Kian's explosive verbal assault left the tunnel in stunned silence. His crew of laborers stared at him in disbelief; they knew their boss was a "Big Gold" killer, but they hadn't expected him to be a Master-tier trash-talker.
The mutants across the tracks fared even worse. They stood frozen, as if their very souls had been liquidated by Kian's words.
Clatter.
A mutant near the front dropped his rusted cleaver and began to wail, covering his eyes with his hands. He turned and sprinted away on four spindly legs, his pathetic cries echoing into the distance as he vanished into the gloom.
"At least that one has enough sha to leave," Kian barked, his rifle still leveled. "What about the rest of you? You want to play gas, or are you going to step aside?"
The two-faced leader hissed, his chests heaving with fury. "The path ahead belongs to the Blackwater Tribe! No at-stock passes through our holy domain!"
Kian didn't know who the Blackwater Tribe was, but the na reeked of typical Underhive fanaticism. In the 41st Millennium, it wasn't uncommon for primitives to worship industrial relics. There were "Atomic Cults" that bowed before leaking nuclear cores, believing radiation burns to be "blessings" from a god of light.
"Listen, you warp-rotted freak," Kian said. "I'm here to run cargo. If you step aside, I pass quietly, nobody gets hurt, and you can go back to your 'holy' gas. If you stay in my way, I'm going to turn this corridor into a slaughterhouse. Understand?"
The mutant leader hesitated. The trolley's massive high-lun searchlight was directly in their eyes. These creatures had lived in the lightless sump for generations; their eyes were evolved for near-total darkness. To them, the searchlight was a blinding sun. They couldn't even see how many n Kian had—they could only sll the scent of copper, oil, and the cold lethality of the military rifles.
After a tense minute of snarling, the two-faced leader backed away.
"The Sacred Flow is just ahead," the creature rasped. "Pass if you must, but do not touch the Blackwater, or you shall face the Wrath of the Depths!"
The tribe lted back into the shadows. Kian let out a breath and gestured for the crew to finish the rail repairs. He wasn't afraid of the mutants—two PDF rifles would have cut through that mob in seconds—but ammo was expensive. Killing beggars was a low-return investnt.
Fifteen minutes later, the tracks were clear. The trolley moved forward at a slow crawl.
As they traveled, the walls of the main conduit began to sprout side-tunnels and alcoves. Kian used a high-powered tactical flashlight to sweep the openings, and what he saw made his Sanity (ntal Clarity) stats tingle.
This was the heart of the mutant warren. Hundreds of twisted beings lived in the total darkness of the pipes. These were not the "warriors" they had t earlier; these were the "Failed Ones."
Kian saw "at-ball" mutants—masses of distended flesh with no discernible limbs. He saw creatures whose skin had fused directly into the ceramite walls of the Hive. There were fusion-monsters—two or three people lted together into a singular, agonizing organism.
He saw tents made of tanned human leather and piles of bones from unknown creatures. It was a gallery of biological horror, the result of ten thousand years of chemical runoff and industrial neglect.
The flashlight beam caused a panic. The creatures shrieked and scrambled deeper into the crevices, terrified by the artificial "daylight." In movies, these mutants were usually depicted as bloodthirsty predators, but the reality was more pathetic. Their organs were so overwheld by mutation and toxic waste that they could barely move, let alone hunt. Their internal tabolisms were likely failing by the hour; they were less "monsters" and more "walking tumors."
Suddenly, Shiv tapped Kian's arm. "Boss... look at that."
Kian followed Shiv's pointing finger toward a massive industrial pipe protruding from the ceiling of a side-cavern. A thick, viscous black fluid—resembling a mix of oil and sludge—was pumping out of the pipe, splashing into a stone basin.
Clustered around the basin were several "Elder" mutants. They wore ceremonial rags and held staves made of scrap-tal. They were kneeling in the sludge, chanting in a rhythmic, guttural tongue.
Behind them, a line of starving mutants waited. As the prayer finished, the Elders cupped the black sludge in their hands and fed it to the followers.
Kian felt a wave of nausea. "What the hell is that stuff?"
"I recognize that pipe, Boss," Shiv whispered, his voice trembling. "That's the Alchemical Effluent from the Mid-Hive. It's the concentrated waste from the Fertilizer Syndicate, the Alchem-Hounds, and the manufactorums. It's supposed to be pumped into the planet's crust to be incinerated. I didn't think anyone would actually... eat it."
Kian clicked off his flashlight, letting the darkness swallow the disgusting scene.
"Praise the Emperor," Kian muttered sarcastically. Even in the depths of the Sump, people found sothing to worship, even if it was just the poison that was killing them.
He leaned back in the power-head. This recon run had proven one thing: the route was viable, but it was infested. He couldn't just run cargo with a crew of laborers.
He needed a permanent, ard escort. He needed "Armsn"—loyal killers who could keep the Sump-dwellers at bay while the grain flowed.
"Shiv," Kian said as the trolley rattled onward. "Once we get back, we're hiring. I want n who can shoot, and I want them equipped with more than just pipes. We're building a private army."
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