As Kian began the grim work of stripping the corpses, his Tactical Cogitator pinged with a high-priority notification. He'd found a "Special Grade" drop.
[Item: Raw Tox-Stimm]
Estimated Value: 25 Agri-Scrips
Effect: High-intensity analgesic; causes extre hallucinations. High addiction rate. Long-term use results in hepatic failure, immune collapse, and severe cognitive rot.
System Note: While toxic in its raw form, these chemical precursors can be refined into dical-grade pharmaceuticals at a dicae Station.
Kian's heart raced. This was the "Tier-1" resource he needed to upgrade his Sanctum's dical facilities. With a dicae Station, he could craft the essentials: Standard d-Packs, Chirurgeon's Kits, and Haemostatic Clots.
Even better, he could produce functional stimms:
Hyper-Growth Stimms: To temporarily boost Strength and Carry Weight.
Adrenal Surges: To double his Stamina pool for long-distance sprints.
Regen-Bolts: To trigger rapid cellular repair (the "Void Blood Pump" technique).
Between the eleven Alchem-Hounds, Kian harvested eleven Tox-Stimms. On the squad leader, he found an even better prize: a Handmade Toxic Cinder-Flask. It was designed to choke a 20-ter area in corrosive gas for 80 seconds.
"Glad I hit them first," Kian muttered, pocketing the flask. "If they'd popped this, I'd be coughing up my own lungs."
He felt a surge of predatory joy. These junkies were gold mines for dical supplies. He was just about to start skinning the shoulder-tattoos for Nephal's bounty when a sound echoed from the darkness—a sound that made the tal floor beneath him vibrate.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
CRASH!!
A wall of masonry and rusted plasteel exploded outward. Erging from the dust was a nightmare nearly 2.5 ters tall and just as wide—a mountain of distended muscle and grey, oily fat.
It was a Chem-Sow.
The beast was a biological horror. Sheets of thick industrial steel had been literally nailed into its torso with rusted iron spikes. It wore a crude, welded helt featuring two jagged tal "ears" and an abstract, snout-like breathing apparatus.
These were the Alchem-Hounds' ultimate "disposable" weapons. They were usually kidnapped Underhivers or gang-debtors injected with massive doses of growth-catalysts and regenerative serums until their bodies mutated into hulking tanks of flesh.
The downside? Their brains were reduced to a primal slurry of rage. They were "one-shot" weapons. Once activated by the "Frenzy-Spur"—a chemical-delivery device bolted to their spine—they would slaughter everything in sight for an hour before their hearts inevitably exploded from the strain of driving such a massive fra.
The squad leader Kian had killed must have hit a wireless trigger the mont the detonators went off.
The Chem-Sow fixed its tiny, bloodshot eyes on Kian. It let out a deafening, wet squeal that sounded like a steam engine dying, then charged.
Kian's "flight or fight" reflex chose flight instantly. He turned and bolted for the stairs, his heart hamring in his throat.
Despite its bulk, the Chem-Sow was terrifyingly fast. Its massive, steel-shod feet pulverized the floor, sending tremors through the structure that almost knocked Kian off balance.
"Emperor's Throne!" Kian gasped.
He was a fast runner—trained by the PMC system to maintain a steady three-minute-per-kiloter pace for miles. But this at-mountain was gainng on him. He could hear its rhythmic, wet snort-snort-snort and the screech of its armor plates rubbing against the corridor walls.
He sprinted up to the fifth floor, but there was nowhere to hide. The Subsurface Reactor was a vertical cube of five levels, each 500 square ters. It was designed for moving massive vats of chemicals, aning every corridor was wide enough for the beast to pass.
Kian's stamina bar was half-empty. If he ran out of breath, he was dead—torn apart by a mutant with a pig-mask.
I can't lose these stimms! he thought frantically.
He looked toward the center of the room. The massive cylindrical reactor tank didn't quite touch the floor plates; there was a narrow gap between the machinery and the catwalks. A gap just wide enough for a normal-sized human.
Kian didn't hesitate. He took a literal leap of faith, jumping into the darkness of the central gap. He wrapped his arms and legs around the heated exterior of the reactor tank like a frantic lemur and slid.
Zzzzzzzzip—
He slid from the fifth floor all the way down to the first, his hands burning from the friction against the tal hull. He hit the bottom deck with a heavy clatter, rolling to his feet.
He looked up. On the fifth floor, the Chem-Sow was leaning over the gap, its massive head and shoulders trying to squeeze into the space. It let out a frustrated, earth-shaking howl.
Kian grinned, watching his stamina bar slowly refill. He had a plan. He would "kite" the beast. He'd run up the stairs, lure it into a chase, and then slide back down the reactor. The beast would have to run all five flights of stairs every ti, doubling its energy expenditure. Eventually, its heart would fail, or it would simply collapse.
"Co on then, piggy!" Kian taunted, waiting for the monster to start its long trek down the stairs.
He waited. One minute. Two minutes. He was fully recovered, but the beast hadn't appeared on the stairs. Instead, he heard a muffled, agonizing screech coming from above.
He stepped back and looked up through the central shaft.
The Chem-Sow was stuck.
Driven by its chemically-induced rage and a total lack of common sense, the beast had tried to follow Kian into the gap. It had forced its massive, steel-plated shoulders into a space six inches too narrow. It was wedged halfway through the floor of the fifth level, its legs kicking uselessly in the air, its "Pig-Grit" mask squealing in fury as it crushed its own ribcage against the plasteel.
Kian stared for a mont, then burst out laughing. "Masterful deploynt, you big idiot."
He leveled his Pipe Shotgun. It was ti to see how many 35mm shells it took to put down a mountain of bacon.
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