A Hive-Ganger's Game

by wulfenheim

A nameless hive ganger dies and is granted access to a Gamer System. A gestalt power is unleashed upon the Imperium of Mankind, a god in the making. But, before our main character can even hope to reach godhood, they must first survive the Hive and all the dangers that come with it. Slow-burn Gamer story. (still a gamer, though; so, expect some godlike shenanigans very later down

2. Chapter 2

Twenty two souls.

I still wasn't entirely sure what I wanted to do with them, but I suppose I'd find some measure of clarity once I reached maybe a hundred. The simplest and most efficient course of action, I figured, was to burn out as many of them as I could to strengthen myself, first and foremost. Having an army of spirits sounded incredibly useful, but it seemed like a secondary thing, next to the necessity of making myself stronger than I already was. And I needed that strength. Down here, in the Underhive, I'd need all the strength I could get my hands on. But, once again, I did not want to make use of any of the souls in my collection until I got about a hundred of them.

It also brought me closer to finishing the second Skill Quest, which was rather important since it was the only way for me to progress with my status as a Living Revenant.

Skill Quest: Living Revenant 2
- Kill 15 people (8/15)
- Steal 15 souls (8/15)
Rewards:
- Revenant Skill (Basic)
- Access to Gamer Shop Function

And, honestly, down here, I'd find no shortage of people who wanted to die a painless death, but were too weak or sickly to do it themselves, consigned to exist like broken little things, unable to live, but unable to die. I didn't like killing people. Or, at the very least, I didn't enjoy it as most others seemed to. The Corleone Family was known as somewhat benevolent when compared to the other Gangs, but even it had plenty of members who'd happily kill people when ordered to do so. However, just because I didn't enjoy it doesn't mean I hated it, either. I would kill if ordered and if necessary, especially if the person I was killing deserved it. Or, in the case of the miserable wretches that dotted the Underhive, merciful.

There were lines I wouldn't cross, however, such as killing the innocent – or, really, anyone who's done me no harm or ill-intent. There were enough people who did just that, down here.

I stalked forward until I reached a place known only as the Den of the Rats, where the relatively healthy hordes of vagrants gathered in large masses to try and form gangs of their own in a bid to try and carve out their own territories from other, larger gangs.

Of course, it almost never worked, because the vagrants had no weapons of their own and, more often than not, their gangsters were little more than malnourished miscreants, wielding metal bats and pipes and spears. It didn't help that the Den of the Rats itself was essentially just a sector of the Underhive's sewage system. Specifically, the zone that became known as the Den of the Rats was where waste water was gathered in gargantuan batches and then filtered and purified, before it was sent right back into the Hive. The vagrant gangs made their dwellings in the space beneath the massive tanks that processed these waters, miles and miles of metal beams and piles of ancient junk.

The only light that illuminated this dark place were the faint lights that came from the machinery, the greens and blues and reds. Otherwise, the bums made do with cooking up grease fires, made from human fat, within large containers.

Heating was not a problem as the machines themselves emitted enough of it to make this place much hotter than most humans preferred – not deadly, but definitely not comfortable either. As to where and how they received corpse-starch rations, I had no idea. I speculated that they must've had a patron who preferred to maintain their numbers and the status quo, likely someone from the Upperhive as usual.

The vagrant gangs did not bother me as I passed through their territory, which was good as there were millions of them down here and I wasn't about to test my luck against that many opponents. [Free-Running Master] allowed me to easily maneuver through the metal graveyard that was the Den of the Rats. I climbed and jumped and leapt across great crevices and heights. There were plenty of spectators, of course, bums who'd long given up on the very idea of hope and simply spent the rest of their remaining days down here, counting down the hours left in their miserable lives. I made sure to avoid the gang territories, however, as I wasn't entirely sure how their members might react to my presence.

After all, I was still wearing the colors of the Corleone Family, dirtied and ragged though it might've been. And, as one of the most powerful gangs, the Corleone Family had plenty of enemies, both in the upper and lower hives. Our enemies usually targeted the captains, often skinning and then crucifying them out in the open, for all the rats and flies to gorge themselves on. But, every now and then, a poor soldier, like myself, gets captured and is put through even worse tortures, like being turned into a Servitor.

I'm still not quite certain as to why we weren't attacked or ambushed when we passed by, earlier. Our Captain had a Lasgun, but I didn't think – for a single moment – that such a weapon would deter the human vermin that dwelt in this place.

Whatever the case, free-running my way out of the Den of the Rats went rather smoothly. And, soon enough, I found myself facing the immense caverns and reaches of the Valley of the Beastmen, a monstrous place of ancient and abandoned machinery. Like the Den of the Rats, the Valley of the Beastmen housed a population of millions of hungering, rabid mutants. Still, as long as I made sure to keep myself visible and threatening, then the beasts typically kept away. The only problem I had was that I was alone and the beastmen, more than anything, loved to prey on those they perceived to be weak.

I breathed in and willed forth the Lasgun from my [Inventory]. I was weak before – powerless, even – but not anymore. I was going to rise up the Hive, higher than any man who came before me; I wasn't going to stop until I became the planetary governor. Probably. I had no idea how I'd get there, but that was the goal.

My ears perked up. A noise came from the right. I turned and took aim. There was a child there, lingering about in the shadows. Short, maybe about three and a half to four feet tall, eyes glowing emerald, like irradiated goop, and twin, branch-like horns extending from both sides of its head. A mutant. A beastman. It carried with it a cleaver of some kind, dripping blood. I lowered my aim and set the sights firmly on its forehead.

A single pull of the trigger and its entire torso would be vaporized. I've seen what Lasguns did to people. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Still, I'd prefer to get through this place without resorting to violence if I could. Beastmen were disgustingly ugly and horrifying creatures, but it wasn't their fault that they were born that way, misshapen and abominable.

If anything, theydeserved, at least, a modicum of mercy. But, it was entirely possible that I was alone in that opinion. "Walk away and you get to keep your head."

That was the one and only chance I was going to give.

The beastman child let out a soft, bleating noise, as it dropped the cleaver and began walking backwards, deeper into the darkness. Unlike the Den of the Rats, the Valley of the Beastmen was practically a haven of shadows; the only lights that illuminated this place came from whatever flickers and beams shined through from the roof, just enough that I could walk around without bumping into every little thing around me. Well,that and the glowing radioactive sludge piles. The beastman stopped. And then, its gaze shifted and our eyes locked. "Grandfather will come for this world soon..."

And then, it turned and scurried away, making bestial noises as it disappeared fully into the dark. I raised a brow and shrugged. I had no idea who its grandfather was and what it wanted with this planet, and I honestly didn't care. Beastmen were crazy and often spouted nonsense whenever and wherever they could, which was a big part of the reason why most people hated them as a lot of the things they maddeningly spoke of were heretical in nature – not that the Underhive had a shortage of heretics, but the Beastmen were easier outlets for hatred. They already looked ugly. And one could even argue, with how far removed they were from baseline humanity, that the beastmen were essentially just xenos.

Shaking my head, I willed away the Lasgun back into my [Inventory] and walked forward. By the Emperor, I could barely see anything. The single silver lining through all of this was the fact that the Valley of the Beastmen wasn't a winding maze of corridors, like the Den of the Rats; instead, there was a single path that anyone could pass through, a graveyard of scrap metal and filth on either side, where the mutant hordes resided. My plan here was simple: run forward until I reached the exit. If, for whatever reason, the Beastmen decided to attack and surround me, I could just step sideways and wait for them to disperse from my Afterlife.

And so, breathing in, I ran forward with all the speed I could muster. Becoming a Living Revenant did not give me infinite stamina, unfortunately, but I'd lived almost my whole life on the run and, as a result, I could maintain a rather fast pace without heaving and wheezing after just five minutes. Almost immediately, however, I noted the glowing crimson eyes in the darkness, following me, watching and waiting. Beastmen. And there were easily thousands of them around me. I heard whispers in the dark, hushed voices and tones.

It honestly almost seemed like they were talking about me.

But, I maintained my pace. Slowing down might just be perceived as some form of weakness and I couldn't afford that. The Beastmen kept their distance, which was honestly quite miraculous, even if I honestly had no idea why. Thank the Emperor for that. And against all odds, I reached the end of the Valley of the Beastmen unharmed. Once there, I simply climbed up the ladder that would transport me into the middle section of the Underhive, where most criminal and civilian activity occurred. I'd report to the boss and put this mess behind me. The mission was a bust. My arms burned a little as I pulled myself up the ladder.

The first thing that greeted me was the dark gray ceiling, an expanse of metal that kept the Upperhive separated from all the chaos and the squalor of the Underhive.

I gasped and hissed as I climbed out of the man hole, my arms burning from the climb, and onto the middle of the Underhive, into a dingy alley, which was commonly frequented by narcotics dealers whenever the Arbites were out and away. Said dealers were present when I pulled myself out, one of them jumping and screeching in surprise as I stood and breathed in, dusting away the dirt and grime that clung to my clothes. "What the-!"

"Watchu doin' here, girlie?" One of the druggies said. Ah, this was a common-enough misunderstanding that I no longer cared enough to correct him. He eyed me up and down. "Corleone Family making a move for the sewers now?"

I turned and vaguely recognized the tall and withered man in tattered black robes, wearing a crow-shaped gas mask. Actually, the druggies here all wore similar outfits, each one marked by the symbol of the Crows – just one of hundreds of narcotics manufacturers who catered to the under and upper hives, though they sold most of their products down here, where the Arbites were far less active. They weren't hostile, however, and one of the unspoken rule among the gangs was that druggies were to be left alone, unless they actively made themselves hostile, which actually happened quite a lot. I shook my head. "No, the Baxter Boys did all that."

I'm still not entirely sure how they even managed to claim territory so far away from the middle of the Underhives, even beyond the Den of the Rats and the Valley of the Beastmen; the only possible answer was that the bastards were crazy enough to have dug their own tunnel somehow, straight down. The Arbites would have a field day with them if that was ever proven right. I suppose the boss would probably send me back down there with a bigger team.

"Hm, weird. Why would they even bother?" The druggie said, before shrugging. "You want a fix, girlie?"

I shrugged. Narcotics were never my thing, but I enjoyed a nice high here and there, but that was before I joined the Corleone Family. The boss hated narcotics and anyone who used them, banning drugs entirely from the gang. Though, I was pretty sure only the Captains were put through mandatory drug testing. I also still had a bunch of Crowns in my pocket, even if they were dirty from that brief mucking about in the sewer. "Watchu got?"

"I have Yellow Snakes, Death Sticks, and Angel Feathers," The druggie said, gesturing at his purse. There were three others here, but these guys usually sold the same things. Now, Yellow Snakes, which were taken orally, usually gave a pretty sweet high, lasting about an hour at most, before the other symptoms kicked in, like nausea or death. Death Sticks, by virtue of their name, either killed you or made your dreams wondrous and colorful; it was a fifty-fifty chance, either way. Angel Feathers made you feel weightless for about two hours, before it paralyzed you for the rest of the day.

All three were the lowest quality narcotics one could find down here, the cheapest of the cheap. Not worth it. Plus, I figured I'd save my money for more important things.

"Nah, no thanks," I said, shaking my head as I turned and took a step towards the alley's exit. I stopped, turned, and smiled. "Oh, and I'm not a girl."

Immediately outside the alley was the Path of Flesh, a stretch of road that went on for nearly two miles; and, from within gargantuan buildings of rockrete and metal, prostitutes, biomancers, and butchers plied their trade. Weird combination of professions, honestly, but it's been that way for the last... thousands of years and there was a theme of flesh going on. Of course, the prostitutes themselves, more often than not, formed their own gangs, earning Crowns through their bodies. The Serpentine Daughters was one of the most powerful gangs in the Underhive and there were even rumors that those of the Upperhive made use of their services.

Biomancers were hunted by Arbites wherever they hid, but their services were highly prized by anyone who could afford them – people with disabilities who wished to heal damaged limbs, deformed people who wanted to make themselves not ugly, men who wanted to be women, and women who wanted to be men. I never met one, but even the rich nobles from the Upperhives sought them out from time to time.

"Hey there, beautiful," A male prostitute greeted me as I turned and walked down the open road, the stench of a thousand people hitting my nostrils. I raised a brow as I passed. The prostitute smiled, revealing a neat row of artificial teeth. "Five Crowns for an hour."

I did not deign the man with a reply; instead, I kept walking. I received plenty of advances from prostitutes of every sex and gender; it was a common-enough occurrence that it no longer disturbed or annoyed me as it once did, when I was a lot younger. But prostitutes did not interest me at all. Although, to be honest, sex in general didn't interest me all that much. I've tried it a few times with a bunch of strangers, just to explore, to see what all the fuss was about; after all, there didn't seem to be a shortage of people wanting to sleep with me, but it just... never felt right. So, ignoring the prostitutes and their advances was easy.

The territory of the Corleone Family laid at the southernmost edge of the Path of Flesh. But, already, I spotted several men and women, wearing Corleone colors, mingling about with the whores, a few of whom sent glances my way. But, without a Captain's emblem, none of them cared. As a soldier, I was no one – just another pile of flesh in human form to be tossed at problems with every expectation of dying, like myself – expendable. Captains were a little more important, given en emblem to represent the Corleone Family, a private room, higher pay, and rations. Above the Captains were the Underbosses who, each, led their own teams of captains. And right above the Underbosses was the Boss himself, Don Corleone.

"Hey, you're that pretty boy from Michael's squad," A guard said as I walked up to the Corleone Compound; walled off and protected by a heavily-armed crew, only members and guests were allowed in. Otherwise, the standing order was to kill on sight, which was something the corpses around me apparently weren't aware of. The weapons that'd once been aimed right at my head as I walked up the compound were lowered. The guard was... unfamiliar, but probably not new – tall, lanky, wrinkled, and missing most of his teeth. He carried a large Stubber Rifle, slung over his shoulders. I didn't like the way he grinned at me – the lust in his eyes. I also didn't like the way he smelled or looked, either.

And it was for that reason that I decided that he'd be the first one I was going to test [Gaslight] on, since it seemed like an overall harmless ability. Plus, messing with people was fun. So, I wanted to see just what I could get away with. The other guards wouldn't pay us much attention, if at all, seeing as they already were turning away from me. "What's your name?"

"Karn," The man said, still grinning as he took a slow, single step towards me. "And you?"

"Karn? I could've sworn your name was Harold," I said, keeping my face straight and flat and neutral. Almost immediately, I felt the skill begin working, like webs and snares of imperceptible concepts reaching out of me and into the guard's mind. "Yeah, your name's Harold, right?"

The guard stopped and frowned. "No, I just told you, my name's Karn."

I pretended to think about it for a moment. "But Karn's a big guy with big muscles. Don't you remember? You guys were assigned on the same job a few days ago. You're Harold, the guy who went with him. I think you guys were supposed to root out a rat from one of the whore houses down the street."

"What? No, I don't know anyone liked that- wait... maybe? What? My name's Karn. What game are you playing at, pretty boy?" His frustration grew.

His will was weak. I could almost grin as more and more of the conceptual webs ensnared his mind, muddling his thoughts, his judgment, hismemories. "I'm not playing at anything. Maybe you were just drunk? Come on, Harold, forgetting your own name seems pretty weird. Are you okay? Did someone lace your drink?"

"What the- no," His brows furrowed and his face twisted. More and more webs ensnared his mind. And, then, finally, the snares wrapped around his memories, altering them. "I have no idea who... went with me on the job. I don't remember his name."

"Oh, come on, Harold," I pressed on, knowing full well that there was no job as the man was a guard and had been a guard for as long as I remembered. "You can't just forget the names of your fellow soldiers. Karn's a pretty swell guy. That's just crazy."

"I don't know anyone named Karn..." His eyes narrowed and I knew, in that moment, that [Gaslight] had fully taken over the reins. I haven't quite succeeded in implanting a false name, but I did succeed in making him forget his real name. The guard rubbed his chin and frowned. "Nope, doesn't ring a bell."

"Oh well, Harold," I passed him by and tapped him on the shoulder, almost grinning. I had him. But, as funny as this was, I couldn't afford to waste any more time on this miscreant when I needed to report back to the boss. "Maybe it'll come back to you. See ya later, Harold."

"See ya," Karn raised his hand and waved me away, a mask of utter confusion over his face. Still, I kept up the neutral mask as I stepped into the Corleone Compound, the heart of the gang's territory, a single square mile of buildings, apartments, warehouses, and all sorts of structures – all of which belonging to the Corleone Family. We even had a soup kitchen on the west side, courtesy of Don Corleone himself.

Within the Corleone Compound, Soldiers, like myself, were only give permit to roam the grounds, the gym, and the apartments. The apartments was especially of great importance as, often times, there were more people than rooms available and, understandably, my peers liked to fight for space, a practice that was encouraged by the Underbosses as long as no one actually died. Those who did not possess a room of their own were given sleeping mattresses, made from old and abandoned clothes, sewn together.

I actually had one, which I kept hidden in one of the exhaust ports close to the apartment complex.

Soldiers were forbidden from entering the Headquarters, the Armory, the Bathhouse, and the pantry.

"What the fuck happened to ya, kid?" One of the soldiers asked me, approaching from the entrance of the headquarters. It was a woman, this time, taller than myself, like most people were, with decently clean skin, thick muscles, and a bald head. I recognized her – a soldier, but only because she denied her own promotion. I'm not quite sure why she did that. But everyone in the Corleone family knew or, at least, heard of her – Mariyah, one of the Don's personal bodyguards. At six feet and eight inches, there were even rumors that she'd enhanced herself, somehow, to become something of a superhuman. But those were just rumors. Mariya carried with her a Power Maul, the same sort of weapon carried by the dreaded Arbites. She sent me a curious look. "You look like shit."

My skin was clean, yes, but my outfit was more or less ruined. "I was a part of Captain Michael's squad. The Baxter Boys ambushed us when we reached the Sewers. I'm the only survivor."

Well, I'm the only one who was lucky enough to be resurrected.

Several soldiers glanced my way as they passed us by, likely wondering why a nameless kid was talking to one of our most fearsome members.

Mariyah hummed and nodded, eyeing me up and down. "And you marched all the way back here on your own, through the Den of the Rats and the Valley of the Beastmen? Ballsy. Come on; follow me. The Don will want to hear of this."

I took a step forward and Mariyah frowned immediately. Once again, her eyes roamed my body, but there was no malice behind her gaze, only judgment. She then reached for something behind her and pulled out a pristine white card and handed it to me. There was a symbol on it that I did not recognize. "On second thought; go ahead and take a bath. Soldiers are normally not allowed in the Bathhouse, but the Don isn't a fan of anyone who smells like raw sewage, either. Show this card to the guard and he'll let you in. Hurry up. You have twenty minutes."

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Also," She reached for another card – a red one, this time – and offered it to me. "Get some new clothes in the Armory, something that isn't covered in piss and shit."

"Understood, ma'am."

I visited the armory first, where I was given an identical, but cleaner and far less ragged, version of the outfit I already wore.

Finding the Bathhouse was easy. The guard stopped me, at first, before I gave him the card. The interior was not empty, but each shower area was separated from the others through individual cubicles. I walked into the first one I could find, stripped down to nothing, and bathed as quickly as I could. The water was cold and had a metallic scent to it, but I wasn't complaining. This was the first shower I've ever had in... well... forever. I wanted it to last forever, I even drank some of the water, but I couldn't waste any time on this... luxury, no matter how much I wanted to. So, five minutes later, I walked out of the Bathhouse, once more catching glimpses and gazes as I walked right back to the Headquarters, where Mariyah was waiting for me.

"You're not late," She said, nodding. "Good. A lot of people get lost in the showers."

"I know my place." I replied. "Though, I can see why a lot of people spend an inordinate amount of time there."

"You don't smell like shit anymore," Mariyah said, before she turned and walked to the entrance of the Headquarters, gesturing at me to follow. "Follow me. The Don's just inside. You know, depending on how you perform in the coming days, you might just get a promotion – or, at least, receive a boon. That is, of course, if you don't get yourself killed."

I liked the sound of that.