In the grim darkness of the far future, in the dawn of the 42nd millennium, there is only war. From all sides, The Nascent Imperium is fighting a war on all sides: From servants from the great darkness, the unruly tides of the ork's, and the ever encroaching swarm of the tyranids, it is a desperate time to be a man.
The Light cruiser class Dauntless, The Redeemer of Hadas was on its way to enforce one such many battlegrounds. The vessel was nearly 5 kilometers long, and in its titanic gut were approximately sixty five thousand souls. Many of them, born on the ship, had never seen the stars outside, never known what it was like to touch the grass of a rolling field, nor to feel the morning sun kiss their face. Instead, all they knew was dreary darkness, occasionally illuminated with blinking white and sometimes red lights. Many of these crew were known as Indentured Workers: Barely above a slave, they worked menial tasks and performed simple maintenance until they died. The smallest of them: children usually, were perhaps the most useful, as they alone could squeeze into the smallest of ventilation shafts, ducts, and corners in order to keep the ship maintained. When a Rating died, either due to starvation, overwork, or too harsh of a beating from an Armsman, their body was thrown into the common areas to be taken by disposal workers: Of course, such a source of calories would not be so easily wasted, and it was not uncommon for a worker to find the remnants of a finger or a patch of ungrounded skin in their morning ration the next day.
To serve upon The Redeemer of Hadas was not a career choice, but a death sentence. For invariably, it is only a matter of time before either the ship claims you, or some outside force would.
Above the indentured servants, were the Ratings. Unlike the slaves of the ship, who were either penal prisoners, descendants of said penal prisoners, or some unfortunate soul who was whisked away from their homes by a recruiter, sometimes willing and sometimes not, Ratings could be seen as regular workers. Some would work on electrical devices and replace fuses, whilst others would see to the regular cleanliness of the ships macro cannons. They slept in cramped, often dirty and foul smelling quarters, where they may be lucky to have functioning heads and showers.
Above the Ratings were the Warrant Officers: Not quite noble blood, not quite common man, Warrant Officers were Ratings who proved competent enough to be put in leadership positions. They receive orders from the officers above and disseminate them to the Ratings and slaves below, ensuring it is carried out. Failure to do so, either from lack of competency, efficiency or perhaps motivation would lead to floggings and beatings from either the warrant officer himself, or his armsmen cronies. Unlike the Ratings and slaves who lived in the disgusting berthing's, they were offered much more comfortable places to sleep: Not quite luxurious, but not so downtrodden.
Finally were the officers: The variety of Ensigns, Lieutenants and of course, the captain himself. He would currently find himself on the bridge of The Redeemer of Hadas, surveying the situation. The planet of Tirsfall was currently under siege by rebel forces. A portion of Battlefleet Bakka was sent to assist in the defense of the planet, as it was rumored that traitor forces under The Death Guard were underway to assist the rebels in taking over the world.
Captain Sayadi chewed the inner wall of his cheek in contemplation for a bit, staring at the dozens of command staff below him. He had not slept in nearly four days. The constant strategizing, plotting and planning had worn him down. The Great Rift, a warp rift of absolutely enormous proportions, had nearly split the galaxy in twain: Endless hordes of daemons, traitors, xenos. One battle won, another two lost.
Sayadi's hands clasped the inner sleeve of his jacket, feeling the soft yet firm fabric crinkle under his grasp, releasing the tension. He would do this, over and over again for what seemed like forever.
"Captain!"
Sayadi was knocked out of his trance, as he glanced down below at the lieutenant that called his attention.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Augur readings are picking up a signal 15,000 kilometers port side, sir," The officer would say, not quite in alarm but certainly surprised. Sayadi's eyebrows furrowed, a grimace forming on his face. There should be nothing here, not for another hundred thousand kilometers at least. Perhaps it was another ship that was attempting to reach Bakkas rally point?
"Tag the signal lieutenant. Helm, keep us steady. Inform the Master Gunner to ready the weapons batteries. I want shells loaded into the macrocannons. I don't care how many people die," Sayadi ordered, as he turned from his balcony, heading towards the stairs to take a look at the tactical map.
"Yes, Sir!"
Sayadi took the last few steps off the ladderwell, as he stood before the tactical map: A cogitator roughly the size of a large dinner table, which projected a lightly tinted green hologram, presenting an image of the light cruiser in the emptiness of space. The unidentified target, identified by a red dot, was slowly heading on a straight course on the port side of the ship. Looking at the trajectory, he saw that if the cruiser continued it's course, there would be a direct collision in roughly six minutes.
Sayadi glanced at the officers around him.
"Get me The Enginseer. Tell him to cut off our engines, bring us to a stop,"
"Aye sir!"
/
As The Redeemer of Hadas came to a standstill in the emptiness of space, the prey was unaware of the trap that awaited them. Slowly, quietly, steadily, the Corsair ship, The Umbral Blade approached the Imperial Navy vessel. Its holofields distorted light and matter itself, making it appear as if the ship was warping its physical mass all over the place: This trickery of the light was not a true force field or shield, and more relied on the ships general maneuverability. The vessel was of similar length to the light cruiser, though of course, there were far fewer crew members. They were Aeldari Corsairs: And unlike the Imperium of Man, who had a million worlds to its name, they were not quite so fortunate.
The ship continued its approach, slowly to keep up the façade. They were not quite in the identification range of the human vessel… but that could not be said for the weapons, however.
On the front of the ship, several lances of energy begin to build up, glowing a dark purple. These star cannons let out a barrage: eight balls of burning plasma balls lighting up the darkness of space, as they began to head towards their target. The inactive and stationary human vessel slowly began to move again, dead engines stirring to life: But not quite enough to avoid the blast. As the plasma balls impacted the vessel, a bright blue shimmer erupted around the vessel, protecting it from the devastating damage that would have nearly completely destroyed the engines of the light cruiser. The shield saved the ship this time: But it could not save it against the next barrage, as another barrage of the boiling plasma hit the ship again. The engines shuddered and buckled, as a salvo of macrocannons was released from its broadside. Sixteen shells, each the size of a large house, were released into the void. The holofields of the corsair cruiser proved quite effective here, as the distorting ship proved incredibly difficult to hit. Multiple hits were presumed confirmed, but then revealed to have done nothing but sail into the empty void of space. The Redeemer of Hadas would attempt to start turning in order to utilize its prow mounted lance batteries, but The Umbral Blade would not simply let themselves get hit. Its solar sail: towering constructs that fluttered in the astral winds like the ships of old, would harness enough energy from the nearby stars to propel the aeldari ship forward. The graceful machine glided through the dark void, unleashing plasma bombardment after plasma bombardment upon the humans. Its front armor was made of thick stuff, but its side armor was not nearly as durable. Slowly, over the course of around two hours, the ship was whittled down to something not quite dissimilar to a drifting hulk. Multiple compartments had been breached, and several of the broadside guns had been silenced in an equally brutal fashion. However, surgically, the bridge of the ship had been left intact. This was of course important, because Captain Sayadi did not quite realize exactly why the corsairs had gone after him.
While Aeldari Corsairs were only loyal to themselves at a fault, the species that was the eldar had a sort of communion with the variety of subcultures of each other. Whether it be a craftworlder or harlequin or drukhari, there was one thing that united them all: The veneration and protection of eldar souls. Unlike so many other species who may wonder what awaits them on the other side, the eldar are very keenly aware of their eternal fate: To be devoured by the dark god that destroyed their once mighty empire. To prevent such a death, many eldar choose to wear soul stones: Psychic stones that capture the soul of an eldar upon the moment of death, keeping them safe from consumption from She Who Thirsts.
The protection of these soul stones are critical to the eldar, and for any lower race to take just one of these stones is a grave sin indeed. Captain Sayadi had not just one, but four of them in his own personal collection. And for the price of his hubris and his crimes, every member of the 65,000 crew, the population of Tirsfall, and all those who would lay their lives in its defense and in its taking, would pay this toll in their blood. Such is the way of the aeldari when a debt is due.
With the ship crippled, the corsairs prepared their most elite warriors: The Void Scarred, to take back what was owed.
/
Sergeant At Arms Davian Cail prepared the last of the defenses, as he uttered a prayer to his lasgun. The dim, flickering lights with a thin trail of smoke in the air and the scent of burnt corpses lingered in the air, setting the environment for a desperate, last stand. He wasn't quite sure how many of the crew had died in the salvos of the plasma bombardment, but he did know one thing. They were desperate to escape, so much so that a mutiny had occurred on the lower decks. Now they were on their way here.
A grimace formed on his face. The bloody cowards had raided multiple armories, and now had the gear necessary to overthrow the bridge staff. If only they had been more courageous. If only they had been more faithful. If only they had been more prepared, he mused to himself. Nearly two hundred voidsmen were all that separated the traitors from the bridge, where the last stand of the loyal servants of the emperor would be held. At least, that's what he presumed, if not for the blinding white glare that happened far down the corridor, followed by a faint, almost dainty mechanical noise. Then he heard them, behind the steel bulkheads and doors: The screams of men, dying in droves. His hands tightened around the stock of his lasgun, a thin sweat starting to drip from his eyebrow, dripping down the chinstrap of his helmet and dribbling onto the cold metal floor. As sudden as it was, then it was quiet again. He could feel the tension in the air, palpable as the scent of oils and fumes that was so common within the dark ship.
"Men! Steady your nerves! You are soldiers of The Imperium! Whatever comes through that door, you will stand resolute!" He would say, in an effort to assuage the nerves and the panic of the crew around him. There were a few, half hearted cheers as he was suddenly blinded by a ray of light.
Davian dropped to the ground, recognizing what was a flash grenade, as he heard the whizzing of tiny blades in the air, the panicked screams of dying men, and the familiar sound of lasguns firing. Still rubbing his eyes as he crawled on the floor, heading towards a barricade for some sort of cover, as men dropped to his left and right, cut to ribbons by the tiny blue particles in the air. So it was The Eldar.
He pulled himself, taking up a covering position and began to fire shots from his lasgun. At some point the lighting system in the hallways and corridors had failed, so he had to rely on his unaugmented eyes to make out targets in the darkness. The discharge of the bright red lasgun beams served as a basic form of illumination. He knew that turning on his torch would only seal his death.
He could only vaguely make out the darting shapes in the shadow. Dancing in between damaged pipes, gaping chasms and cutting through flesh and bone, he could see the pirates charging into melee, firing with their shuriken weapons and throwing knives and other sorts of weapons into the voidsmen, dropping bodies, weapons and limbs as they did. Some cackled with joy, the xenos enjoying the slaughter. Others were silent and sullen, as if this was nothing but a chore to them. Davian would keep firing regardless, watching as men were decapitated, disemboweled, cut to bloody chunks and ribbons. This was not a firefight. This was a slaughterhouse.
His courage buckled, as his lasgun clicked empty. Cursing up a storm, he reached for the power pack of his lasgun, fumbling to take it out as a streak of blood painted his twitching feet, as he reached for another one in his belt. Then he heard someone run up to him, just out of his peripheral vision. It was the last thought he ever had, as his throat exploded open, a torrent of crimson spilling out of his pale skin and onto the grungy floor below him. Davian choked and died. At least he was fortunate to have died quickly.
/
Kalsaar watched the human as he died in such a short matter, not quite a grimace but not quite a smirk was on his lips. He took no pleasure in killing humans, like a farmer took no pleasure in killing his livestock. He understood why he had to do so, as did the farmer. For him, it was the protection of an Aeldari's eternal soul: A price that was worth the lives of so many of these primitives. For a farmer, it would be to harvest the byproduct of an animal: Its meat would feed the farmer, its hide could be fashioned into leather, so on and so forth. But a farmer should never enjoy the laborious task of culling cattle. Like he did not enjoy the laborious task of culling primitives. That could not be said for all of the corsairs.
The Drukhari among them were giggling and laughing with glee, finding ever more creative ways to kill and maim their prey. One garroted a human with a form of razor wire, snickering with amusement as he squeezed and squeezed, the face turning from a light brown to a dull red and than to a near bright blue, before the neck was completely severed from the spine, watching as his head popped off like a cork bottle. Another pair of Drukhari, perhaps bored with the entertainment onboard and were busy toying with a female voidsman. She had long given up her weapon, and was now begging for mercy as the two punched, kicked, and stripped their victim. Kalsaar watched the two for a small amount of time, as they began to unfashion themselves of the bare essentials of their armor. With a frown he turned away, the screams and the laughter growing ever louder. His armored boots strode forth, stepping in the pool of blood that nearly stretched from compartment to compartment, of which this particular one was nearly 50 meters in length. He flicked his power sword of blood, sheathing it in one smooth fashion, though he still kept his shuriken pistol drawn. He approached his Felarch: and his sister, Alsis.
The two of them originated from Craftworld Alaitoc. Craftworlds were the only true home to the asuryani: massive vessels that were the size of planets. Once nothing but pleasure barges or cargo ships, they had since been retrofitted since their fall. To prevent the near emotional and spiritual implosion that would follow such an unspeakable catastrophe, the eldar relied on paths: both spiritual and physical training that focused on aspects of asuryani life. It was a discipline, essentially.
As he watched his sister discarded a dying human, a complicated set of emotions danced in both of their minds. His training as a seer could tell what she was thinking with just a brief skim of her mind: The truth was that she was troubled by the recent events that had unfolded: The dead god, Ynnead, had been brought into existence. There was a resonating call from the craftworlds to bring all of their outcasts home: and that included them. Both of them had left the craftworld explicitly to get away from the disciplines of the craftworld, to truly experience the galaxy that lay beyond the stars. It was hopelessly naive, he had to admit it, looking back. But he was not sure if he was ready to return just yet. She thought otherwise. It was something that had been in both of their minds for nearly a year now.
"I can tell you are still thinking about it," Kalsaar said quietly, approaching her in earnest. She had not noticed him prior, seemingly staring out into space. She only turned her head partially to glare at him out of the corner of her left eye, yet a slight smirk formed on her face.
"Was it so easy to tell?"
"Well dear sister, I regret to inform you that I can indeed, read your mind," He replied in turn. The smile widened just slightly more, causing him to lighten up just a bit.
"Oh, little brother. You need not your seer training to know what I am going to say to you next, then," she said coyly. Kalsaar sighed quietly.
"Yes. I don't. You wish to return to Alaitoc then?"
She did not say anything. Only nodding once. Another corsair walked up to them. He wore a dark, black hood over a black helmet. From the hood, a pair of green eye lenses glared at the two of them, before glancing at Alsis.
"Felarch, the humans have been dispatched. Nothing stops us from entering the bridge and reclaiming the prize from Captain Sayadi," the shade runner said quietly, sheathing his pair of twin blades.
"Good. Get the Drukhari back in formation to prepare to breach the bridge. I've tired of killing these rabble, and I have no doubt he has saved his best troops for last," Alsis commanded. The shade runner nodded only once, seemingly melding back into the darkness to carry out her orders.
"With the return of these soulstones, I believe that should be enough to earn a hero's welcome," Alsis said quietly to Kalsaar. Kalsaar let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.
"A hero's welcome? Perhaps we would be greeted back as heroes, but that would not change the fact that we were too late. Four asuryani died. And who knows how more when we reclaim their soulstones. Four less warriors to stall our extinction," He said quietly. Alsis frowned at his nihilism, but understood it. For the past ten thousand years, this was how it was: One loss after another. Any victory that their collective people had earned was foreshadowed by another crushing defeat. They had come no closer to reclaiming their ancient empire, and who knew how many souls had been lost along the way.
"Perhaps. But we would be amongst our own people once more. Would that not be enough?"
Kalsaar mused the thought to himself, as the corsairs rallied back to the felarch. They did not need much: They were Voidscarred. The best the Corsair Prince had to offer in forms of infantry. They had plundered their ways across the stars for decades, perhaps even centuries. In truth, Kelsaar had forgotten just how many lives he had taken in the name of the thrill of riches and adventure. He was not sure if he could simply just… give it all up to return home. But he would not leave his sister behind. If she truly wished to return home… then he would abide by her wishes.
"It won't be enough. But to see you happy again… then yes, it would be worth it," He said quietly, earning a small smile, one that disappeared as she turned to the rest of the void scarred.
"Sayadi has eluded us for far too long. We put an end to his deception this day, on this hour. Be careful not to completely destroy his body: I would not dare risk destroying the soulstones that he keeps on his person," She would warn, as she raised her fusion pistol to the sealed door, and began to fire. Multiple waves of heated energy slammed against the bulkhead, melting the steel so thoroughly it was only a matter of time before a massive hole had appeared, and a barrage of lasers came through.
/
Captain Sayadi unloaded round after round from his bolt pistol, drawing his power saber. His augmented eyes allowed him to track the eldar far better than the rest of his men could. In truth, he knew there was no way he could escape his demise: The odds were simply stacked against him. Instead, he would seek to kill as many of the xenos scum as he could. With a carefully placed shot, he fired a bolt round into the head of one of the corsair gunners, the side of his head exploding in a shower of bright crimson, as the other gunner fired his blaster into a squad of voidsmen. They screamed in agony, as a microscopic mesh of monofilaments turned them into bloody cubes of meat, scything through armor, cloth, skin, flesh and bone. That was another squad down. He didn't quite know how much he had left. He took cover as a barrage of monofilament was sent his way, running alongside the edges of the command deck, as he reloaded his bolt pistol. Ejecting a magazine, he inserted another one, racking the chamber with a quick movement of his hand, which still held his power saber. He only had one left. He would need to make it count.
"Captain! Enginseer has reported some engine functionality has been made! Generators are prepped! We can execute a blind warp jump!" One of the officers roared over the din of gunfire, which was quickly becoming less and less thunderous.
It was suicidal. But staying here would lead to their death either way.
"Execute emergency warp jump! Navigator? Navigator!"
Damn. Looks like they got him too. He thought to himself, as the shutters around the bridge began to shut, and roaring alarms began to sound. Though none of them could see it, on the prow of the ship, a warp portal had begun to open up: A large purple abyss teeming into seemingly nothing but everything. Something that should not exist, yet it did: And the beings beyond were all too eager to welcome new playmates.
/
Kalsaar slid under a barrage of lasgun fire, swinging with his power sword. The voidsman screamed in pain, as both the gun and the hand holding it had been cut in half. Clumsily, he attempted to reach for his pistol. Kalsaar returned in kind with a barrage from his shuriken pistol straight to his armored head. The barrage of shurikens stripped the armor and then the skin beneath, leaving a screaming and drooling flayed head whose body quickly collapsed from the shock of the damage. Not stopping, he continued on a run, sliding another a pair of voidsmen who were armed with chainswords and laspistols. They swung wide, attempting to bisect him. It was only childs play to dodge their slow and clumsy swings, and to return with masterful strokes of his own power sword, disemboweling one with the power sword and cutting the others chest open from shoulder to hip. Organs spilled from the both of them as they collapsed onto the ground, mewling in pain and agony. He denied them the mercy of a quick death as more targets approached. A pair of navy breachers, armed with combat shotguns. More experienced than the voidsmen, but that didn't help them much. It was certainly harder to dodge their shots, but it was manageable. As he began to cut and slice at one of them, the other discarded their shotgun to draw their hatchet and swing at the corsair. Kalsaar sidestepped the swing, lunging in with his power sword into the breacher's armor. The blade slipped through the armor with pathetic ease, the power field of the blade rending it like paper. The blade stuck into the breacher's heart, plunging through the ribcage and out the other side. Standing there like a drooling idiot, Kalsaar withdrew the blade and with a swift stroke, decapitated the warrior. A spurt of blood was all that could be released from the cauterized wound, as it collapsed twitching and convulsing on the deck of the cruiser. He allowed himself a momentary amount of joy at his handiwork, but then he felt a shaking within the ship, and an announcement on the loudspeakers.
"Emergency Warp Jump initiated in one minute," a mechanical voice said aloud. Kalsaar's mood darkened, the wry smirk turning into a horrified gasp. A warp jump? That should have been impossible! They had ensured it!
"Kalsaar! Brother!" A voice cried out. Kalsaar whipped around to see his sister in equal amounts of concern.
"Sister! We need to prevent the ship from entering the warp!"
"Agreed, but I'm not sure ho-"
Time to an asuryani is both fast and slow. The actions of lesser beings were slow, how like a fly could so easily evade the swatting of a human. At the same time, the thousands of years they could live to and sometimes do live to seem to sometimes pass by. But in this moment, time came to a near stop, as he watched in horror as a hole erupted from her lower torso. A pained, silent gasp escaped her mouth, as the bolt round made a fist sized hole in her lower sternum. Then another one appeared, this time through her left shoulder, her arm nearly being blown off. Then a final one, as the left side of her head was turned into paste. The soulstone embedded in her chest turned bright, signaling that her soul had successfully been captured by the stone. She was spared from oblivion: But that was something that seemed to be approaching ever faster.
His sister of nearly three hundred years was dead in a matter of two seconds. Perhaps three.
Kalsaar's war mask: A concept of dulling an aldaris emotions in the heat of battle, slipped. The near neutral face that was hidden behind his curved and sloped helmet turned into one of roaring vengeance. He ran up the stairs towards his sister's killer, and found him: Captain Sayadi himself. The two combatants stared at each other for a few moments, neither exchanging any words. They did not need to.
Sayadi reacted first, firing the rest of his bolt pistol at him. Kalsaar ducked and weaved, closing the distance in a matter of a second, swinging wildly with his power sword. The captain was ready for him, deflecting the clumsy strike with his own saber. Parrying the blow, the captain lunged forth with his own blade. Kalsaar's blind rage subsided enough to dodge the thrust, swinging at the captain's sword arm and cutting it off at the elbow. The captain roared in anger, as he tackled the corsair with the mass of his body. The two tumbled down the stairs from whence they came, Kalsaar ending up at the bottom of the dogpile. Sayadi began to strike him with the butt of his bolt pistol, striking at his helmet again and wraithbone helmet cracked open after the fifth impact, bloodying his nose as it broke. Kalsaar reacted with a quick jab of his fingers into Sayadi's remaining good eye, getting him to yelp out in pain. An opportunity enough for Kalsaar to end this charade, reach for his power sword, and plunge it into Sayadi's chest. The captain let out a silent wail, as the air was drained out from the wound in his chest. One last spit of blood at Kalsaar's face was his last action of defiance as he faded from the world.
"Warp Jump Initiating! Warning! Gellar Field Failing!" the loudspeakers roared, as the ship began to shudder. Kalsaar threw off the ruined remains of his helmet, as he ran back up to his sisters body. Her body: mangled as it was, was at peace. He gently reached for her soul stone, plucking it out of her ruined chest and slipping it into a satchel in his belt. She was safe. For now. He would scavenge what weapons he could from the dead eldar: Alsis's tactical eyepiece, a corsair shredder, and a pair of Hekatarii blades. But as he turned, he could feel the entropy of the warp all around him. And it was not very long until the few survivors still alive would notice it.
The psychic screams from outside were loud. So loud. And it did not take much for the residents of this hellish place to make themselves known. Dead bodies began to rise, twisting and mutating as the daemons took over their mortal flesh to entertain themselves. Daemons began to slither out from the cracks and crevices… alluring and lustful, but hateful and sinister in their own right. Daemonettes of She Who Thirsts. They had come for the souls of the dead corsairs… and his own.
Kalsaar inhaled, and exhaled. As he did, his excess rage and sorrow at the death of his sister left his body as did the air in his lungs. He drew his sword and pistol once more. He had fought his way into the ship. Now he had to fight his way out of the ship.
But that was not quite what happened.
As the first daemonettes rushed towards him, baying and shrieking: lusting for the pain and suffering they would inflict upon his immortal soul, a bright flash of light enveloped him. For a time, he felt like was falling. Falling where? Truth be told, he could not be sure. There was no scent, nothing to see and nothing to hear. It was an abyss of emptiness. And then, he finally did hit something, as his eyes went black for a small time. He could see the night sky from… somewhere. The scent of a midnight desert, the particles of sand and dirt brushing past his skin. He slowly rose up, glancing around. In the far distance he could see what was no doubt a human city: Bright and glowing. A stark contrast to the endless desert around him. A bright city in the dark night.
He glanced down at himself, fumbling for his satchel, and retrieving the object within: Alsis's soul stone. It still pulsed with psychic energy, causing a sigh of relief to slip from his lips. He collapsed to his knees, the emotions rushing back. He tried to push them back. And he failed. As he glanced at the city in the distance, a hateful sneer began to form on his lips, as he drew his weapons once more.
A farmer should not enjoy culling the cattle. And he should not enjoy the culling of primitives. But should is not the same as could. And right now, he certainly felt like he could make do with it.
/
Night City. The pet project of a man named Richard Night. Richard Night envisioned a city that was self sufficient, completely planned, and capable of holding off even the most determined criminals. In its long and tumultuous history it had failed, multiple times at being even one of these. Between criminal gangs, the mob, the yakuza, and the myriad of corporations and special interest groups, the reins of leadership had been exchanged from one hand to another: each one greased with promises, lies, and bribes. A city that should theoretically repulse anyone that came to it, yet hundreds flocked to it every day. In truth, it was a city of dreams: and like a dream, it was often intangible. People came here to see their dreams come true: they often died with them.
Watson used to be an industrial powerhouse, thanks to the efforts of Northside Industrial. It had everything: The biggest black market, a top end medcenter, and a myriad of other services that were completely open to the public. But when the jobs ran dry and Northside Industrial collapsed in on itself, the money went with it. Nowadays, Watson is by far the poorest district in Night City, and home to a lot of undesirables in the corporate eye. The Northside area in particular is home to one of the most rambunctious and despicable of said undesirables: Maelstrom.
Maelstrom was considered a booster gang: A gang who heavily enhanced their members with less than legitimately acquired cyberware. Nearly a third of Maelstrom's members were clinical cyber psychos, and the remainder of them were borderline. With Maelstrom, anything went. Protection Rackets, Human Trafficking, Illegal BDs, smuggling, and the odd hit jobs. Their outposts in the area were numerous, and each of these outposts were semi-independently run: so long as their due was paid, they would generally be left alone. How that due was earned, did not quite matter.
Craig took another hit of Black Lace. He craved the feeling of the drug washing down his lungs, purifying his body from the dull pains of his cyberware for the briefest moments. He exhaled it in a puff, watching the rain from outside the shop, where his boys were currently having their way with the shopkeeper. He was late with his eddies. And of course, he had to pay. But Craig wasn't quite feeling like doing it himself tonight, so he let his boys and girls handle it. He could hear the man begging for mercy, as their cruel laughter echoed throughout the night. He watched the drops of rain idly for a time, watching it increase from a slight drizzle to a near deafening downpour.
A sneer formed on his face, his lips curling into a frown. Fuckin rain. He thought to himself, as he took another hit from the inhaler I just got these fucking clothes yesterday.
He glanced back at his boys, who had finished beating up the shopkeeper. With a dismissive grunt, he shoved the inhaler back into his coat pocket, as he walked up to him. He was an elderly man in his sixties. Not much cyberware worth nicking off of him. A practiced cruel grin formed on Craigs lips, as he could start to feel the effects of the drug coursing through his blood.
"Alright you cheeky little fucker. I hope you got the memo by now, or I'm gonna brand it on your ass next time I see you. You owe eddies? You pay them on time! And you better not be short on em! Not even by one!" He warned, almost scolding the near death man. He mumbled something, something to which Craig took offense to. Not what the content of the whisper was, but the fact he even dared to backtalk him in the first place.
"The fuck you say!"
"I… I didn't say anything!" The old man cried, trying to speak through heaving breaths. Craig snarled, reaching down to scoop him up by the collar of his greasy white shirt.
"I dont think I fucking believe you, hombre! I said speak the fuck up!"
He didn't quite know what he was going to say next, as he heard one of his boys scream in agony. He whipped around to see what was left of him: a gushing pile of red and white blood and flesh and cyberware. It looked like he had been cut up by some kind of net or something. Craig let out a quick 'shit', reaching for his Lexington. His boys came here to intimidate, not to fight. The rest of them drew their weapons: mostly some forms of clubs, bats, nightsticks, and a few knives.
"Where the fuck is he?"
"I dont know!"
"Look for the fuckin gonk, couldn't have gone far!"
A living shadow seemed to slip through the door, darting in between the men. Then the screams started. A pair of knives in the hands of a deft killer, moving far too fast to be human. A solo with a Sandevistan, perhaps?
Craig whipped around, filing wildly with his Lexington, screaming. He watched as his crew of 8 was quickly whittled down to just him. Throats cut open, cyberware glitching and sparking, red and white blood pooling and spurting all over the place.
Craig had held his finger on the trigger this entire time, and had done essentially nothing but shatter a few windows and put some holes in the floor. Swearing in panic, he threw it down, unleashing his mantis blades. His forearms opened up, revealing the large, nearly two foot blades from their holding. Now he had a look at his attacker. The gonk was wearing some kind of strange dark green, almost black armor. It was shiny and smooth, but had some ruggedness to it he couldn't quite describe. It almost looked bone-like. The face was that of a young man, with some kind of eyepiece covering his right eye, and a hood covering up the rest of his face. Him releasing his mantis blades seems to have thrown him off. With this, a cruel smile formed on his face.
"Yeah motherfucker! You're scared! You better run, you little fuck! Ill rip you to pieces!"
The attacker did not say anything, only twirling the blades and running forward. It was the fastest thing he had ever seen. Such was the case with Sandevistans. He had practice against them before, but nothing quite like this. He could only swing once before both of his arms had been severed like nothing. White blood spurted out at first: Synth Blood. Then the real stuff. Craig collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony, as his killer stood over him, watching him squirm like common garbage. Craig wanted to curse at him, but he didn't have the energy for it. Then he watched, like a man in a guillotine, as the blade came straight for his neck.
Lets see how this goes.