[M] Shades of Grey - IC

[Imperial1917]

Slowly she blinked and felt liquid trace down her face. The drop trailed from the corner of her eye, following the path forged by those that had come before it. She didn’t know whether it was tears or blood.

Her eyes were cast skyward, blank and uncomprehending. At times she closed them reluctantly, apprehensive of the things she saw in the darkness there beyond the light of the stars above.

Breathing deeply, she closed them once more.

As the last of the light faded beyond the screen of her eyelashes, she felt a jerk. It started in her limbs and moved to her chest. There it pulled on something that was neither flesh nor bone, but rather something deeper down in her being. Hooks that should not have been pulled at it, straining the tethers that kept her anchored to this realm. Whispers that no other could hear reached her ears, coaxing and threatening, sweet and bitter all at once. The breath left her in a single, quick burst, like a death rattle. Still she resisted the urge to open her eyes and end it all.

Images came in a torrent, assaulting senses that many others simply did not have. They showed her everything and nothing, the future, the past, the present. Their recollections, their understandings, their predictions, they were all numberless and they were all true and terrifying to know. All but one that she could feel was there but could not find. It eluded her like a hare of the hunt as it all weight down on her shoulders and her eyes and her heart and that thing deeper within that was being drawn loose. Somewhere deep within she knew that she had to endure.

Endure she did. Against the relentless torrent she reached out and grasped for something, anything to use against it. The world she inhabited whirled like a pool of conflicting tides and she strained for something more, somewhere to put all these things. Abruptly she found it. It was real and hungry and in the pursuit of perfection and perfect. A wall collapsed, cascading down like a shattered fortress, and the floor gave way to a limitless void. It was hungry. It wanted nothing more than to feed. It consumed everything. The torrent of images, the thing pulling at her, they all were consumed. Then it withdrew like it had never been, leaving her feeling peaceful. And alone, she was alone. Stillness prevailed and she opened her eyes, the starlight filling her vision once more.

Pain abruptly filled the void. The ground under her back, solid in a way that was never meant to be, hurt her. The lights, incandescent and bright, burned with an unnatural fervor that obscured the stars above, striking beneath flesh and bone. Even her own body betrayed her, refusing to yield to her demands. Pain filled her universe. Looking over to her side, she saw that one hand was clasped in a death grip around the shaft of a spear, its tip clean where she could feel that it ought not to have been. Cold air filled the night, lurking in the darkness and prevailing in the light. That was the extent of her world.

This was not meant to be. She knew that, the feeling rising from deep within her. There were things to know and people who needed to know them. The mysteries of the universe existed to be unraveled, not left to darkness. An urge to know more than the small world she inhabited arose from the recesses of her being to the fore, stronger than the fatigue that weighed down her limbs. She rolled feebly onto her side, sliding the spear out from under her. Striking the haft to the ground as a support, she attempted to climb to her feet.

Suddenly there was a hand clasping hers, pulling her to her feet. It was much larger with calluses that dominated much of its surface, a strength that could never be seen only felt under the surface. Yet it held her hand with a firm, kind touch that revealed parts as soft and smooth as silk and warmth that gave her strength merely by contact, bracing against the cold air. A feminine face filled her view as she turned her eyes, shapely and athletic with a look that was a mixture of exhaustion and concern. Strength to protect and purity of purpose radiated from this woman, a bright light giving her a halo that illuminated her face.

Looking upon this figure she licked her lips to speak, but no words would come. It was as if she was struck dumb, her only response a heat that infused her body, though she knew not for certain why. In that moment, she felt nothing but gratitude to this woman. A static at the back of her mind said that there was something she was supposed to say, but the words would not come.

Abruptly the woman turned away and the warmth of her hand was gone. Following the woman’s gaze two men came into view. One wielded a wicked blade and was closing on the other. The woman gave a shout, raising a hand to point at the two men, and started toward them. Grasping the haft of the spear with both hands, she made to follow, but her knees refused to comply and she fell to the ground with a thump.

Looking down, she cast a distainful look at her knees where they lay, scraped and bruised, for betraying her at this vital moment. She could feel the light fading; she could feel its approaching absence, and she knew that she had to follow that woman. In the light’s absence, she knew she had to follow her. Yet her knees betrayed her and she could not. Then she realized something. It came dimply at first, and then became abruptly clear.

All around her the world was drab and utilitarian. The ground was covered in lines of white and black and yellow, dim and worn in the weak lights of bleak whites and lusterless oranges, their rays falling onto containers of faded browns and greens lorded over by peeling rust red cranes. Even the woman was wearing blackened gear that blended in with the night such that she could vanish in shadows. This was not her way.

Gazing at her traitorous knees, it dawned on her that they were all but bare. Strips of torn material concealed parts of her legs, but not enough to cover the collections of scrapes and bruises that covered them. Rips like those of movement after an impact had shredded much of the protective leggings, even ripping parts of the protective sheet that should have stretched to her knees, and still did in some places. But what struck her were the colors.

Looking down at her clothes, bright colors filled her vision, assaulting her senses. Bright yellows and vivid pinks mixed with flowing purples and neon blues. Studying the sleeve of the odd dress-robe hybrid that covered much of her chest over an opaque blouse, she saw that there was a scrap of dark blue, almost black, fabric that did not belong against the background of bright green. Pulling at it she dragged into view a larger piece of heavy fabric. A glance at her legs revealed similar leavings, torn and all but obliterated and giving way to the riot of color and light fabric that lay beneath them. Seeing them, she breathed in, feeling the colors like a heavy perfume as the air prevailed her lungs. It clouded her mind but gave her strength.

The fatigue she felt bled away and she rose once more to her feet, the spear grasped in her hands. Looking at the darkness of the torn fabric, she flicked it away with distain and turned her gaze toward the woman. The woman was rushing toward the two men. As before, one was armed with a knife and one was not, though he apparently had a pistol. But now she saw more clearly. Neither the woman nor the second man was dressed as she was. The first man, by contrast, was a riot of color in his ripped leather jacket splashed with industrial neon paints. Just like her.

Something told her not to kill the woman, but surely the pistol-wielding man was expendable. And the knife-wielder... he had excellent taste. Hefting her spear, she made toward the confrontation, dismissing for later a question that occurred to her:

Who was she?

[Felwether]

Whoever he was the years had not been kind to him, he thought as he caught a glimpse of himself in a jagged piece of broken glass. He had dark circles beneath his grey eyes and his head was bald and marked with small dents a bumps, most were old but there were fresh marks, caused by whatever had happened here. His cheeks bore deep, ragged scars which extended from the corners of his mouth and back to the base of his jaw. Worryingly, he was covered in blood and he immediately used the sleeve of his jumpsuit to try to wipe it away, unsure whether it was his own or someone else’s. He glanced sidelong at the eyeless corpse next to him and knew that he was responsible.

There was someone else in the building with him, a man with long flowing hair and brutal looking chainsword strapped to his back. Abner nodded to him, instinctively knowing that he was an ally, and watched as he slowly made his way to the exit. He gathered up the things which he somehow knew to be his - a pair of silver photovisors which he put on, a short barrelled revolver and a switchblade with an exquisitely carved handle - and stumbled after the other man.

Sarna was long gone by the time Hadrak and Abner came stumbling out of the warehouse and bumped straight into Konstantin. Friend, they somehow knew, despite the priest's nightmarish appearance - with his smouldering electoos, silver eye implants and burnt rags of clothing. A nagging feeling told them that there should be four of them, as they looked around the torn-up shell of the industrial estate.

Abner nodded to this strange newcomer too and set about trying to clean himself up a bit. He stuffed the weapons he had gathered into his blood soaked pockets and removed his gloves before unzipping the front of his jumpsuit, revealing a garish red shirt decorated with blue and yellow flowers. He shoved the leather gloves into an inside pocket and looked around in confused disbelief. Just what had happened here?

Directly outside the door lay a decapitated corpse, and another that had bled out from a slashed throat. As they approached the bodies, there was a metallic clatter and a young man wriggled himself free of a section of industrial pipe that lay nearby. It seemed as if he had been hiding.

The boy cursed in shock when he caught sight of the two bodies - and then again, louder, when he belatedly saw the three menacing figures standing right over him. He crabbed back and blundered into the side of the pipe, thumping his head on the steel. The boy was tall and gangly, but he couldn't have been any older than his late teens by the Terran standard calendar. He was peachy skinned and long faced, with a dishevelled mop of brown hair.

The boy raised a skinny hand and pointed a wavering finger at the three agents.

"I...I'm warning you." he stammered, in gutter-accented Vaxanhive gothic. "You stay back. You frak with me and I'll frak you right back. Twice!"

Abner turned towards the boy and held up his hands, showing him they were empty.

“You don’t have anything to fear from us lad, we’re the good guys.” He said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m Abner, I think.”

He reached a hand out slowly in an offer of greeting as he inched cautiously towards him.
.
“Do you know what happened here?”

[Azazeal849]

Sarna

"That will hold. But we need to get somewhere safe." She stood, and then offered him a hand up. He looked at the offered hand, then back to her face, before taking the hand and being hauled to his feet. He wavered for a second and she leaned into him, holding him up. "You've lost a lot of blood, and this area is definitely not frakking safe. Some psycho out there has been hacking people up. Do you know about a safe house nearby?"

"That was the safe house." the man growled in a low voice, nodding towards the bullet-riddled husk of the warehouse. "But the Refuge will be sending more men soon I don't doubt. That hab, there."

He raised the hand clasped over his wound to point at the third house in an unimpressive row of tumbledown buildings. At least half of the houses had the windows covered with flak-board, and climbing red-black plants had burst through the pavement to snake their way up the sides of the walls. Here and there slabs of the concrete over-layer had fallen off the walls to expose the brickwork beneath. The man shrugged a scabbarded sword higher on his shoulder and limped towards the chosen building. He pulled away from Sarna several times, as if pride urged him to walk unaided, but each time he had to lean back against her after a few steps.

Limping up a path that was overgrown with weeds, Sarna pushed on the peeling front door to find that it was open. Somehow she wasn't surprised - this seemed like the sort of area where if you did lock your doors, someone would kick them down to find out what you had that was worth hiding. She stepped into a dingy kitchen that smelled of must, and had spots of damp around the corners of the ceiling. There was a clatter from the next room and a russet-skinned woman of perhaps forty years appeared in the open doorway, clutching what looked like a claw hammer. She might have been beautiful, if life had given her a chance, but now there were dark, tired circles around her eyes and her tightly-curled hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in some time. Her lips were scabbed with cold sores.

"Primus." the woman exhaled, visibly relaxing and letting the hammer fall to her side. Her dark eyes fell on Sarna's pale, elfin face for a moment, narrowing warily. "Does the Red King will it?"

"The Red King wills it, Milena." the man she had called Primus replied tiredly. That seemed to be enough for the woman, who chivvied them through into a dank living area and helped Sarna to lay Primus down on a very old and worn-looking sofa.

"I'll see if there's any counterseptic left." Milena said, before darting back out of the room to bustle about the mildewed kitchen.

"She's a good soul." Primus said, his eyes falling back to Sarna in the other woman's absence. "I hope you don't plan to hurt her."

He shifted slowly, one hand over his treated wound and the other pulling the scabbard from his shoulder to lay the sword down next to him.

"Now, little sister." he said, almost airily, "I don't suppose you're going to enlighten me on why the change of heart?"

+ + + + + +

Fire-team Aegia – Hadrak, Abner, Konstantin

Abner turned towards the boy and held up his hands, showing him they were empty.

“You don’t have anything to fear from us lad,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’re the good guys.”

“Why am I thinking that’s what bad guys always say?” the youth replied, his eyes drifting over to the alarming figure of Konstantin. With his silver eyes and smoke curling from his bare chest, all topped off with a thick warrior’s knot and an impressive moustache, the third member of Abner’s group cut an imposing figure.

Abner reached a hand out slowly in an offer of greeting as he inched cautiously towards the youth. “I’m Abner, I think.”

“You think?” the boy scoffed. He cracked his knuckles nervously before pushing himself up off the ground. He dusted off his cargo trousers before extending a hand that bore a blue and white cross tattooed on the palm.

“I’m…” he began, and then faltered and drew the hand back, a look of blank confusion crossing his face. “Rhenat.” he said after a moment. “Shit, what the frakking frak did I hit my head on? Rhenat Nazarian. Yeah. I think."

He belatedly took Abner’s hand. The moment he did so Abner felt something tingle up his arm like an electric shock, and something triggered a jab of fear in the pit of his stomach.

Oh frak what am I doing here? he found himself thinking, although it was completely divorced from his previous train of thought. As soon as he dropped the handshake, the strange sense of fear receded.

“Do you know what happened here?” he asked, rallying and returning to the question he had been originally about to ask.

Rhenat put his hands in his pockets and looked around. “Er…gang war, maybe?” He frowned, and stared for a long moment at the cross on his palm.

[dakkagor]

"I don't want to hurt her." She responded. "As for the change of heart. . . ."

She moved away and leaned against the wall, before sliding down it onto the ratty carpet.

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm meant to be doing here, how I got here, anything. I. . .I woke up with a splitting head ache under a corpse and don't have clue what's going on." She shuddered. "None of this makes any sense." She pulled her sword, still from her scabbard, and placed it in front of her on the floor. "This is the only thing I'm certain of, that its mine. I'm not sure what that means about who I am."

She looked up at Primus and shrugged.

"Then I found you. And you seem to know me. So. Who am I, then, if I'm your little sister?"

[ElizabethStark]

The battle was cold and relentless, but small and insignificant. Hadrak would have put down the insane cultist who had attacked him head on, if it weren't for the explosion of which ensued. His chainsword was unslung and roared with power, strong and heavy. His muscular arms endured and ensured a single massacre... or so it could have. The knock back was great, sending Hadrak sprawling to the ground and his chainsword from his grip. His oiled skin plastered in blood as debris cut thin slices through his tough skin. He laid there for a moment before propping up to grab his weapon, which was only five feet from him. He wondered for a second, what the hell just happened? before stumbling from the building beside a man he felt to be a friend.

The two found what seemed to be another friend; Hadrak felt some hint of relief. Though he thought something was missing, he ignored that part of him. Next was a noise and then a humanoid figure. The one know as Abner spoke to the boy's frightened words, to have only retorted with a sense of dread.

"Er…gang war, maybe?"

Hadrak's body tensed up and his knuckles grew white instinctively. He hadn't noticed it himself. He glanced away from Rhenat, surveying the destruction around them. He stepped away from the group, a small bit of his memory returning - but not enough for him to gather any conclusive thoughts.

He looked back to the kid,"A gang war?" His voice was husky and soothing, no hint of intimidation or fear - just the voice of a man who knew how to keep calm in any given situation.

[Azazeal849]

Fire-team Aegia – Hadrak, Abner, Konstantin

Hadrak looked back at the kid. “A gang war?” His voice was husky and soothing, no hint of intimidation or fear - just the voice of a man who knew how to keep calm in any given situation.

"Yeah." Rhenat nodded, immediately focusing on the red-haired soldier and his natural aura of authority. "The Refuge and the Reds have been on each other's arses for months down here, everyone knows that right?"

The youth looked around at the group, and then seemed suddenly doubtful, as if he wasn't sure where the assertion had come from. He sniffed, cuffing at his nose with the knuckles of one fist.

"You are from around here, right?" he ventured, eyeing the revolver at Abner's hip and the hook-toothed chainsword that Hadrak still held in his hand. "Abner seems like a weird sort of name to me."

"Hey! You!" a voice suddenly called out. The four turned to see a man standing in the pool of light cast by one of the lamp posts. He was a handsome, vital man with a broad, short-bridged nose and black hair which curled close to his scalp. He wore a leather jacket unzipped to the breastbone, and the front of it was slashed with an X of neon paint which shone silver under the streetlight. His hand rested on the hilt of a long, curved knife that was sheathed at his belt.

"Oh frakking hell, no." Rhenat spat in surprise, and shuffled sideways to place himself closer to Hadrak, hiding slightly behind the soldier.

"Drop 'em." the man standing in the streetlight ordered sharply.

Around him there was a scrunch of boots on debris-strewn concrete as half a dozen men appeared from the alleyways behind the man and fanned out to surround the four survivors. They were carrying an eclectic mix of lasguns, stub pistols and automatic rifles, all of them pointing at the group. As one of the men hand-signalled to another, Hadrak and Abner caught a glimpse of a blue and white cross tattooed on the palm of his hand.

For a long moment there was silence, apart from the dull crackle of the burning pile of wood behind the group. It was broken by a clap of lighter footsteps as a woman stepped out from behind the row of gangers, wearing a long, belted coat of dark red leather. The hem danced around the tops of her tall boots as she stepped out into the empty space between the armed men and the four survivors. She hummed quietly to herself, her hands in her pockets as she turned her head to take in the scene. Her face was striking: golden-skinned, fine boned, and half hidden by a wave of glossy black hair. She cocked her head to look back over her shoulder.

"Easy Hayk." she said to the man with the knife. "That's Rhenat."

The glowering gun-muzzles pointed at the team lowered, just slightly.

"Don't tell me Narek and Tigran left you behind when they ran?" the woman asked. Her dialect was gutter Vaxanide, like Rhenat and the knife-man, though her tone was melodious and her accent softened by lightly trilled r's. She glanced behind her with a scowl, before focussing once again on Rhenat. "What happened?"

"Er..." Rhenat said, and cracked his knuckles. "It's all a bit of a blur, but I think they're all dead now."

"Narek told me that you got caught short by Red reinforcements." the woman frowned, leaning back on her back foot with her hands still in the pockets of her long coat.

Rhenat blinked. "Um, yeah, that's what happened." he said, standing up a little straighter. He gestured around him at the debris and the scattered bodies. "But like I said, all dead now. All taken care of. Frakking done."

"I heard an explosion." the knife-man, Hayk, interrupted loudly.

"Maybe they blew themselves up." the woman mused. "Those Reds always seemed indecently ready to die for their beliefs."

"So did Petrosyan." spoke up one of the armed gangers, lowering a brick-like vox radio from his ear. "We've got problems. Gor just called in and said he's found him dead at the dockside. Said it looked like an uphive kill-team or something."

The woman looked at him sharply. "Anything that might have led them back to us?"

The ganger with the radio shrugged. "Vamassian's got friends uphive, right?"

The woman pursed her lips, as if resisting the urge to huff in frustration.

"Petrosyan was a bloody fool to believe in all that nonsense." she said quietly, then turned her back on the survivors to address her colleagues, apparently unconcerned for the weapons that Hadrak and Abner were still holding. "Still, if the Reds are out of the picture then that's something positive in this mess of a night. We'd better tell Vamassian."

"Gor already did."

The woman sucked in her cheeks. "Then make sure he doesn't tell anyone else. Vamassian and I need to figure out how we're going to break the news."

The man with the vox nodded, and the woman turned on her heel to appraise the survivors once more. She tossed her head, flicking her long hair out of her eye.

"Now what about you three? You don't look like you're from the hive."

She looked down at Hadrak's chainsword and Abner's pistol, with a smile on her delicate lips.

"Looting the battlefield I take it?"

[dakkagor]

She looked up at Primus and shrugged. "Then I found you. And you seem to know me. So. Who am I, then, if I'm your little sister?"

Primus stared at her for a moment longer. Then the searching look fell away from his long face, to be replaced by a look of wry amusement. He chuckled quietly to himself, reclining slightly on the threadbare sofa.

"Hm. Very well, little sister. I'll play your game. You are a warrior. You're a dedicated one, if despite everything you can still recognise your blade. And you're an exceptionally good one, if you were able to do this to me." He gestured to his nose, and smiled through the drying blood that ran in parallel streaks down his lips and chin. "I could have told you that even before though. One warrior can always recognise another. There's no closer bond."

He studied Sarna's expression.

"You truly don't remember? Our fight? That interfering bitch from the Refuge?"

When she quietly responded 'no', he shook his head and laughed.

"The Master of Mankind decides to make fools of us all, it seems."

He picked his own sword up by the leather-wrapped scabbard and placed it on the carpet next to Sarna's slightly shorter blade, hilt to tip. The broken links that dangled from the steel cuff around his wrist chinked as he stretched out his arm.

"It's a pity you can't tell me the story of that blade." Primus said as he looked down at the paired swords, almost fondly. His tongue flicked out to run across his bloodied top lip. "There are very few like it in the underhive. I don't normally use my sword's disruptor field unless I have to - replacement cells aren't exactly easy to come by down here. I hope you feel honoured."

"I do." She stood, stretching out from reflex. As she did, she felt something in her equipment belt. She reached into the pouch and pulled something out: a long, copper-coloured power cell.

"Will that fit?" She tossed the cell to Primus. "I carry two cells as spares because...because..."

"Because attempting to change cells with a pissed-off enemy in your face isn't advised?" Primus suggested, smirking.

Sarna just jammed the heels of her hands into her eyes and groaned, slumping back to the dingy carpet. The headache was back, urgent and painful.

"Ow. Mother frakker." she finally managed once the spots had cleared from her eyes. She looked up at Primus, who had stopped smiling and was suddenly staring at her with what looked like rapt attention.

"Don't fight it." he advised, his voice quiet. "Perhaps there is a reason for what happened to you after all. Perhaps the Red King is trying to speak to you."

There was a soft padding of approaching footsteps, and the woman re-emerged from the kitchen, carrying a small and sorry bundle of first-aid items.

"There isn't any more counter-septic," she said apologetically. "But I could bind it up for you. And there's a couple of stimm packs."

"I'll take the stimms." Primus said, sitting up. "Thank you, Milena."

"How long can we stay here?" Sarna looked to the woman again as she placed the small store of bandages and stimm needles down next to Primus. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, but this place doesn't strike me as secure."

"Yeah, and the sky is blue." Milena said, folding her brown, skinny arms across her chest. "If you find somewhere secure down here in the underhive, then give me the address." She turned to Primus. "What happened out there? I heard a shit-tonne of shooting."

"The whole family's gone." Primus gritted his teeth. "Those Refuge bastards stormed in half way through the ritual. I didn't see any of mine come out."

Milena's lips parted in shock. "And the saviour...?"

Primus grinned bitterly. "Does he look like he's here, Milena?"

Milena's shadowed eyes were as wide as a startled rabbit's. She made two blades of her trembling hands and crossed them in an X in front of her chest, linking her thumbs at the bottom. Something about the gesture tugged at the back of Sarna's mind, as if it were familiar but somehow wrong, but the older woman dropped her hands again before she could study it further.

"I failed." Primus said thickly. "But I will make his dream a reality." He turned to look at Sarna. "And if I'm reading the signs right...maybe he sent you to help, little sister."

A sound of running feet carried through the thin glass of the window behind Sarna. Twisting round and looking up past the mould-spotted sill, she saw a knot of dark figures hurrying one after the other along the estate's crumbled and graffitied wall. They wore an eclectic mix of workmen's overalls and civilian clothes, some streaked with lines of neon paint, and almost all of them were openly armed. They ducked through the barriers at the derelict gatehouse and hurried towards the blown-out shell of the warehouse, which was just visible above the other intervening buildings.

"Refuge." Milena hissed in a panicked voice, seizing Sarna's arms in a surprisingly strong grip and hauling her away from the window. "Get down!"

Primus was still on the sofa, though his left hand had clenched hard around the power cell that Sarna had thrown him, turning his knuckles white. He was staring with narrowed eyes and gritted teeth through the window. His other hand hovered, trembling, above his sword on the floor. Even though he could barely stand he had coiled up, looking poised to leap forward like an animal.

"Kill them." he hissed through his teeth, so quietly that Sarna thought he must be talking to himself. "Skulls for the Red King. Blood for the Blood God, Master of Mankind."

His jaw clenched tighter, neck muscles standing out taut. Abruptly he twitched hard, his head wrenching to one side. The spasming in his outstretched hand subsided.

"Too many." he whispered, and then again louder, as if he had only just remembered that the two women were there. "Too many of them." He looked at Sarna, smirking wryly. "You were right, little sister - we need to move."

"What do we do?" Milena whispered fearfully, her eyes wide, "If your Kingsmen are all dead, what do we do? If they come here..."

"Quintus is still out hunting." Primus said, his voice and hands steadier now. "I'll find him. The fight back begins now."

He pulled the sterile cap off one of the stimm needles that Milena had dumped beside the sofa, and jabbed it hard into his thigh with a grunt.

Sarna had let herself be pulled down, but had returned to the window and risked a glance through.

Too many...

She marked their equipment, their formation, their movements. Yes. Too many. Especially with that many automatic rifles. But she also realised she might have to fight the refuge again, and knowing how they moved on the march would be valuable.

She quietly slipped away and crabbed across the room to Primus, picking up and sheathing her sword as she did so.

"We're going. Now."

She slipped her arm under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, ignoring the hiss of pain. She turned to Milena.

"Backdoor?"

The older woman nodded. "This way. Quickly."

She pulled Primus along with her, into the crowded, mildew infested kitchen. Milena pushed open a screen door that led into a small, weed choked allotment that hadn't seen any love or care in a long time.

"You can climb over a stack of barrels at the back, against the wall."

"What's this 'you' groxshit?" Sarna hissed, listening to the stomp of feet outside. Had someone spotted them, or decided to check out the wan light seeping through the window? There were low voices on the other side of the house. She passed Primus to Milena, then pointed down the length of the allotment.

"Move your arse! I'll cover your escape, and catch up later."

Primus smiled, and managed a mock salute as the two crashed into the overgrowth. Sarna looked the kitchen over, biting her lip. The door at the front of the house swung open.

+ + + + + +

"There's no one here."

"I can see that, dumbass. Check the kitchen. You, check the rooms upstairs."

The cultist stepped into the kitchen with his rifle levelled, checking each corner. He slowly swept every nook and cranny, opening cupboards to reveal rusting tins and battered pots. Finally, he came to the door that led to the garden.

They never looked up. Never.

Sarna eased herself down from the top of the old cooler unit, where she had folded herself up like a cat in its den, behind a series of old, crumpled cardboard boxes. She padded across the kitchen's cracked tiles and clamped a hand over the man's mouth, before drawing a razor across his throat. She held him just long enough to make sure he was dead, before lowering him to the ground, with her below his bulk.

"What the frak is taking you so long?"

She drew and unfolded her crossbow.

Hers.

As the cultist stepped across the threshold, a bolt leapt from under his friend's corpse with a thin steel whisper of sound, and sunk into his left eye socket. He fell silently backwards, slamming to the ground in a way that made Sarna grind her teeth together. You couldn't trust people to die quietly, she mused.

The man upstairs must have heard the commotion. He came clattering down the stairs and skidded to a stop at the entrance to the kitchen, over the body of his colleague and staring in wide-eyed horror at the corpse slowly exsanguinating by the outside door. He turned to yell for help, and as he did, Sarna leapt over the tired couch and rammed her sword through his neck. The man wordlessly stared at her as he sunk to his knees, clutching at his throat. She met his gaze and kept a tight hold on her blade as he sunk to the ground, and finally fell limp.

"OK. Turns out I'm really good at this."

She planted her boot on the dead man's chest, and pulled her blade clear with a splash of crimson up her boot and leg. She had kept her sword deactivated to reduce her sound profile, and because as Primus said, power cells were rare down here.

She risked a glance towards the window. It wouldn't be long before more people came to find out what went wrong in here. She quickly moved to the kitchen.

+ + + + + +

As Milena and Primus moved away, Primus now under his own power, an explosion rocked the neighbourhood. Flames shot into the night sky, and black smoke poured from the row of slum tenements.

"Gas explosion." Primus muttered.

"My house!" Milena yelled, starting to run back then stopping herself.

"I'll find you a nicer one." They both looked up, and Sarna dropped from a window ledge, a cheshire cat's grin plastered over her face. "A much nicer one, with less leaky gas pipes and less exposed electrical cables."

[Atrum Daemon]

His head throbbed as the world swam back in from the darkness of unconsciousness. The pain was splitting and he brought a hand to his head as he slowly sat up. His vision was still blurry and a groan left his throat. His whole body was sore but his head hurt the worst. His vision cleared a bit more and he paused as he moved his hand in front of his face. The back of it was scrawled over with glyph-like tattoos. When had he gotten those? He could not remember. In fact, he could barely remember his name.

He caught sight of his face in a broken piece of glass. A face with a look of pained confusion and a grisly smile scarred into it. Alexi, he thought. That was his name, wasn't it? Yes, Alexi Holt.

His focus returned somewhat and he became fully aware of the weight of the items strapped to his person. The items were weapons and Alexi desperately tried to recall why he had them. I'm here...to...this is Vaxanhive? Yeah. I'm here to...stop someone? Something?

A throb of pain shot through his head as he looked around. He spotted some living figures and some instinct in his mind told him they were friends. Or at least on the same side. The sudden noise of the gunshot made his head snap around to the source. Two men, one in black and one in a ripped jacket, were fighting. More accurately, the one with the knife was gaining the upper hand.

One of the women shouted for them to help and Alexi's hands instinctively went to the rifle strapped at his shoulder. He moved closer toward the duo, the rifle raising with practiced ease he did not know he had. His sights were set on the man with the knife and a squeeze of the trigger let loose a loud rapport as the round exited the weapon. The kick was jarring yet somehow familiar. Alexi had not even had time to really think about what he was doing, his body simply acted. That served to terrify the man.

[Azazeal849]

Strike team Kronis - Kimmie, Anais, Alexi, Mai

One of the women shouted for them to help and Alexi's hands instinctively went to the rifle strapped at his shoulder. He moved closer toward the duo, the rifle raising with practiced ease he did not know he had. His sights were set on the man with the knife and a squeeze of the trigger let loose a loud rapport as the round exited the weapon. The kick was jarring yet somehow familiar.

The man with the knife twitched and stumbled, dropping his knife. Somehow he maintained his feet, and even managed to probe the bullet holes that had appeared in his leather jacket, looking down at his bloody fingers in surprise before collapsing.

Alexi had not even had time to really think about what he was doing, his body had simply acted. That served to terrify him.

The other man, who had been standing calmly awaiting his death, turned to look at Alexi with his mouth open in shock. For a moment he took in Alexi's gaunt, hawkish face with its smiling scars, while Alexi in turn saw a tall, solidly-built man with dark, earthy skin and a face that was dominated by a broad nubian nose and sober brown eyes. His jaw was long and cleanshaven, his hair black and cropped short. His loose black clothes were bound close around the forearms with strips of protective leather, the hide etched with jagged, ugly runes.

"Thank you." the man said a moment later, his voice a soft baritone. His eyes flickered to the dead man in front of him, and then to the rifle lying in the gutter across from him. "Do you mind if I pick my rifle back up?"

"Slowly." Kim warned him. She was still trying to work out who this man was - had her instincts been to protect him, or just to kill the man with the knife?

The man held up his hands, placatingly. His palms were pink in contrast to the rest of his earth-brown skin; roughened with calluses, but meticulously clean. "I'm not going to attack you. The Red King will need a substitute skull, but you have my word it won't be any of yours."

"A skull?" Kim repeated, warily. The name Red King had triggered something in her mind, but like an escaping dream it slipped through her fingers even as she tried to hold on to it.

The man stooped to lift his rifle from the gutter next to the storage shed flanking the alley. He moved slowly, and kept his hands where all of the four could see them as he looped the strap over his shoulder and slung the weapon across his back.

"I was dead." the man explained. "And my head wasn't yours to deny. The Red King will demand a replacement. By rights you should be the ones to name it, once you tell me who you are and what you were doing down here - armed to the teeth and messing with those bastards from the Refuge."

Refuge. Like Red King the word seemed somehow important to Kim, and it was accompanied by the same sick feeling that had jabbed her stomach when she saw the knife-man.

"My name's Kim." she told the man, "And these are..." My friends? Family? Team-mates? "Alexi, Anais and Mai." she said instead, the names suddenly coming to her as she looked at their faces. Anais was tall, blonde-haired, wild-looking. Mai was smaller and softer-seeming, although she was armed just like the rest of them.

Alexi looked scarred and grim in his scuffed overcoat. Cold was the word that came unbidden to Kim's mind, although it was contradicted by the shocked look that had ghosted across his face when he had pulled the trigger of his rifle. Could she really trust the feelings that were coming back to her in shredded scraps? Even the one that insisted she was somehow responsible for these other three?

She shook her head slightly, as if the physical action could dislodge the uncertainty from her mind.

"And..." she said, as the man with the rifle continued to look at her placidly, expectantly. "I'm not sure what we're doing here."

The man blinked once at her, and then gave an easy shrug of his shoulders. "Alright Kim, if you want to keep secrets then I won't pry. But I would advise you to take that armour off."

"What?" Kim asked, looking down at the scale-like plates that sat beneath her canvas webbing and the open front of her dark robe. This area wasn't safe - the bodies lying all around were testament to that - and she was reluctant to part from something so obviously and comfortingly protective.

"No-one questions someone carrying a gun around here, but only kill-teams from uphive wear armour, and you don't want the underhivers mistaking you for one of them." The man flicked his eyes around the group. "Trust me."

Something in his earnest tone convinced Kim, and she popped the clasps of her webbing before shrugging off the pouch-covered straps and the robe beneath, and began fumbling at the straps of her armour. Her fingers seemed to know what to do, even if her mind didn't.

"Can we have your name?" she asked the man as she worked.

"Of course." the man smiled. "It's Quintus."

"Quintus." Kim repeated, weighing up the name. Something was telling her that, like her own, it did not match the typical naming conventions of Vaxanhive. "Did your parents call you that?"

Quintus smiled again, thinly. "You don't want to know the names my parents called me. It's a devotional name."

+ + + + + +

Sarna

"You have a very dirty smile, little sister." Primus commented quietly as they made their way away from the industrial estate. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

Behind them, the smoke from Milena's house was dissipating; a grey smudge above the buildings, backlit by the glowing hive spire. Milena herself had peeled off down a side-street as they crossed into another dilapidated housing estate.

"My mum'll let me stay for a wee while at least." she had reassured the two of them. "She'll eff and blind about it, but she'll let me. And I'll hold you to that frakking promise, girl. The Red King wills it."

They were following the river now, keeping to the scummy concrete slabs beneath the raised boardwalks to stay out of sight of anyone above. Primus could walk silently even on hard paving stones, and Sarna had discovered that she could do the same almost without thinking. The river was a black oil-slick, wide enough that the lights of the manufactoria and treatment plants on the far bank were just orange pinpricks. The river lapped quietly past them, helping to mask their voices as it threaded its way between the main spires of Vaxanhive.

"The man who used to lead the Kingsmen smiled a lot too." Primus mused. "Though I feel like I'm insulting you by comparing you to him. He was just a thug who didn't really know the Red King's ways. He'd accept any street-urchin boy who'd agree to take a beating from the rest of the gang, and any street-urchin girl who'd agree to frak one of his lieutenants." He parted his lips slightly, hooking his tongue around his front teeth. "Needless to say, I put a stop to that."

He glanced down at Sarna, and chuckled.

"Hm. And needless to say, he had none of your talent. If he had, I certainly wouldn't have had such an easy time killing him."

[dakkagor]

She watched Milena as she led them into the estate, and chewed over what Quintus had to say.

"He sounds like he got what he deserved. The Red King willed it."

The dull throb that had retreated to the back of her skull vanished almost immediately. She blinked a few times and yes, the pain was completely gone. But none of her memories returned.

"I think I need a name. I'm not going to get very far being called 'Little sister'." She made a humming noise.

"Quintus. Prime. Milena." She rolled the names around, perfectly matching Primes own accent and deciding she liked how they sounded when he said them.

She thought hard, trying to scrape up a memory. Something drifted up to her. A compliment, she thought, from someone she cared about and respected. Or perhaps feared very much.

"Shift." She nodded. "That will do."