men, Lieutenant."

How the hell does he know that? Ahern's dry lips parted. "Good God, I…" Four men? Five set out. "Sir, one's still missing," Ahern babbled. "I am missing five—" A knock on the door interrupted him.

"Enter. Good morning, Sarn't Major. How are you?"

"Fine, Sir. Joparr's OC is here."

"Oh, good. Bring him in, Sarn't Major. Lieutenant, you're dismissed."

"Sir." Ahern made eyes at Delica. Help me. Delica looked away, uninterested. A hole opened up in Ahern's stomach. He pottered past the Joparr officer waiting outside, ignoring him, and left Headquarters in a daze.

Lieutenant Colonel Rogal Orisko, Officer Commanding Joparr 500 Parachute Battalion, patted a bulge in the hip pocket of his baggy smock. "Aah, no thanks, my friend. Here's my poison. Recaf."

"Compliments of the colonel, sir…" The warrant officer held out a cup and saucer timidly. "We're a bit tea-mad here."

"Excuse me, sir." The sergeant major came over from the battalion commander's office. "Colonel Brecher's waiting."

Orisko whipped his small vacuum flask from his pocket and brandished it in front of the quailing warrant officer. "Recaf solves everything, Sergeant Major." He grinned.

"Rogal. So nice to see you." Brecher swept around his desk and shook Orisko's hand. "Some privacy here please, Major."

"Sir." Delica nodded at Orisko and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Breaker."

"Aha! He remembers. Well said, sir." Brecher clapped Orisko on the forearm. "And immediately I can see a problem."

"Tea-drinkers. Nobody like that in Five Hundred."

"Stronger tastes?" Brecher picked up his tea.

"Medium-strength roast." Orisko unscrewed the cup from the top of his flask and poured himself a drink. "Toast?"

"Platis."

"Lairs and Five Hundred." Orisko clinked his mug against Brecher's cup. "Mmm… More like three."

"Ah… How are you for manpower?" Brecher turned back to his desk and set his empty cup down.

"295 paras standing. Every unit from my HQ down is understrength, with the exception of my mortar platoon. We have the men but not the mortars. It's the same with the other troops in Support Company. Nothing larger than small-arms."

"Ha! The frustration is mutual, Rogal. I have the men but not a single anti-aircraft gun. We've nothing larger than some old L4s and the IM's on the Chariots, and I'd rather not have to grovel at the governor's feet to borrow his armour."

"What's this I'm hearing about a bombing on the western bank?" Orisko picked up the paper from Brecher's desk. "Bit off-topic I know…"

"Not at all. We're still digging in to this further. All we know so far is that four of my gunners were among the casualties. The gen came from undercover officers this morning."

"Swear to the Emperor!" Orisko licked his forefinger and turned the page. "Dead or wounded?"

"Three of mine dead in the bombing. One more on our side of the city."

"Another bombing?"

"A mugging gone wrong? Deliberate murder? Who knows?" Brecher ran a finger around the inside of his collar. "You know, I preferred it when the enemy wore uniforms. I look out my window and I see people in the street; just people. Any one of them could be GRA. Talking of which, our chogeys… That's only just occurred to me, you know."

"Okay, err… May I smoke please, Breaker?"

"Not in here, Rogal. Stinks the place out."

"Very well." Orisko leant upon his fists. "Will you take some off-kilter advice?"

"Hmph, depends."

"Okay, firstly, move Lairs away from the city, as far away from day-to-day civilian contact as possible. Exist as a lone entity. Have even your dirtiest tasks performed by your own personnel."

"Well, now…"

"Imitate the government troops' policy."

"Drag suspects off the street? We're not the Tin Men, Rogal. We're the enforcers. Unless the GRA take overt action against us, we can do nothing. The threat of force is our primary weapon. We are not the hammer."

"Punch Graw in the heart. Take your battalion across the river on a beat-up op. Smash in to the slums, ride around making the noise. Show those Norn lowlifes who the real enforcers are."

"Rogal! I'm short a few digits on my salary to be thinking that big."

Orisko slapped his hand upon the desk. "Proof of murder! Those soldiers killed in the bombing. The soldier murdered in the alley. Were they mine I'd bring the hammer down. Reprisals enacted—"

"We are the Imperial Guard, Rogal. We are above such brutality. Let the Tin Men and government forces carry that stench in their shoulders. I will not have my battalion's reputation tarnished."

"Maybe we see how the lord general deals with this, huh?" Orisko shrugged.

"Such decisions can only be decided by the lord general himself, Rogal. His word, our orders."

"Yeah, well I am fully behind taking my battalion in to the slums and bringing the boot down."

"Well, you'll have to explain it to the lord general."

"If you won't, I will."

Brecher scratched his chin. "Five. The missing men's battery commander mentioned five men were missing."

"So?" Orisko scowled.

"I think GRA took him."

"Who? Where is this information coming from? You say undercover officers. Do they report directly to you?"

Brecher brushed his receding hairline and sighed. "Local informants paid by these officers provide us with updates. All of it is sent through a drop my officers collect every morning. Better to preserve their identity."

"Is their intelligence reliable?"

"…The situation is confused, though right now restraint should be exercised. If GRA has one of mine hostage, it is paramount the lord general is briefed. Negotiation must be considered."

"There'll be no negotiation, Breaker. Not with Graw—"

"You do not know that—"

"You cannot fight an insurgency politely! Bondo rules are null here."

"The lord general—"

"I'm talking to my colonel first. You talk to yours, see how far up the chain of command this runs. Is your commissar aware of this?"

"Is yours?"

"Unless he can transmit from beyond the grave…" Orisko popped a cigarette in to his mouth and made for the door, turning back to Brecher before he stepped out. "I still wouldn't listen though. Goodbye."

Brecher puffed out his cheeks. "Shit…"

The clatter of the wheels upon the tracks gradually subsided until a jolt brought the car to a standstill. Squashed inside the pipe, I extracted myself from the painful foetal position and stuck my head out of the end. Where are we? A chill breeze greeted me. Grey skies threatened to burst over my head. "Aahh." I worked my fingers in to the channel above the small of my back. Can't have done my back any good. Raindrops were smeared underneath my hands as I wriggled from the pipe. Dogs? I froze at the animal's bark. Between the twin buffers and couplers was a gap, through it I dropped, jagged stones biting at my hands. Where the hell? I squinted through a thin haze of grey dust. A soldier clad in black trotted alongside a row of flat wagons stacked with shipping containers, a slobbering hound dragging at the lead he held. A muzzle poked out from above his shoulder. Who's that?

The dog sniffed at the ground, slobber from its chops. "Got something, boy?" The soldier, in hard cover and facemask, jerked the lead. The dog's ears flicked. It gave a bark and took off along the tracks. It leapt up on to its hind legs and pawed at the side of a nondescript container a short way along the line. The soldier blew a whistle and unslung a lasgun. "Let's get this cracked open and emptied now, boys," he cried to a foursome of soldiers, all in the same black, running up. A fifth, this one in a black beret, produced a short metal rod and climbed on to the car. He tapped the door. "Hmm? Mmm-hmm." The officer pressed his ear against it and nodded. "Open her up, Corporal."

"Sir." One of the dog-handlers passed his lead off to another soldier and climbed up to the officer. Taking the bar, the corporal jammed it in to a slot and levered it upwards.

"Put your back in to it!" The dogs were straining on their leads, making an almighty racket. Spittle flew. Tongues lolled. Maws snapped open and shut. Nothing stirred on the opposite side of the train. I clawed my way out from under the wheels and lay flat beside the tracks. Which way? I craned my neck and peered at an overhead gantry. A winch dangled from two wires. Water dripped from the end of the hook.

"Dry haul, sir."

"Dry haul. Try that one."

"Sir." The corporal rammed his bar in to the lock and wrested the container door on the next car along open. He shone a torch, mounted to the shoulder of his body armour, through the crack. "Fugees, sir, full haul."

"Smoke." The officer caught a smoke grenade another tossed up to him and dumped it inside the container, shutting the door afterwards. "Let them stew for a minute. Hold the dogs back. Corporal, vox for TUMs, snatch type."

"Sir!" Fugees? Refugees from what? I put my cheek against the gravel. What's a TUM?

"Time," said the officer. "Batons out. Keep the dogs for runners. Alright, Private, throw it open." Smoke poured out of the container. First one then another refugee, clad in rags and choking, tumbled out. "Clear them out. Keep them moving." The officer stepped back as his men waded in, batons dropping upon the steady stream of bodies all falling over one another, desperate to get out of the choking furnace. "Line them up. Face-down!" Shit, there's women and children there. I winced at a soldier kicking the floored refugees, one by one. Why? "Right, bring them in to the cages." Cages? Four stout, four-wheeled cars with black armour-plating rolled in to view. Each one had their rear doors thrown open. Empty cages were inside. Batons met flesh as the soldiers kicked and pummelled the refugees inside. One of the handlers lost his grip on a lead. A dog galloped at a refugee and launched itself at her, to the soldiers' amusement. Why are they doing this? I watched each door slam on the caged refugees, and the vehicles reverse. Maybe they'll show me the way out. I crawled forwards on my elbows, rising to my knees and scooting forwards, parallel with the convoy. "Shit." I dove back underneath the flatcars. A dog handler rounded the end of the row, his lead taught. "Ow." I caught my shoulder on the underside of the car. The last vehicle in the convoy had reached the end of the flatcars. I'm losing them. "Mmph." The top of my head struck something. The snatch vehicle made the turn and disappeared from view. Nothing for it. I squeezed out from underneath the car. Gravel crunched underneath my boots. My blistered heels tore at the coarse inner lining.

"Runner!" A whistle tooted. Deep, booming barks rang out.

"Let them have their hunt, boys!" Flapping paws and sharp panting closed in on me. I leapt up on to the opposite row of cars where the containers were stacked and slipped through to the other side, dropping down in to a narrow corridor. Behind me, dogs burrowed through the gaps underneath the cars, scratching at the ballast with their claws. My stomach heaved. I retched and threw up, splattering the toecaps of my boots. Where the tracks cut through a road, I turned left, catching a glimpse of the snatch vehicles leaving by a wide gateway. Broad walls with sharp spikes on top formed a tight boundary around the railway yard. Once the vehicles had turned out on to a road, circular poles rose from holes in the ground, barring any influx of traffic. Squat, three-storey buildings overlooked the gateway. A gatehouse, open at the back, held a mounted gun and a sentry. At ground level, a single armed soldier stood guard behind a steel barricade. Shit, how do I get past him? I fell behind a ferrocrete traffic blocker. Steel ground upon steel. The gate began sliding sideways. The soldier glanced over his shoulder and moved away from his post, entering a guardroom. I sucked in a lungful of air. My grip on the edges of the ferrocrete tightened. I licked my dry lips and ran. Barks, animal and human, pursued me. Through the poles, I tore. With inches to spare, I made the gap and fell out in to the street. "Runner!" The sentry in the tower shouted. I careered in to a woman walking a baby in a pram. Pieces of brick wall exploded above my head, stinging my eyes. Both child and mother screamed.

"Hold your fire!" A faint voice bawled. I jumped on to a wheeled bin and vaulted over a wall. My ankles burned. A mound of rubbish I trod on groaned.

"Sorry." I darted away from the moving mound, putting several turns between it and me before pulling up. With nothing left to lose from my stomach, I bent double and dry-heaved, panting. Needles burst inside my legs. Numbness spread up and down, from my hips to my feet. "…No." I scrabbled at the bricks, a shiver taking my body. A low growl rose. I froze. A hound padded around the corner at the far end of the alley. Its ears twitched. A pair of black eyes stared at me. Jaw trembling, I shivered. Another hound appeared behind, taking its time as if savouring the hunt. I punched my thigh and hobbled away from the beasts. The gentle pitter-patter of their paws became a brisk trot. I dug my hand in to vines growing up the wall and pulled myself around a corner. "Shit!" The flagstones rushed up to me. I rolled on to my back and scrambled up against a pile of wet binbags spilling from a stinking, fly-infested container. Long, wet tongues flapped over broken, yellow teeth. Claws clacked upon the stones. "Mother…" I screwed up my face and shut my eyes, growls filling my ears. Sniffs and soft whines replaced the growls. I opened my eyes to see the dogs backing away, their ears flat against their heads. Both tails flicked between their legs. With their backs to the wall, the beasts sat and placed their heads on their paws. A blur moved inside my vision. A blur in a fur-lined, hooded jacket. "Remain the victim." The woman offered her hand. "Or stand and take action." I swallowed and reached for her cold skin, my fingers finding hers. Almost on tiptoes, I lurched as the woman hauled my arm over her shoulders. The steel body of her rifle pinched and dug in to my side. The hounds, both silent, watched us leave.

"I 'aven't forgiven you."

"Neither expected, needed, or wanted."

"That lad weren't a bad person."

"Now, you need to understand. Or has naivety shielded you in its bosom for too long?" The woman dragged me through a covered tunnel that climbed above a road. Scraps of sodden newspaper coated the floor. I peeped through the grimy glass at the road below. Shit, it's a right warzone here. Worse in daylight. "They are looking for you."

"Uh?" I closed one eye and looked up at a skylight. Cylindrical rocket pods nestled in the crook of a gunship's wings. "They're looking for you." The woman flashed her teeth. "Don't think I'm taking you to the Stonehill either. Not if you're gonna hurt Risto's family." The woman seized my jumper, lifting me off my feet and slamming me back in to the wall. Bright lights spun around my eyes. My legs became weightless.

"Wrong." The woman's eyes settled on my stained boots, a foot from the ground. A sneer darted across her lips. She let go. I slid downwards and collapsed on to my buttocks. I slipped a hand inside the back of my boot and rubbed my heel. "You cannot even walk."

"I can't see."

The woman unloaded her rifle, collapsed the stock, and popped two retaining pins from the body. In two pieces, the weapon fitted in amongst the ammunition. "I believe you owe me gratitude. Blindness cannot shield you."

"Yeah, he ate human flesh. So what? That don't give you the right to go at him like that!"

"One less undesirable clinging to the underbelly of human society means nothing to me." The woman zipped up her jacket. "Stand up."

She's got a pint of black tar where her heart is. "It's coming and going. A bit blurry."

"Mild concussion. Blindness brought on by emotional stress. There is no great risk to your life, human, as much as you play it up."

"Concussion that you gave me!" Red-faced, I fumbled with my loose boots. The woman grabbed my upper arm and pulled me up. Above us, the gunship dipped its wing and flew off. Beneath the stairs, a line of homeless people sat with their backs to a chainlink fence. Around them were empty pots. Poor blokes. Don't even have proper shoes. I patted my trouser pockets.

"Had a rough night?" A considerably more well-off local swaggered up to us. Despite his blue greatcoat being bereft of every single brass button, the man had shaved and did not smell.

"Looked the wrong way at the wrong fella."

"Hello, lovely. What's hiding under that hood then?" The woman unzipped her jacket and pulled a corner back. The local's eyebrows rose.

"You have a nice day now, ma'am." He backed away.

"Knife or gun?" I said once the local had retreated.

"Does it matter?" The woman consulted her map then pointed up at a tall hab-block rising above the rooftops. "There. The ferrocrete tower stands alone. Have you the exact location of this refuge you speak of?"

"Nah, I just know Risto lives somewhere 'ere."

"Here? Do you mean the Stonehill?" The woman's finger tapped the map.

"Yes, the Stonehill." I caught the eyes of some locals across the street. Smashed bottles sat amidst piles of glass at their feet. "Sticking out a bit, aren't we? Bloody eyes everywhere."

"Pfft, let them observe. Beings here are accustomed to day-to-day violence surely. It is part of their culture."

"Yeah…" I looked at my boots. "Right, let's go."

"Your laces are undone."

"Number ten. Big lies." I wiggled my toes. "Won't get nowhere tarradiddlng, our stickie."

Forty storeys of rain-drenched ferrocrete tore a gash in the skyline. Bulges in the outer walls were interlaced with cracks. A pedestrian walkway and a single rail line, both elevated, ran deep inside the Stonehill's neck. Four traffic lanes separated us from some steps leading up to a double door at ground level.

"Look both ways, yeah." The woman looked neither left nor right and stepped out in to the road. "Oh, shit." Five of the black vehicles peeled off from an overpass, the slipway carrying them down to us. Four were the vehicles used to snatch civilians. The fifth, riding in centre of the convoy, was a six-wheeler, packing a short-barrelled cannon inside a square turret. Who are they, PDF? A stubber fixed to a remote-controlled mount atop the armoured car's turret swung our way and continued to track us as the convoy rolled past. I sucked air through my teeth. C'mon, hold your fire. Nothing to see here. My heart stepped up to do a jig inside my chest. With the last vehicle past, we made the short distance to the wide steps and the hab's entrance.

"Here dwell hundreds of families. How do—?"

"Hang about." I pointed at columns of square buttons fitted to a panel in the wall beside the door. Beside the buttons were names printed in miniscule font upon slots of laminate paper. Aah, only surnames. I trawled the list of residents. Each surname had a single initial of the owner's first name printed after it. "Lemme go. I can walk." I shrugged off the woman's arm.

"Strange how it becomes easier, the closer to home you are…" The woman put out a hand when I stumbled. "The human's second name?" The woman turned her head away from two people leaving the entrance; a middle-aged man and woman.

"I dunno. Help me look for r's."

"For what?!"

"R's. Rrrrrrr." I ran a finger up a column.

"No, no I have another way."

"Well, iggery then 'cause we'll get done for loitering otherwise."

"Iggery…?"

"Fast."

"This will hurt."

"What—?" Needles jabbed at the backs of my eyeballs. The woman took my hand and jabbed it at a button with the name Wendt. R.

"Your friend awaits. Do use a tactful tone, human."

"…Bugger Throne, you coulda warned me." I worked my jaw up and down. "How did you…?"

"Hello?" A woman's voice sounded from a small speaker set at face-level.

"Hello… Erm, um… I'm looking for Risto." I crossed my middle finger over my index.

"…Who's looking for Risto?"

"I'm a friend of his from over the river."

"Risto has no friends on the eastern bank."

"That's his wife," I mouthed. "Tell Risto I think his latest poster, the one with the blood-red thug wi' the cosh and the slogan pax imperialis is a stonker."

A pause. "Are you alone?"

"Yeah." The woman's jaw tightened. A thin eyebrow arched.

"He is asleep."

"R-right, thanks." A crackle on the other end broke the link. I raised my eyebrows at the woman and nodded. "Okay."

Inside the Stonehill's atrium were two lifts and a single set of stairs heading straight up the hollow building. Out-of-order signs were stuck on both doors. Oh, God, the smell. Weak lights cut through a very fine haze filling the atrium. Homeless sat against the walls, on top of and behind a counter where a key-keeper may have sat once. Many more lined the stairs. If they can't loiter out there then they're loitering in here.

"Which floor?"

"Again?" The woman leant closer for me to whisper in her ear.

"Which. Floor?"

"Not here. The walls listen." Deeper inside the hab's stomach, the haze and the homeless thickened. Is it poorer, the further up we go? I tugged the rolled neck of my jumper up over my nose. The extractor fans on every floor didn't seem to be working either. Some floors had no lighting at all.

"Here." The woman extended her arm across me and pointed at a straight corridor with doors on both sides, identical to every other floor below. I leant over the iron railing and looked down at the successive rows of light bulbs in the shaft, growing dimmer and dimmer. The woman touched my shoulder and guided me away from the railing. "Now is not the time."

409. The simple, three-digit number was mounted upon a dull metal plaque in the centre of the door. Above was a spyhole. "Stay back, yeah?" I knocked.

"Press the…" The woman jabbed a finger at a palm-pad in the wall. "Press the pad!"

"Ssh! C'mon, Risto, open up, lad. Just me out here." A short click inside and the door opened. Risto, his long hair matted and greasy, stood there in a nightshirt. "What are you doing here? You're in a right state." Risto looked me up and down, his nose wrinkling. He sniffed. "Is that you?"

"Aw, Risto, mate, I've been 'aving nightmares." I shook my head, my hands clasping my elbows. "Didn't know where else to come."

"Alright, alright." Risto raised his hands then called back to his wife. "It's alright, Talia. I know him."

"Risto, I've got another 'ere. She's a friend of mine." The woman clenched her right hand.

"Friend. Who?" Risto lurched back. "Her?"

"Listen, we both hate Graw. That makes us pals, yeah? I promise we'll be gone first thing. We just need a safe place for the mo'."

"I can't let you two in."

The woman barrelled at Risto, bowling him backwards over a worn couch. "Shut the door behind you."

I slapped the panel and rushed round to Risto. "Sorry, mate. Best keep quiet 'bout this now. The less you know the better—" A woman gasped. I looked up at Risto's wife, dressed in a boiler suit, standing there carrying a very young child in her arms.

"Make not a sound!" The woman spat. "Calm your offspring and sit."

"Talia, sit!" Risto squeaked.

"Go to your wife. Contain her affliction. Say nothing." The woman patted Risto down then pushed him at Talia. Both fell down on to another sofa, in equal distress as its partner was. There they clung to one another, the infant nestled in their arms. "Sit down!" The woman placed the ammunition behind the couch I sat on and drew back her jacket, displaying her holstered weapons. Talia burrowed her head in to Risto's chest.

I perched on the edge of the couch. "You know me, alright. I'm a soldier, ma'am. I… I can explain this…" I touched my dirty bandage. "Uhh, this is…"

"Are there more of you here? Nod or shake your head." Risto shook his head.

"I was at the Belladonna. Maybe you 'eard it on the news or saw it in the paper. Me and some mates o' mine were out of bounds—"

"Cease such long-winded babble. Inform your friend that no harm will come to his family, on the condition that no word that passes here goes beyond these walls."

"I'm tellin' them what the hell happened at the Belladonna."

The woman slammed her hands upon the back of the couch, directly behind my head. "The human rebels detonated a bomb. There is no argument!" she snarled.

I twisted around, giving me a look at her flared nostrils. "We gave 'em the bomb. Bloody plainclothes intelligence delivered it to Graw." My voice rose to match hers.

"Irrational!"

"I saw it!"

"…Would you like a tea?"

Teeth grinding against each other, I shot Risto a look. "Yes!"

"Alright." Risto bobbed his head. "Alright then."

"Please."

The woman's fingernails were white. Lips pursed, she straightened up. Talia clung to Risto's arm, refusing to let go. "Ssh, it's alright, Talia. You take Eamonn and go."

"Go, go where?" I stood up, snatching a peek at the woman. Her hand dove inside her jacket.

"I work nights. Talia works during the day. She teaches." Risto hovered, eying the woman.

"Don't. Don't." I gesticulated at the woman. "Let her go. It's alright, Risto. Your missus can go to work." The woman withdrew her hand and dived in to her bag.

"Risto?" Talia rocked Eamonn gently.

"I've got him, dear. You go get ready now." Talia sniffed, blew her nose, and ran in to a tiny bedroom. She came out a moment later with a small satchel and a baby-carrier. "It's alright. Dry your eyes, Tali. I'll be fine here." Risto fixed the straps around Talia and placed Eamonn in the carrier. "There." Risto brushed a strand of hair over Talia's ear. "Here, take my tissues."

"What if they see me like this. What will I say?"

"You're afraid for Eamonn after the bombings. Nobody on the planet will question a mother fearing for her child. Nobody. Hmm?" Risto kissed Talia's cheek and helped her to the door.

"Your eyes." The woman attracted Talia's attention.

"My eyes?" Talia turned Eamonn away from her. "Oh…" She blinked sleepily then smiled. "Have a nice day, Risto. Remember the vegetables, dear."

"Talia?" Risto paled.

"Bye now." Talia planted a kiss on Risto's mouth. "Say bye, Eamonn. Ooh-ooh." She waved Eamonn's little hand. The second the door shut behind Tali, Risto rounded on the woman and balled a fist.

"What did you do to her?"

"Alright, alright, Risto." I leapt up from the couch and stepped between the two. "She hypnotised her, that's all. Talia's forgotten about us. She's forgotten about us."

"Hogwash."

"Remember when I met you on the waterfront? I couldn't remember what happened before. She hypnotised me."

"Why? Who are you?"

"Okay, okay, let's 'ave char first. D'you mind putting on a brew, Risto?" Risto stormed over to a kitchen unit occupying the length of one wall and filled a rusted kettle with water and set it upon a stove to boil. "Siddown," I whispered. The woman batted my hand away from her sleeve.

"Restrain that creeping hand of yours," she muttered, loosening her collar.

"You're Eliza James…"

The woman gave a sigh and shoved an identity card at me. Tyssa Marchent. Where did she get that from? Hang on, that picture looks nothing like her.

"That's a phoney!" Even I can see that. The icy stare the woman gave me turned red. I'll be seeing steam shooting out of her ears in a minute.

"Milk?"

"Yes, mate." Maybe out of her eyes too. A pair of tin mugs clinked upon a low table separating Tyssa and I from Risto. "You alright, Risto?"

Risto had a stoppered bottle held against the side of his head. "I've got two strangers sitting opposite me, one of whom is a soldier, the other, well I have never met a woman as rude as she is, barging in to my house! Threatening my family."

"Be grateful I stopped at threats."

"Who is she?" Risto scowled.

I sipped at the steaming tea. "Tyssa. AdMech. She pulled me out of the Belladonna. Patched me up." I pointed at my bandage.

"Just AdMech?"

"Cult Mechanicus," Tyssa passed her ID in front of Risto.

"AdMech ID looks nothing like that. It's not even your face!"

"Risto, let it go. She's not AdMech, alright."

"What's underneath her hood?"

"Risto, you look like shit, mate. You'd better lie down. Talk about this later, yeah?"

"I want her to leave. Take what you want. We don't own much."

"She's not a thief, Risto!"

"Can you guarantee that?"

"She's not a bad person. She wants to be here just as much as I do."

Risto rubbed the bottle over his face. "Please. I don't want to see her when I wake up."

"Nah, you won't, Risto. You doss down now. We'll be quiet." I looked at Tyssa. "We'll be quiet, yeah?"

Tyssa relaxed her grip upon the knife inside her jacket and sat back on the couch. Her eyes never left Risto. Only when he disappeared in to the bedroom did Tyssa move round to her bag and remove the two halves of her rifle from within. "No windows." I manoeuvred a finger underneath my bandage and felt around. "Ahhh." Tyssa pulled a worn cloth from the back of the sofa Risto had sat upon and spread it over the table. Upon the surface, she laid her rifle, a brush, a cleaning rag, and a small can of oil.

"Not one word."

"Pfft." I put my tea down and reached for my damp laces. Tyssa drew the charging handle and bolt from the rifle's upper. I jumped at a crisp click of the chamber cover snapping open. Setting the empty shell aside, Tyssa turned the bolt over in her hands. "She on your list?" I untangled my loose laces and wiggled my feet free.

"What did I say?"

"That other stickie; the woman. I don't reckon that artillery behind me is for anyone 'ere." The backs of both ankles sported fat blisters. Patches of bright red skin covered my feet.

Tyssa applied a dab of oil to her cloth and rubbed it upon the where the bolt's surfaces showed wear. "You would do well to distance yourself from my affairs."

"I'm watching you strip and clean a rifle. You're not just doin' it for laughs."

"Stray not in to this one's affairs." Rigid lines appeared in Tyssa's neck. "You of limited perspective, distorted perception."

"You're not gonna touch that?" I nodded at Tyssa's mug.

"…Uh." Tyssa's hand froze.

"No then." I took the mug and tilted the brim towards my mouth. "Mmm, good char. Don't know what you're missing…"

"A meagre sampling of blandness." Tyssa placed her eye to the open end of her rifle's upper receiver and looked down the inner barrel. "Bring the bag to me." I leant backwards. Springs inside the thin cover dug in to my shoulders. The couch creaked when my feet left the floor. I swirled the dregs around the bottom of the mug and set it beside its twin. The knife, a blur, embedded itself in the table. I yelped and clawed at the bone handle. Tyssa's hands were upon the rifle's lower receiver. "Had I willed it, I would have taken your hand."

"God, you…" I jiggled the knife. Tyssa knocked my hand away and yanked the knife free. "You'd better apologise to Risto for denting his table. It's his 'ouse…"

Oil bottle in hand, Tyssa paused. Her head tilted to one side. "His…?"

"His 'ouse." I pulled back my right sleeve. Dried cuts and scrapes ran up my hand, along my wrist, and up my forearm. "His house. What did you think I said?" Her mouth a tight line, Tyssa applied spray to the rifle's trigger group and flicked the safety switch. Flushing, I brought the two mugs over to the kitchen unit and deposited them in a small sink. Cosy, this ain't. Three-dimensional relief tiles, faded from their original white, ran in a double row above a narrow shelf holding food containers, a portable heater, and an old whisk. The entire kitchen unit was one piece, with everything as barren as it could be. Dirty dishes sat waiting to be cleaned. A miniature cupboard at the back of the shelf was half open. I pushed aside a basket holding processed food wrappers and boxes. Cereal? I picked out a cardboard box and shook it. Sorry, Risto. I rootled through the overhead cupboards, bringing down a metal bowl and a spoon. I limped back to the couch and sat. "Hurts." I rubbed the back of my ankle. The ammunition bag was open at Tyssa's feet. She twirled a cleaning rod in her fingers then fed a strip of cloth through a hole in the tip.

"Lesson. Rest and eat when and where you can." Tyssa pushed the cleaning rod through the rifle's barrel. "Eat. Rest. See to your injuries." I grunted and poured a shapeless mass from the box in to the bowl. "Words dance upon the tip of your tongue, human."

"Not one word…?" I shovelled in cereal. Urgh, stale. "That's what you said, weren't it?" Tyssa fixed a hook attached to a length of bungee cord around a sling point behind the rifle's body. I tapped the side of my spoon against the edge of the bowl. "I can't understand you…"

"Likewise."

"You attack me, you knock me out, you bandage me, then you're coming at me again wi' that knife."

"Believe me, stranger things have happened in recent weeks." Tyssa frowned.

"What's brought the red down over your eyes then?"

"Again, I cannot…"

"What that woman do to make you come 'ere and sell those weapons?"

"Do not."

"Uh?"

"Do not speak of that creature."

"Fine." I spooned the cereal. "Just, you're angry…"

"A fine observation for a human to make. Now, it is your turn to answer. Speak truth."

"I'll speak the truth if that's what you mean." I shrugged. "I never shot any real person. I can't swim, can't drive, I'm underweight, I can't bend over properly because of a spinal injury. I'm left handed, left-footed, and couldn't give a shit about numbers or me letters. My name's—"

"Real person. By that you mean human, human?"

"Orks. I've done Orks a-plenty." I shook my head, my eyes on my toes. "I can't do humans. Not me own people."

"Then you are forever condemned to play the victim. If you cannot kill, you are a corpse with the temporary use of the arms and legs. It is a hard heart that kills, not the weapons you carry."

A ripple scoured my flesh. "How easy is it? Does it feel normal, I mean?"

A shadow passed across Tyssa's face. "I dream of it."

"I dream of home."

"You have a home to return to."

"Uh-uh, a Guardsman never returns. S'what me dad said. He weren't in boots but my grandad was. And he, me dad, tells me my grandad got out 'cause he won a lottery, see. Or actually he didn't. A bloke he knew won and gave the ticket to me grandad. That let him go home."

"Your grandfather never spoke about it?"

"Nah 'cause he did the guy who got the ticket and went home instead."

"So, he won, at the expense of another." Tyssa aligned the rifle's upper and lower and popped the pins back in. "Shrewd."

"I'm not me grandad."

"You will be."

"What if I get wasted today or tomorrow? I'll go out knowing I weren't a bad person like you."

"You are protected. Your almighty has his plans, as do I." Tyssa brought a box labelled .300 Nightfall out on to the table and opened the lid. "Of course, if your almighty existed…"

"Don't talk about the Emperor." I set the empty bowl aside and placed a hand over my heart. "He's where you can't get to him."

"So human of you. You cannot even protect yourself, let alone your friends." Tyssa produced a tool and loosened a nut on the front and rear sights, folding them down.

"And where are your friends?"

"They are no friends of mine. They led themselves to failure. Failure for me is death, and I have little time for it." Upon the narrow ridges that ran along the top of the body, Tyssa aligned an optic and screwed it on. Next to the rifle, she laid a stub pistol.

"That's don't belong to you."

"None of what I wear or carry on my person belongs to me. Rangers own no property. They hold no loyalty to their birthplace, and give their hearts to no-one. The path they take is of their choosing, one without constraint imposed by their craftworld."

Craftworld? "That belonged to my mate Art. He's all I had. Then, the Crotch did him 'cause we were in the wrong place at the wrong time." I squeezed my eyes shut. A shooting pain throbbed in my back.

"The…?" Tyssa gave me a sideways look. "What ails you?"

"I'm stuck in a windowless room with a short-fused stickie packing enough whammo to put an RSM in orbit." I picked up my left foot and rested it on my right knee.

"Short-fused? A malady of the head holds no sway over the integrity of your spine."

"Hmph." Tyssa slid the pistol across the table at me, keeping her hand over it. "You take it for granted, don't you?" Tyssa stared at me with half-lidded eyes. Her hand remained upon the pistol. "First time away from home and I ended up in a very bad place, drowning in bodies of men and Orks. They did me, Mister Green did. Slotted me right in the back. Chipped my spine. I dragged meself out of no-man's land on my stomach. You know what 'appened to me after that? Nothing. I had a month in Cain Med then I'm back on my feet. Did it make me a better person…? Nah."

"The Webway portal."

"I dunno. Guess I went down the wrong tunnel." I reached out for the pistol. Tyssa pulled it away.

"You contradict yourself."

"What?"

"You will not harm your own people. Your own words."

"My own people, yeah."

"Is that a threat?"

"You've got the guns." I yawned and stretched my arms behind my head. "And the ammo."

"Not to be wasted on the worthless." Tyssa pushed a thin tab on the pistol's lower downwards and slid the upper receiver off. I rolled my trouserlegs up and moved to the sink. Cold water spat from the single tap, fluctuating between a trickle and a gush. I ran my mug underneath the tap, flicked the dregs away and filled it up. "Savin' it for something that matters."

"No business of yours, human. You are a means to an end."

"Yeah, cheers." I picked up a two-week-old newspaper lying beside the stove. Strikes Intensify. Governor Malkara cuts deal with Imperium. Obscura shipment discovered in morgue. "Hmm." I chewed at my bottom lip. The dirty plates caught my eye. That might work. I filled the kettle up and set it upon the stove.

"Your kind has a certain fascination with that liquid."

"The Cr – the Guard runs on tea. That and promethium." I turned the dial up. Not long after, the kettle shrieked. I plugged the sink and poured the boiling water in. Soap anywhere? I poked at a grey brick lying in a round tray behind the tap. Feels like stone. "Take action, you said? Well, I'm taking it now." I picked up a plate, put it in the water, and dropped the brick in after it. Glistening suds stuck to my hands and arms. Each plate I piled on the worktop, the clean very quickly taking the place of the dirty. That just about does it. I turned the last pot upside down and put it on the worktop to drain. The water, though warm, was now a murky brown. I submerged my arms. The cuts and grazes on my skin prickled. Oh, that's good. Shame there's no shower. My shoulders shook. No, not that. The splash of ice-cold water seeped in to my ears. Duckboards grew from the floor. Laughing voices and animal sniffles surrounded me.

"Do you hear it? That ringing in your ears. The swarm of locusts devouring your mind from within." Tyssa's voice flowed in to my ear. "The mind's death throes. Your time draws near. Hear the clock ticking down from life to death."

"Don't do this. Don't do this." Razorblades danced along my spine.

A hoarse, alien voice preyed inside my ears. "Your path runs with the blood of many mortals. Haras na kiam. Hand-in-hand you walk with death. Eaxamath Ann. Your world is a maelstrom of blood, choking in fire, drowning in the tears of mortals, crying for the souls of the lost. Iem vyyal carrec. You will never know peace, talamh-kotos." A pair of eyes, one bloodshot, the other golden, flashed. "DIE!"

"…said she'd be gone when I woke up!" Risto's face hovered above me. "Hello?" He shook my shoulder.

"Urgh, Risto?" I blinked through sticky eyes. "What time is it?"

"Four after noon. What have you done to your feet?"

"Uh?" I pushed myself up on to my elbows. Springs inside the couch dug in to my back. "I was clearing up…"

"Nasty things." Risto went to a cupboard at the far end of the kitchen unit and came back with a green case bearing a pair of snakes entwined around a rod topped with the aquila.

"Where's…?"

Risto upper lip curled. Hairs stuck out from his nostrils. "What have you brought in to my house?"

"Mercenary."

"And did you do that?" Risto pointed at the mark in the cloth made by Tyssa's knife.

"Oi, I'm not the one with artillery 'ere."

"Slap these over the blisters and try not to pop them. They'll get better on their own."

"Ta." I peeled the thin plastic layers from the adhesive and stuck them over the blisters. "Sorry for invading your house, Risto."

"Er… Sorry, was that house you said?"

"Aww, not you as well."

"Sounds like arse." Risto snorted.

"Well, this arse in't laughing. You got a shower 'ere?"

"It's a hab-block, mate. Communal." Risto clicked the case shut and returned it. "We're lucky to be living this far down. The higher up it is, the poorer it is."

"Oh, how d'you manage that then?"

"Working two jobs, aren't we? I'm on the eight 'til seven; eleven hours. Talia teaches from eight in the morning 'til eight in the evening."

"Grim, that."

"Ehh. Awkward."

"Oh, I had some of that cereal you've got up in the cupboard there. Starving. Sorry 'bout that."

"Mm, bit stale by now, I think. Thanks for clearing up anyway."

"So, where's…?" I swivelled round and placed my feet on the floor. Tyssa sat cross-legged, facing the wall opposite the kitchen unit. The flash-hider of her rifle jutted out from the half-open bag at her left shoulder.

"Hang a sign over her saying 'approach with caution'." Risto mumbled.

"She won't even allow that." I chanced it anyway and threw a quick glance to check Risto couldn't overhear. "What's best with stickies then? Approach from the front or the back?"

"Neither." Tyssa did not look up. In her hands was a piece of white cloth, to which a needle and thread was attached. In the centre of the white was a blue sword and a yellow crescent.

"Embroidery?" I squatted beside Tyssa.

"Away with you. I seek no common ground to discuss pointless trivialities with you."

"It's alright, that. How long did it take?"

"If our paths cross again, I will leave your body face-down and cold."

"Let's hope it don't come to that then."

"Yours will be painless, that I promise you." The needle worked up and down.

"And if it's like last time? I get the drop on you."

"The day you get the drop on I, shall be the day the God of the Dead rises."

"So, let's pray for it then."

"You will never pray with me, human. Take solace that I am letting you live."

"Alright then." I scratched at the cuts on my cheek. "Leave after dark?"

"You are not accompanying me."

"If you want off Grendel, you'll want to go for the spaceport across the river. I'll take you across the railway bridge. It's not guarded, see. That gets me back to me barracks and you… Wherever you're going next. Truce 'til then?" The needle hovered. "Think on it."

"I'd really like you out before Talia comes home." Risto tossed a clean dressing over.

"Yeah, we'll be gone before that." I plucked at the dirty gauze. "How's it look?"

"Spick and span." Risto smiled at the clean tablewear.

"Nah, me fizog."

"Like a ripe red apple."

"Concussion, she said."

"And you believe her?"

"Risto, I've got full fucking orchestra banging away up 'ere." I folded the bandage and wrapped it around my head.

"Well, take it easy then. That's all the advice I can give you."

"Got any painkillers? I lost mine."

"No. They cost an arm and a leg. Just take it easy this afternoon. It'll pass."

"Thanks for putting up with us, Risto. I want the best for you and Talia and Eamonn."

"You can shake my hand when you're on your way out the door. I'd honestly rather forget – and no, she's not hypnotising me."

I hung my head. "Sorry."

"Just hope there's no harm done. Malkara's got informants everywhere."

"But we're on his side, aren't we? I thought Lairs and Five Hundred got called 'cause you was having trouble on the streets."

Risto tutted. "…Well. I just wouldn't trust anyone I didn't know personally. Not the Blackshirts, not the Tin Men, not Graw, LVF, and certainly not the Imperial Guard, bar you."

"I won't tell anyone. I'm gonna be giving a report about this. I'll make something up, don't you worry."

"I do worry, every day." Risto stuck his hands under the tap. "Ahh, the hot's off again. You've no idea how difficult it is to raise a little one in this city. We can't leave either, not without a travel permit, and that's sliced off several months' wages just for the single. A family pass is… Well. Just don't have a family as young as I did. You know, you're twenty years old, you're flying place-to-place, getting dumped in warzones. If I were in your shoes, I'd just be happy it's just me I've got to look out for. Try not to make too many friends out there. They're the ones you start off with. Anyone else isn't worth getting to know."

"Thanks, Risto." I wiggled my toes. "'Fraid I've got to beg you for some socks now, mate."

"Oh, now socks I can help you with. You look like Talia's size."

"Girls' size?" I followed Risto in to the tiny side room. A single wall-mounted cabinet took up most of the space, the rest was Risto and Talia's bed, and Eamonn's crib. "So, what 'appens when Eamonn grows out of that cot?"

"Erff…" Risto flicked a hand at the cot. From inside the cabinet he took a pair of grey socks. "What's that look for? They're clean."

"Hmm." I stretched the mouths.

"They're my wife's socks you're sniffing there."

"First and last time. I won't be sniffing these again, not after my feet 'ave been inside 'em. Thanks for that."

"James." Risto moved close to whisper.

"Oh, he does remember. What's up?"

"Don't. Trust. The woman." Risto poked my shoulder at each syllable. "That's a face of an angel but the mind of a fucking killer under that hood."

"I read ya, pal. She did some mates o' mine. Slotted 'em in the back when they was running. Not sure that's what you'd call combat. There's something proper ruthless and pragmatic-like with her."

"I think you should get the hell away from her as fast as possible. I get this uneasy feeling when I'm in the room with her. Something I've never felt before."

"Alright, just trust me 'ere, Risto. We'll be gone come dark. I'm taking her back across the river then that's it."

"You watch her, James." Risto gripped my arm. "You watch her."

Risto came and went throughout the afternoon, either empty-handed or with foodstuffs in paper bags. Tyssa remained sitting upon the floor, engrossed in her embroidery or meditating. Always her hood remained up. Not one word surfaced. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the ponderous whump-whump of a fan. Is that even giving the room cool air, or is it just blowing warm air around? I couldn't imagine what the ventilation was like in the hab-block. At least it's quiet.

"It's half round six, mate. Dark enough outside."

"…Shit, I nodded off." I rolled off the couch and poked at my boots. Stones rattled inside my head. Take me bloody hours to scrub all the muck off these. "Oi, Tyssa, stop embroiding, we're moving, most kosh." Tyssa cleared her throat. "Oh." Tyssa stood above me, hood drawn, bag slung over her shoulder.

"Risto, I'm heading off. What's it like outside?"

Risto tossed chopped vegetables in to a pot. "Taupe."

"Wind, rain, snow?"

"Out."

"I'll pay you back for this." I stumbled around the couch. "I'll pay you back."

"No, you won't. We'll both forget on our own. Mind how you go now."

"'Kay." I pressed the door release and jerked my head at Tyssa. "After you." Tyssa bristled.

"Shut the door!"

Tyssa strode out in to the corridor at my heel. My eyes strayed to the floor. "Thank you."

Back down through the gathering of homeless we trod. Each floor held even greater numbers now that night approached. Cans rattled at me. "Spare something…"

"…For my children."

"…They are starving."

"…We have nothing."

My ears reddened. I lowered my chin and focused on my feet taking the steps one at a time. I'm sorry. What am I supposed to do but walk? I buried my nose inside my jumper, my eyes smarting at the reek. Even with the crook of my arm over my nose, the smell crept inside. Once down in the atrium, I made for the door and pummelled on it. Tyssa pushed me aside and slid back a bolt, fixing me with a glare. The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention.

The car waited out in the road, a little further down from the Stonehill's entrance. The rear passenger doors opened and two men got out. A pair of glowing cigarette butts wavered closer. Hands in their pockets, the two widened their net. The man in the blue greatcoat, minus the brass buttons, dipped his head. "Hello, son." A muscle spasmed in my cheek. The stale cereal, long liquified, bubbled and rose inside me. "Time we took you home." Arms rigid at my sides, I ducked inside the car. Shoulders throttled me. Doors slammed. Locks clicked. Tyssa? I twisted around. The Stonehill's mouth receded in the back window. Where did she go?