The Jes'wan light freighter, Darven, dropped out of hyperspace into normal space with minimal fuss on the edge of the Trevlan sol system. Standing on the bridge, hands at his back, Captain H'rathrid stared out of the converted ex-corvette's forward viewport and into the darkness of the sol system. To his left, his commtech, Lieutenant Mral'shann reported that the system traffic was moving as normal; busy and unpurturbed by the system's shady reputation. The planet that garnered the most attention in the system was Arguss. 90% factory city and 10% marshland, it was a polluted, unforgiving rock in the middle of the Annalus Sector, itself a polluted and unforgiving part of space on the edges of the third arm of the galaxy. H'rathrid sighed and turned to Mral'shann. It was time to get things rolling.
''Contact the local traffic control and get us permission to land planetside in the Green Zone.'' 
Mral'shann nodded, turned back around in his seat and set about his task. 
''Commander Throxx, you have the bridge. I'll go see to our passengers.''


''Enjoy your nap?'' Chester asked as Spirit stepped unsteadily from the cryopod that was bolted in an up-right position to the wall.
''Uuuurgh.... W'time issit?'' She yawned, stretched and promptly flopped down on the soft padded white bench that was in the middle of the long grey and white room. She stared at the dissipating icy mist that flowed out of her open pod as she gathered her senses, squinting at the clinical brightness of the viewportless room.
Chester handed her a cylindrical ration pak capped with a foil lid. She waved the proffered ration away with a grunt and flapping hand, but the doberman insisted, shoving it into her grip, making her take it.
''You'll feel a lot better after it, trust me.''
She wrinkled her nose. ''I don't much feel like eating right now.'' She replied nauseously.
''Tough. Ship doctor ordered everyone to eat it once awoken. Now [i]eat it[/i].''
''You didn't have to eat it...'' She muttered, tearing the foil lid off the cyclindrical pak and taking a peek at the thick creamy substance inside.
''True. They instead mixed up a nutrient cocktail for me to drink. Helped a huge amount. Kinda tasted like silverberries.''
She eyed him suspiciously as she moved the pak towards her mouth and cautiously poked the contents with the tip of her tongue, all the while keeping a suspicious eye on him. It was indeed creamy and had a vague sweet tang of silverberry.
''Ok, I believe you. This time...'' She grunted, peeling the foil lid all the way off and squeezing the soft plastic pak to get to the ration proper. ''I still don't much trust you after the ration pak incident on Traxxus Nine though. Bacon my arse...'' She added in a mutter as she started nibbling at the nutrient paste.
She watched as Chester helped the other Stalkers from their own cryopods, still groggy after the seven month sleep. He handed a nutrient ration pak to each, reassuring them one after the other that it was good to eat, to much groaning and suspicion.
''Where are we?'' Derron groused, rubbing at his eyes.
''Onboard the Jes'wan light freighter Darven, remember?'' Chester replied, handing him a ration pak.
Derron eyeballed the little plastic cylinder like it was going to mutate and eat his hand.
''Last time you handed me a ration pak-''
''It's okay to eat.'' The vampire cut in.
''I'm not sure I believe you-''
''Shut up and eat the contents, Corporal. It'll make you feel better.'' Spirit said, back on her feet and going through a series of stretches to loosen her tight muscles.
''Yes Captain.'' He sighed and gingerly licked at the contents,  nose wrinkled.

It took a little under an hour for the team to recuperate after such a long period of cryosleep, but by the time Captain H'rathrid walked through the blast door and into the room hidden within the bowels of the ship, they were ready to hear their mission update. H'rathrid looked the team over as they stood at a parade rest before him. There was some initial fussing to get themselves ordered, but they managed it with some growls from Lenny and disappointed sighs from Spirit. They were still wearing their cryosuits; deep olive body gloves, pock-marked with circular black plugs.
''No need to do that here.'' H'rathrid said, a small smile quirking his narrow white lips. He tucked a strand of stray blue hair behind a small ear. ''Your mission update arrived via tight-beam transmission yesterday at oh-five-hundred, Standard. Would you like a repeat of the full briefing or just the updates?'' He asked, his dark blue gaze scanning the slightly miffed looking team.
''Could you repeat the full briefing in a nutshell, please?'' Spirit asked, taking a look at the handfull of Stalkers that had been put on the mission. 
They all bore the same glazed expression someone wore when trying to remember something that had just happened. Short term memory loss was a common thing when cryopods were involved. Thankfully, it never lasted longer than a day, which was why a 24 Standard hour recovery period was always advised, even mandatory. Captain H'rathrid nodded his understanding and produced a small black computer no bigger than his hand. He pressed a small button on either side of it and pulled it apart into two pieces. A hologram lit up between the two computer sections, black data scrolling down the screen. He repeated the mission calmly, compressing it into a stream of the more important points, knowing the rest would be back in their minds the next day just before the drop-off.

''The Darven will be making port in the Green Zone of Arguss City to make a delivery of unprocessed produce. Then we will be loading up with various machinery parts, second-hand and new. We will be spending four days there, Arguss Standard to complete the transaction. Under this ruse of trading, you will go into the Green Zone under the banner of the Sigmus Omega Clan, a local group who control the majority of the area's criminal underground. The Clan boss - a long standing friend and ex-cohort of our Grand Admiral's - Clan Master Och'lusch, has reassured us that you will be granted all the aid you may require, including armed back-up and evacs if the situation should get too intense. And from the updates, you [i]will[/i] need their help in some form or another. You will contact Clan Master Och'lusch or one of his subordinates as soon as you make your way to the Blackstrip Bar. As for your target, Lugden Ovrach, our contacts have told us that he's moved his operation out of the warehouse he was operating from and moved everything to the sublevels on the north-western outskirts of the Green Zone after a clash with local law enforcers that didn't end well for him as he ended up losing one of his best body guards and three of his cargomen. You will now be infiltrating an old meat processing plant. I don't have the floor-plan of that building, but I'm sure someone in the Sigmus Omega Clan would be able to provide you with all the floor plans you could ever want. We know there are KR43 Needles in Ovrach's possession. The Synthanoid Empire's battlecruiser, Moonlit has taken charge of one of the Smuggler Ships which was carrying four of the missiles across the Void. Two more Smuggler Ships have been neutralised, one by your own Eclipse, who retrieved six of the missiles. The other Smuggler was carrying two, which a pair of T'rayke frigates cornered in the Veltani shipping lanes just outside Mid-Space. You will neutralise everyone but Ovrach. Him, you will take prisoner. It doesn't matter how you do it, so long as it raises as little fuss as possible and that he can talk and think straight. The missiles will be collected and shipped to the Reaper which is currently shadowing us. Ovrach will be picked up by the Reaper's attack shuttle, Sickle. As for your armour, the appropriate modifications have been made. We will be docking with a Sigmus Omega Clan light corvette in three hours' time, Standard to collect your new weapons.'' He held up a hand to stave off the rising protests from a few of the Stalkers, ''Your current assault rifles are too different. Whereas your modified armour will pass by reasonably unnoticed as everyone on-planet wears protective gear of some form or another against the elements, it's your assault rifles and blades that will more than likely give you away. Your new guns will be just as effective as your current issued ones, I promise you.'' He handed Spirit and Lenny a copy each of the mission briefing. ''Doctor L'ctur and Sergeant V'aldini will help you get fully re-oriented. I need to go back to the bridge to make sure our cover isn't blown. I will comm you when I have a solid ETA on our arrival planetside.'' He sketched a quick salute, turned on his heel and strode from the hidden room.

''Well, I think it's pretty much the same, except the location's changed.'' Lenny said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
''Also Ovrach's down four men.'' Spirit added.
''Doesn't mean he hasn't looked for or even gotten replacements.'' Oz pointed out as he sank gratefully back onto the padded white bench, rubbing his knotted shoulder muscles. ''Hell, if the local enforcers stuck their noses in, chances are he's boosted his guard.''
''We'll have to take that into consideration for now. If this Clan Master Och'Lusch is as good as Captain H'rathrid says he is, then maybe he could fill us in on what Ovrach's been getting up to between now and later.'' Spirit said, flexing a cramp from her bicep.
They sat around in silence, looking around the room, contemplating their situation and trying to clear their thoughts. The six cryopods - three to a wall - were still cycling down into stand-by, expelling the recycled air from the life support as a thick icy mist that clouded across the light  grey deck. The tubes and wires had been automatically reeled back into their recesses as soon as the six Stalkers had awoken. Spirit wasn't much looking forward to having to go back inside hers once the mission was over. But she didn't have much choice in the matter. She'd rather suffer with severe cramps for an hour and short term memory loss than have to put up with the boredom of having to experience seven months of life on a small ship in Voidspace with nothing to do. They all looked up when the door hissed open again. Two Jes'wan space navy officers stepped into the room. One, a tall chalk white male with straw yellow hair slicked back, the Jes'wan markings of a Sergeant pinned to the high collar of his black and gold shipsuit. The doctor was a short female, her neat white tunic blending perfectly with her creamy white skin and hair. She looked almost invisible against the white and grey backdrop of the starship.
V'aldini sketched a quick, perfect salute as L'ctur pulled various medical instruments out of her medic's tool belt and set about checking the Stalkers over for any averse effects that the cryopods may have had on them.
''Greetings, Captain. I am Sergeant V'aldini and this is ship's Doctor L'ctur. I believe you've met before.''
''Sergeant, you said you made some modifications to our armour?'' Kieron piped up curiously, hauling himself to his feet with a soft grunt.

V'aldini nodded briskly and gestured with a slender, long fingered hand to the six sealed olive metal crates stacked along the back bulkhead wall. The  crates looked scuffed and scarred, and were being held in place against the bulkhead wall with a taught cargo net. V'aldini strode towards the large square crates and retrieved one, lifting it down easily from the crate it was sat on top of.
''This one is yours, Chief Engineer Binx. The modifications are mainly aesthetic. The biggest problem we had was your helms. You will be going in disguised as Sigmus Omega grunts. All Omega Grunts have identical helms, which yours look nothing like.'' He said as he undid the locks and seals on the crate. The lid pulled up on a set of well greased hinges and V'aldini lifted out the new helmet and the snow leopard's basic S.S.M.A.C issued helmet. He put his hands in them and held them up side by side for comparison so that the others could see, ''Notice the severe difference? Your helms have a full-face bottle green non-reflective tint that can be toggled through all stages of opacity and translucency. The Sigmus Omega Clan have strip-visors with a crimson anti-UV tint and a vague honeycomb grid pattern for the HUD and area mapping scans when required. There is a long-range stub antenna on the left audio feed of the helm, whereas yours are built-in. Your breather vents are just that: slight bulging slits in the chin of your helms. Theirs consists of a more old fashioned but far more industrial grade breather mask that sits on the outside, riveted in place. Something designed to withstand such pollution levels cannot be made to fit inside a helm or mask of any sort without breaking down the integrity of the armour. It is unsightly and cumbersome for most, but functional and robust. In short, the only thing the Shadow Stalkers and Sigmus Omega Clan helms have in common is the overall matt black colour of the armour. With the exception of the blood stains, which we have already applied via sparring SIM to make it look legitimate. No doubt you'll be adding your own marks to your new war paint later on tomorrow.'' He put the helmets down on the bench and turned to retrieve the other crates, Spirit and Lenny helping, calling out names as they went.
Kieron started eagerly sorting through the rest of his stowed gear, seeing what other modifications had been made to his armour, deeply curious to know a little more. He pulled out his gauntlets and armoured gloves, the knuckles of the armourweave now bearing a small sharp dark red stud. He slid his hand into the snug glove and flexed his fingers. He couldn't feel the pins of the studs at all. The gloves were just as comfortable and functional as they had ever been.

He found his shoulder plating to also be adorned with spirals of studs, these much taller, at least an inch and a half in height. Solid metal, he guessed he could do some serious damage if he charged shoulder first at someone. The knee pads were also adorned with a spiral of metal spikes, each spike applied neatly and expertly so as not to leave any unsightly scarring that wasn't battle inflicted. He looked across the bench at Oz, who was grinning from ear to ear, his large, carefully sharpened teeth on full show as he looked over his breast plate. Blood stained, with the green markings painted over in crimson, the dragon's head badge that was embossed on the left breast had been painted over with the curling spiked blade insignia of the Sigmus Omega Clan. There was a series of clinks across the room and Lenny started swearing, trying to untangle his cybernetic hand from the thin chains that hung from a tough leather and metal belt that was adorned with armoured pouches.
''Why the hell do we have to wear these weird skirt-loin cloth things?'' He snarled, finally freeing his little finger from a blackened chain. 
As he pulled the mechanical digit free, the arrowhead type spike that was attached to the end whipped up as the chain uncurled, slicing a neat little cut in the lion's nose. Lenny growled and rubbed the beading blood away with his organic hand as he dumped the chain bedecked belt onto the bench. V'aldini looked across to him as Doctor L'ctur delicately wiped a little clotting agent on the tip of his nose.
''That belt would be called a Yukta. So called because the inventor and also the first man to wear one was Sigmus Omega's founding Clan Master, Oshinii Yukta Terusha. There are many rumours and stories surrounding the reasons for why everyone in Sigmus Omega Clan wears one, but we're not sure which story is false and which rumour holds the grain of truth. So we just put it down to some kind of Clan honor and don't complain when we accidentally end up stabbing ourselves in the back of the knee during our operations here in the system.''
Lenny looked at the Yukta with distaste. He could see himself getting tangled in it as soon as he took his first steps armoured-up. He sighed.
''Well, I've worn worse. And we're not gonna be on Arguss for long, right?'' He said reasonably.
''Don't say that. You'll jinx us.'' Derron said, eyeing up his blood stained armour with some trepidation.
''Sergeant. The Stalkers are in full health. All that remains is for the return of their memory.'' Doctor L'ctur said.
''You got any showers, Sarge? I'm starting to smell worse than Kieron.'' Oz asked. He caught one of Kieron's gauntlets before it smacked him in the face.
''The shower room is on the deck above. I will show you how to operate our facilities and where to leave your cryosuits.'' Sergeant V'aldini said, leading them all from the room.


Clan Sub-Section Leader Evorn Metriss stepped through the Darven's inner airlock door followed by two Clan Grunts with a large black metal box slung between them. Metriss unfastened his helm and pulled it off, peeling away the fleshfabric breather gill that covered his narrow mouth and thin nose. He closed his sunken ruby eyes and breathed in deep a rattling breath of the freighter's cycled air, releasing the breath slowly with a satisfied sigh. He turned to Captain H'rathrid and Sergeant V'aldini with a wan smile on his balding, skeletal features. Where there was once a fine ginger velveteen fur, was nothing but pollution inflicted scabs and old battle scars. 
''It's good to breath in fresh, toxin free air.'' His voice was coarse with a lifetime of breathing pollution and substance abuse, ''I hear our new Clan Grunts are awake and fully aware of themselves.''
''They're already armoured. All that is left to do before we go any further into the sol system is to give them their new weapons.'' H'rathrid escorted Sub-Section Leader Metriss to the cryopod room, where the Stalkers were waiting patiently, standing in rank at parade rest.
When Metriss walked into the room he gave each one a scrutinizing look over, inspecting them and their armour, poking and prodding at the foreign armourweave design and the thick battle armour that clad them all. All Stalkers were wearing their newly acquired helms. Metriss looked at Derron, taking cue from his Clan instinct to single out the smallest.
''Where is your sidearm, Grunt?'' He asked smoothly, his voice un-pleasantly polite.
Derron removed his heavy blaster from its armoured thigh holster and presented it, grip first. Metriss took the bulky black weapon, silently looking it over. He removed the clip and took notice of the small red laser crystal tucked away inside that was just barely visible beyond the drawbar.
''No battery clips for these weapons?'' He asked.
''Nosir. We were ordered to utilize armour piercing rounds instead of lasers. '' Derron replied cripsly.
Metriss slammed the clip home, locking it in place and handing it back to the armour clad black cat.
''You will all blend in well.'' Metriss announced after his agonizing thirty minutes of close scrutiny. ''That is, once you have your new weapons. Your sidearms will suffice, but your rifles will not.''

He snapped his fingers and the two Grunts with the crate picked it up and scurried forward, carefully laying it at Metriss's feet. He stooped and un-locked the crate to reveal six blackened basic design assault rifles and six serrated, gently curved knives. The Grunts started handing the weapons out, a rifle and knife to each Stalker, Metriss explaining as the team hefted and admired their new toys for the mission.
''Forty calibre armour piercing rounds, fifty bullets to a magazine. There is a tracer fifth from the bottom of the mag. Count your shots carefully, as Arguss is not a friendly world and would sooner stab you than smile at you.'' Metriss warned, ''Each rifle is fully adjustable; stock, forward grip and optic. They are water proof, but not [i]river[/i] proof. For your own health and the health of our weapons, do [i]not[/i] go for a swim no matter the situation. The rivers will turn you to pulp.'' He looked from helmet to helmet, each one staring blankly at him. ''When your memories fully return, I'm sure you'll understand why. Anyway, back to the weapons: the rifles I'm sure you know how to operate. They're what you call bog-basic and universal of design, so they're unbelievably easy to repair if, somehow, you manage to break them. You can use either stick or drum magazines, it doesn't matter, so long as you can attach it to the gun and the ammunition's right. As for the blades, they will slice through practically any armour that is worn on Arguss. These blades in particular are favoured by our Clan, so try not to lose them. If they are broken or damaged in any way, keep the pieces and return them to a Clan member who will make sure that the blade will make it back to the Clan forge to be re-worked.''
The Clan Grunts handed each member of the team a sparse web vest with spare magazines clipped to the straps. Spirit took hers, leaning her rifle against the padded bench behind her so she could shrug it on over her shoulders, snapping the clasp in place across her chest. The sheathed blade she strapped to her left thigh, as did everyone else. Metriss looked at them each in turn.
''Any questions?'' He asked.
There were none. The Clan Grunts closed the weapon crate and exited the room with it. 
''Good hunting. And try not to make eye contact with the low-lifes.'' He added before he bowed and followed after his subordinates.


Snow and hail rattled against the converted corvette's hull as they descended through the atmosphere of Arguss. The Stalkers were stood waiting patiently in the airlock that they had discovered secreted away beneath the cryopod chamber. Spirit cast a look back behind her and at the row of five armour clad Stalkers as they held on to the rails bolted to the ceiling of the narrow airlock corridor. They stood stoic, swaying gently with the bumps and vibrations of the descending ship as it plummeted towards the planet below.
''That's one hell of a city.'' Derron commented.
Spirit peered through the thick one-way porthole at the rear of the ship. Beyond the hot glow of the Jes'wan vessel's atmospheric thrusters lay the sprawling map of Arguss, a giant planet-wide megalopolis. She gasped and redoubled her grip as the ship dropped between a cluster of massive steel grey and matt black sky towers to start a low swoop towards the shorter, squatter delivery spaceports below at the edge of the Green Zone's business district, where the markets lay. Cloud flitted past and snow whirled beyond the powerful thrusters as the pilot urged the ship on, cutting through sky bound traffic of air cars and private shuttles.
''We're almost there,'' she announced, turning back once more to check her team, ''make sure you're ready. Once the ramp opens, we move out on the path we were given and head directly to the Blackstrip Bar.''
The team nodded and checked themselves one last time as the ship swung down, listing hard to the right and coming about as it was lowered into the dark maw of an indoor market's delivery port. Darkness engulfed them as the blast doors overhead slid closed above them with a nerve shattering grind, the ship settling on its landing gear, rocking gently. They waited in silence for their cue. Ten minutes passed, then the airlock lights flickered on, a deep pulsating red glowing from the decking, lighting up the darkness. There was a click from the outer airlock door. The team readied themselves as the inner door slid open with a soft grind, the outer door falling open with a soft hiss of hydraulics. The edge of the ramp touched the alloyconcrete gently, barely making any noise. Chester came up front, sliding past Spirit, poking his head out into the cool hangar, scanning  with all senses for anyone who may see them exit the belly of the ship. All heart beats were at the other end of the ship in a cluster. He gave them the all clear and the six Stalkers ran quietly out into the dimly lit area, sprinting silently in formation across the shadowed expanse, staying out of the glow of the landing lights as the market port's personnel swarmed around the freighter's open cargo hold at the front of the ship. H'rathrid and his meagre crew - V'aldini included - were all dressed in fraying and faded trader's shipsuits, plying their well established cover of voidrunning traders, signing datapads and flimsiplast sheets as dockworkers unloaded the crates of produce that had been acquired from the security personnel aboard Mid-Space space station that had, in turn, been confiscated from smugglers and none-docking fee payers alike. 

The team charged through a dark gap in the opposite wall, diving down a zig-zagging narrow passageway that was unlit and clogged with rubbish until they came to the heavy reinforced security door that they had been told to expect. It's alarm system had been vandalised, wires cut, their fraying and corroded ends splayed from the fat rusting hinges of the door like fine metal fur.
''Been out of order for a while now,'' Kieron commented as he eyed the cut wiring and the cloudy glass of the keypad that was set into the thick frame.
''This whole passageway looks like it hasn't seen much use for a while.'' Lenny replied, looking around, his helmet's night vision capabilities just barely diffusing the smothering black around him.
Spirit cautiously pulled the door open on protesting hinges, the squeal of abused metal echoing painfully down the dark passage they had come from. Wincing at the noise, she peered through the crack between door and frame and into the world beyond that was lightly dusted with snow. Slush and icy puddles decorated the cracked roads and pavements, making the grey concrete and steel world beyond seem bleaker than it was. Opening the door fully, they slid out into the wide alley behind the market, letting the door slide close behind them. Around them, decrepit buildings rose, stained with pollution and neglect. Fly-over roads and slip-roads connected the ground roads to those in the sky as they wove between buildings like giant flat snakes of grey concrete and steel. Street lights flickered and glowed dully in waning evening light, casting sickly yellow pools of light around them. Beyond the market district, the city roared with budding nightlife as night clubs and all night bars and cafes opened for trade, taking over from those that worked during the daylight hours.

''It's filthy.'' Lenny grunted, looking around as they left the alley to join one of the main streets.
''What, you were expecting a paradise?'' Oz asked sardonically, looking sideways at the large armour clad lion.
''No. But I wasn't expecting it to be so... er...''
''So crappy? Abused? Ignored by the planetary government?'' The hyaenodon filled in bluntly.
''Yeah. You'd think with a city this size, they'd try harder to look after the place better.'' He replied casting a pitiful glance at a tramp huddling in a box beneath the slip-road that towered above their heads.
''A government in control of a place like this doesn't care about the little guys. You, me, that tramp; we're just scum, a source of income to line their finely tailored pockets. We also happen to be very expendable when trouble raises its ugly head. To the governments of over-developed  places like Arguss, everyone beyond the Gold Zone and the high class business districts are nothing but filth. If you don't live in a shiny sky tower, have your own personal shuttle and a butler, then you're nothing.'' Oz unclipped his helmet and lifted it just enough to spit in the gutter. His mouth was twisted into a snarl of derision as Arguss brought memories of his own delapidated and diseased home world to the surface of his memory. ''Sorry. Didn't mean to take it out on you.'' He added with a calming sigh as he clipped his helmet back into place.
Lenny grunted and shrugged lightly, '' s'alright. I've had worse of my grandma.''
''Half a mile up that way is the Blackstrip Bar.'' Spirit interrupted pointedly, ''We split off into pairs and meet there. Lenny, you'll go with Derron. Oz and Chester stick together. Myself and Kieron'll meet you there. Try and make our meeting at the bar look as inconspicuous as possible. We don't want to spook anyone just in case it blows our cover.'' Spirit said. She flipped open the metal flap on her left gauntlet and fiddled with her compact wrist mounted computer, shunting each team member's route to the bar to their own wrist comps.
They split off into pairs and took off down litter choked alleys as if they belonged there and that the place was theirs and theirs alone.


The Blackstrip Bar had only just opened, but already it was heaving with punters who had migrated from places that were shutting down for the night. Spirit and Kieron ambled in out of the sleet. They passed through the thickly paned, milky white double doors and into the fraying, grimey bar. They started carefully making their way through the crowd, who took one look at them and parted before them in silence, allowing them jostle-free entrance, pretending as best they could that they didn't exist. At the rear of the establishment where the bar was hogging the back wall in a neon display of alcoholic beverages, stood a lone Clan Grunt, helm off and resting on the bartop before him. He looked at them, raised his glass in salute, beckoning them over, a small smirk twisting his thin, chapped lips.
''Took your time.'' He said, his voice grating, ''Get caught in traffic?''
''Something like that.'' Kieron replied.
''Th'name's Galvon.'' He said, slipping a small black microchip across the greasy black bar.
Spirit slid it nonchalantly off the bartop, flicking it over a finger and slid it neatly into a small groove in her covered wrist comp. There was a little beep in her left ear and a map lit up the left side of her helmet's HUD.
''That'll get you the rest of the way. Un-pack everything. It'll take you straight to the factory.'' Galvon said, his gutteral, poisoned voice low. He coughed hard, grunted and spat a lump of black phlegm onto the bald carpet.
Spirit shunted the data to Kieron and the others who had just turned up and were milling about, minding their own business.
''What about the factory?'' She asked, nudging Kieron and giving him a slight nod.
The snow leopard turned around, activated his comm-link and contacted Sigmus Omega Clan's HQ, letting Clan Master Och'Lusch know that they'd arrived. Spirit leaned casually against the bar, searching the crowd of scabbed and distorted faces, each one alien, a mixture of hundreds of different cultures all trapped on the planet to rot away as they eked out a meagre existence amidst the pollution and delapidation that surrounded them.
''Th'boss has been making some adjustments to the rota. Kinda screwed his staff over somewhat, but they're being paid extra, so they're working harder than normal.''
''When do they work the hardest?''
''At night.''
''Got a place we can stay?''
Galvon rose from his crooked bar stool, dumped his helmet over his scabby head and walked out of the bar, the Stalkers following, wary of their surroundings.
Still, people stared from the corners of eyes, curious about the Grunts, but not wanting to incur punishment by openly gawking at them.


Galvon led them a block away and then below ground, into an old subway station that stank of wet, rot, dirt and abandonment. A floodlight stood on its bent tripod at the far end of the long, cracked platform, a small generator chugging away softly to itself. Galvon slid the metal gates shut behind the team and led them deeper into the station, taking them past the floodlight and generator, down a set of five steep steps and onto the rusted rails of the train tracks. He walked them into the black maw of the tunnel, the team shifting unhappily behind him as they placed their faith in a man they did not know. Ten minutes down the black tunnel, past an old, rusted rail maintenance engine, Galvon vanished into the wall to their left.
''You'll stay here tonight.'' Came his voice, filtering from the wall. The team stepped through the circular portal after him, ''It's logged on your maps now, so you'll get back to the surface easily. The factory you're looking for is dockside, five blocks over. Clan Master'll probably have some kind of transport waiting for you topside, so stay alert for them.''
''These tracks abandoned?'' Chester asked curiously.
Galvon rummaged about in the blackness.
''Urgh... Yeah. Last train ran through here fifty years ago. This whole line was shut down because three of the stations up the track were caved in when a sky tower caught fire and collapsed under its own weight. They filled in the holes with the sky tower's rubble and whoever was unfortunate enough to be inside the tower at the time. They concreted it all over with a new foundation and built an even bigger fucking tower on top of it all to try and cover up the mess they'd made. It's all well and good until you go looking for the building's basement and find none. Or happen to be a Sewer Crawler and come across some nastier than usual surprises...'' There was a mechanical grunt and another little generator chugged to life, illuminating a second floodlight identical to the one on the platform.
The chamber Galvon had led them to was a large brick cyclinder and contained three canvas cots. Slime oozed on the walls, dripping and dangling in tendrils from the bricked ceiling. Even through their masks, they could still smell the musky scent of disuse.

''A duck-out chamber.'' Galvon announced before heaving a rib breaking cough, ''In case any rail engineers got caught out on the tracks when a train was coming. They'd duck into these little chambers. They got used for all sorts, actually. Gambling dens, stashes for ill-gotten merch, bedrooms, torture chambers, equipment storage, brothels... Pretty much anything and everything the engineers got up to went down in these chambers. So don't be surprised if you see something like bones or old dice laying around.''
The team stared at him.
''Bones?'' Derron asked, his mouth hanging open inside his helmet, ''Railway engineers [i]tortured[/i] people down here?''
''The engineers that ran the rails were basically their own little society. Now there's only a couple Rail Gangs left 'cause everyone's gone topside. Reckon they don't like travelling in the confines of an underground tube after the cave-ins. Anyway, I gotta be off. I have rounds to do. Might see you later. Might not. Depends if I survive the night.'' He added, a touch of morbid humour in his voice.
He disappeared back into the darkness of the tunnel beyond, leaving the Stalkers to sort themselves out.
''Well, he wasn't quite what I was expecting from a Clan Grunt.'' Derron commented idly.
''What were you expecting?'' Chester asked curiously as he settled down onto a chunk of rock by the entrance to the chamber.
The cat scratched at the armourweave at the back of his neck.
He shrugged hopelessly.
''I 'unno. Something a little more... Erm... [i]Gangster[/i]...?'' He managed weakly.
''The media has corrupted you, my dear boy.'' Lenny sighed, patting Derron the back.
''I find if you expect nothing, then you won't be disappointed at all.'' Oz observed as he peered down the dark subway tunnel.
''Well, let's get the sleep shift sorted out.'' Spirit sighed, looking around at her team. ''It's getting late. Or early. Depending on how you wanna look at it. Either way, we gotta get ourselves sorted out for later. I don't want anyone feeling tired during the coming venture, understood?''
''So, wait. What you're saying is you want us to laze around for the next several hours...?'' Kieron asked slowly.
Spirit's helmeted head nodded, her red visor gleaming cruelly in the light.
''Cool,'' He clapped his armoured hands together, ''what's for lunch?''