The battle was over. Next ca the ritual of the harvest.
Though mutants rarely carried anything worth more than the scrap they wore, Kian's habit of post-raid scavenging paid off in a way he hadn't expected. Tucked away in a side-alcove of the warren, amidst a pile of biological waste, they found two more Survey Crawlers. They were identical to the one Reno had arrived in, complete with Water Guild serial numbers.
Kian checked the hulls. They were in pristine condition; it seed the cultists hadn't quite figured out how to operate the controls yet.
"Search the area," Kian commanded. "Find the ignition keys."
The crew spread out through the reeking tunnels. They found bags of industrial repair tools that had been repurposed into torture devices and several sets of blue Water Guild overalls stained with old blood.
Finally, near the main effluent pipe, they found a grueso trophy: eight human skulls mounted on iron poles, their eye-sockets filled with glowing chemical sludge. The "Staves of the Sludge-Priests." Hanging from the rib-bones of one staff were the missing ignition keys for the crawlers, used as decorative charms.
Beside the staves were several Imperial identification slates—the nas of the missing Guild technicians—and a pile of picked-clean bones.
Kian sighed, his expression hardening. "Bag the bones and the tags. We're taking them back for a proper burial. They deserve better than being a mutant's dinner service."
He walked over to the corpse of the two-faced leader. Using a jagged scrap-machete, he lopped off the creature's heads. "This is our invoice for Reno."
With a flick of his lighter, Kian ignited the "Holy Sludge." The mutant camp was soon engulfed in a prothium-fueled firestorm, purging the filth from the conduit once and for all.
The return trip was a small motorized parade. Shiv led the way in the cargo-trolley, while Kian and Little Joel each piloted one of the newly reclaid Survey Crawlers.
As they sped through the dark pipes, Kian suddenly slamd on the brakes. He stared at a massive junction to the left. A rusted sign above the tunnel read: [SECTOR S-65: STRATEGIC RESERVE WAREHOUSE - 3KM].
Kian rembered the Black Card he had pulled from the rotted silk of the Count's skeleton. It was a master-key for the shipping containers in that very warehouse. Most of the floor was a graveyard of empty steel, but hundreds of containers remained sealed by high-tier electronic locks.
Reno was still passed out in the brewery, probably dreaming of sour amasec. Kian had a window.
"Detour!" Kian voxed to the crew.
He led the small convoy down the auxiliary rail-line, switching the track-lever at the junction. Within minutes, the little train and the buggies rolled into the gargantuan expanse of the Strategic Warehouse. They stopped when the tracks were blocked by a collapsed shipping crate.
"Get out and scout," Kian ordered. "Identify every container that still has a functional green power-light on its lock-panel. I'll be back in five minutes."
The crew didn't ask questions. They knew their Boss was a man of "Shadow-Transits."
Kian sprinted to the edge of the nearest extraction zone.
[Extraction Sequence: 10... 9...]
Snap.
He materialized in his Sanctum, snatched the Black Card from his stash-box, and stepped back into the transit circle.
[Deploying Operative: Sector S-65]
He reappeared in the warehouse and jogged back to the crew. To Shiv and the Joels, it looked like Kian had just walked behind a pillar and co back with a black tallic card in his hand.
"Find any 'Live' boxes?" Kian asked.
Shiv led him to a cluster of containers nestled in a dark corner. These were buried under layers of dust and debris, overlooked by the gangs and the scavengers for decades. The power-lights on their panels were still a dim, flickering erald.
Kian pulled out the Black Card. He looked at the charges: (5/10).
He only had five attempts at the greatest gacha ga in the Underhive. If he opened a container and found it full of industrial toilet paper, he'd be out a charge and a lot of pride.
He looked at Silentium. "Can you 'peek' inside? Use your Warp-sight. Tell what the density is like."
The Psyker closed his eyes. After a mont, he shook his head. "The plasteel is fifty milliters thick and reinforced with lead-shielding. It's a blind spot in the Beyond. I only know that the space inside is... full. Sothing dense and tallic."
Kian grunted. "Better than empty. Can you bypass the lock with your mind?"
"No," Silentium whispered. "The logic-circuits are far too complex. They were designed to resist psychic intrusion. I would lt the panel before I could open the bolt."
Kian sighed. No freebies today. He looked at the row of containers. Each had a designation number etched into the steel. He scanned the numbers until his eyes settled on a lucky sequence: #39999.
"Let's see if the Emperor favors the gambler," Kian muttered.
He swiped the Black Card against the reader.
Beep. Chirr-KLOK.
The reader flashed a brilliant green. Rhythmic chanical thuds echoed inside the container as the massive internal bolts retracted. The heavy doors hissed open, venting a cloud of recycled air that had been sealed for a century.
The crew surged forward, Shiv and the Joels helping Kian heave the heavy doors open.
Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, were hundreds of olive-drab tal crates, each about the size of a cogitator tower.
Kian's heart hamred. Military green? Please be Bolter shells. Please be Las-packs.
He scrambled into the container and pried the lid off the nearest crate. He felt the weight—it was lighter than an ammo box. His stomach did a slow, sinking sorsault.
He pulled out a small, rectangular tin. He read the Gothic script on the label:
[Item: 'CLUCK-THUMP' BRAND CANNED POULTRY]
Description: Reconstituted Grox-fowl protein in savory brine.
Best Before: 680.M42.
Kian stared at the tin for a long, silent minute. Then, he hurled it against the back wall of the container and let out a roar of pure, unfiltered Tarkov-rage.
"DAMN IT! THE RNG GODS ARE STILL CHASING !!"
☆☆☆
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