I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I disliked guard work. No surprise there—it was mind-numbingly dull. I stared through what might charitably be called a window, down into the smog-choked street below. Although the window was less a window and more a jagged hole cut in the building's wall, with a good view of the streets and the bridge across the Gulf.
Which is what we were actually here to guard… lucky us.
Ever since the raid on the warehouse several months ago, the gang conflict had been escalating—spilling onto the streets more frequently, disrupting other gangs and businesses. More and more skirmishes were catching bystanders in the crossfire. Some died, others got pulled in, turning the two-way shootout into a three-way or even four-way bloodbath.
No one was an easy target. Everyone had a reason to be here, rarely a good one.
It was this rising chaos that had us guarding places we wouldn't have done in the past. Which was how I found myself on a forgotten crossing, far from anything important.
The empty streets were a result of the fighting. Hundreds died daily and no one wanted to be next. Even the markets, some of the largest in the underhive, normally packed shoulder to shoulder, sat near deserted.
The war turned what I knew intellectually into something real. Personal.
First were the deaths. I rarely saw them before, generally keeping well away from any conflict, and bodies were never around for long, always taken, either by the corpse guilds or beasts. I had no interest in becoming another statistic. But as part of the Court, I had access to more information, even if it was just hearsay.
My place in the gang was strange. Technically, I was a recruit and therefore at the bottom of the totem pole. But I'd also been recruited by Lanto, the gang's right hand, and I'd earned some respect from the warehouse raid. So even recruits who'd been around for several years listened to me.
Walking around felt… weird. I was so used to avoiding attention. Now with my gang colours, I was attracting attention. Some fear and some respect. Hopefully more of the latter.
One disappointing thing I'd learned is that I didn't get milestone sparks twice for the same thing.
I'd received a spark, one of the largest I received from the gig, but nothing since, even when the fighting had been just as brutal. That stung a bit, but not shocking. I had gained another milestone spark for hitting ten years old. The brightest one I had ever received.
Which was actually kind of depressing thinking about it. I figured the intensity of the spark was determined by how hard it was, so surviving to 10 was considered a major achievement by whatever system gave me the sparks.
Back to the deaths. The gangs were burning through people, hundreds, maybe even thousands, a day. But there was always more. Eager or desperate. I wanted to say I couldn't understand them throwing themselves into the meat grinder.
But I did.
Hell, if things had turned out slightly different, it could've easily been me as one of those bodies, which was a sobering thought. But as more time passed, the less likely that outcome seemed. Not from luck, no, the fragments. They were my ticket to security.
The one I'd earned in the gig was combat-focused, so I focused it on my shooting. I wanted nothing to do with melee combat. No siree.
So I stuck to range. I was already good, so I focused my spark to further improve it. When the fragment formed, it flickered a few times before settling on sharpshooter.
At first, I was somewhat sad. I'd hoped for sniping, but I'd since become glad that it didn't.
It gave me much of the same information the sniper might have, but broader. Affecting all guns, improving my accuracy with them, even shotguns, giving me greater flexibility, options which I was coming to love. But the real gem was the foundational knowledge which I had been missing. I'd further enhanced that, with the last two months sparks pushing it into the second layer.
I learned where to stand for the best shot, how to read the terrain for an ambush, whether I was walking into it or setting it up. And accuracy? That got another boost. It was invigorating having such control of where my shot went. It was like I could feel the bullet's path, guide it. Making it land just right.
My other milestone spark went towards what I was truly coming to love, technology. I'd run into a bit of a wall with some of my tinkering. The mechanical parts? No problem. But anything more advanced came with layers of software which I couldn't do much with.
Like the servitor's robotic arm I'd been working on, it should have been running as smooth as silk, but two motors kept fighting each other and the only way to fix it was to dig deep into the code. That's where my most recent fragment, Software, came in.
I got more than I expected. As usual, I focused on the Imperium tech. Turns out they pretty much only have 1 or 2 core programming languages. There were some minor variations over the centuries, but all were based on the same core language.
Shaking my head, I once more tried to focus on the bridge. I was on lookout duty after all.
I tried to focus; I really did. But after the hundredth curse and grunt from Caidold, I'd had enough. "Okay that's it. Swap with me." I said, turning around. There were 2 others on lookout with me and a few dozen more spread out down below.
Leaning against the wall, looking out another window, was Vogg, a small, wiry man. But sitting at a makeshift desk was Caidold. Nothing stood out about him except his deep red beard.
"Huh?"
"You take lookout. I'll fix the gun."
"I was getting there." Caidold said indignantly.
"Sure you were, like you were an hour ago. Now, swap." After sputtering a bit and getting no support from Vogg, who shrugged at him, he grumbled a bit and took my place as lookout.
Dropping myself down onto the crate, I turned my attention to the shotgun. It was full-auto with a huge barrel magazine, and I shuddered just thinking about being on the receiving end of it. Or at least I would if it didn't jam after every third shot.
I broke it down piece by piece, cleaning as I went, replacing anything to worn if Caidold had them. Which, to his credit, he mostly did. It took several hours, but I got through the whole thing… but still no sign of what was causing the jam.
Putting it back together, it looked as good as new, if I do say so myself. Well, minus the ugly scar running along one side where a lasgun scored a hit along it. Cosmetic damage. Functionally, it should've been perfect and… yet.
I pulled out my dataslate and started digging into the shotguns software. It was incredibly slow going as my dataslate barely functioned, and there wasn't much I could do about it yet. This wasn't your typical shotgun like so many in the underhive. It had an advanced algorithm running behind it. Smart tech. It actually calculated the target distance and adjusted shot spread in real time for optimal coverage. It was some clever shit.
It was here I found it.
Turned out the ammo-type switcher, swapping between slugs, incendiaries and whatever else Caidold might have, was conflicting with another process. I was still very inexperienced with the software, so even with the problem found, it took me an embarrassingly long time to fix, way longer than I would admit to.
But once it finally clicked into place. I couldn't keep the grin off my face, very pleased with myself.
Vogg let out a low whistle, "If nothing else, he's cleaned it up better than you ever did, boss."
"Ahh fuck off, so it's fixed?" Caidold asked as he picked it up. Dry-firing it a few times.
"Yep. I get why you struggled, it was a finicky bastard."
"Thank the Emperor, I felt naked without her. What—"
Caidold was mid-sentence when Vogg, who had actually been doing his job, called out. "People approaching. Stalkers."
"Good means I get to use my baby again." Caidold said at least until he looked out and saw just how many were approaching. "Shit." he muttered.
Scurrying to the window, I peeked out. Sure enough, a couple of dozen gangers were sprinting across the bridge. One of the rare times I was thankful for Imperium over engineering. Who needs a tunnel several kilometres wide? The Imperium of Man, that's who.
But it helped us in this case since they were still quite far out.
"Alright, Vogg, Aleric, stay up here and take a shot when they get close. Aleric use the autogun. Not that monster of yours." He said, casting a look over to the corner where my customised rifle rested. Most of the credits I made for working in the gang had gone into the thing.
It reminded me of a .50 cal only cranked to eleven, maybe even twelve. It was a massive gun and way too unwieldy for most firefights, but it could punch through damn near anything. Honestly? It started as a challenge to myself. Could I even build something like that just using my knowledge? Not that I would tell anyone that.
Nodding, I grabbed the autogun he pointed at. It might not have the range of my sniper, but it was far faster firing, which was what we needed now. As I was setting up, I heard shouts over my shoulder as Caidold started to organise the rest of the gang members below.
Moments later, I could see movement below me as the gangers flooded out onto the street, taking up positions.
Turning back to the approaching Stalkers, I could make out more details now that they were closer. The thick fog and smog making visibility harder. Honestly, I was pretty sure Lanto and the others only got so close to the guards that day because of the worse-than-usual levels of smog rather than their incompetence.
Then again… could've been both.
The front runners were clearly new blood, mismatched armour (if any), and awkward grip on their weapons. Clear rookies. But the ones at the back? They moved with the confidence of those who had lived a hard life and much of it in combat.
Proper veterans.
They were also packing serious war gear, mostly flak armour, but two in the rear were wearing carapace armour. An incredibly rare and heavy armour. I had only seen it once or twice in the gang, but it left an impression. It was the last stop before power armour, so yeah, you can imagine how strong it is.
I ducked down out of sight, making it much harder for them to get an angle on me. Steadied my breathing and heart rate; this was turning out to be quite the fight.
150 metres.
I pressed the stock deep into my shoulder, gripping tightly onto the gun, ready for the recoil. At roughly 100 metres, Vogg and I opened fire—almost perfectly in sync.
The noise was deafening, echoing around the cramped room, dust raining down from the ceiling. The recoil was even worse than I was expecting.
My bruises were going to have bruises.
But damn was it worth it. Our slugs shredded the front line. Scattering the rest, some dived for wherever cover they could find. Most didn't have any stuck on the platform over the void. Some tried to hide behind their fellow gangers, real heroic stuff.
It almost seemed like the raid would stall out with the men in front pausing only to be shoved forward by the more experienced gangers at the back. I clamped down, controlling the recoil as best I could, lining up shots while they were still clumped up.
As soon as they hit the street, they spread out—smart move.
Shots started pinging off the metal walls around me. Swearing, I thought about shifting spots when the Court members on the street opened fire, drawing their attention.
With a little breathing room, I switched to short bursts—taking out one person after another. I focused on the ones who knew what they were doing, but when a kid, maybe a year older than me, stood up in clear view? I didn't hesitate, killing him and moving on.
We had shredded most of the fodder in our opening shots, but the veterans were still making steady progress. A scream below told me we were losing some of ours to their heavy fire. But they were doing their job: holding the enemy's attention.
I shifted position, crouched to get a better angle, and tried to pick off those better armoured where I could. The problem was, they knew what they were doing, only exposing themselves for thin slivers of time. And when they did get hit, their armour did its job.
I landed several good shots, but they barely even noticed—with the metal slugs pinging off. This was worse for the carapace gangers, who were bringing up the rear, stomping through the street. They were using what cover they could, but for the most part, they just advanced.
I just thanked our lucky stars they had not pushed us more aggressively, as I watched more shots ping off them. Even a las shot only singed the armour.
Looking around at the carnage below, broken bodies scattered across the street, both friend and foe alike, I glanced at Vogg, "This autogun is doing fuck all. I am getting my one."
"Toss it over here then, it has more punch than mine."
I nodded, sliding the gun along the rockcrete floor with the last three mags and keeping low, I moved over to the back wall where my sniper was. Grunting slightly at the weight of it, I swing it around and braced it on some rubble.
It was absurd, incredibly unwieldy, weighing far too much and to get the extra power behind it, I had to lengthen the already long barrel, making it almost comical to look at, at over two and a half metres long. The coils and magnets running along it also made it very top-heavy, with much of the weight of the gun in the barrel. Ridiculously impractical.
I took a breath. Lined up the shot.
Thump.
A deep sound echoed through the room—deep and bone-shaking, like the heavy bass. Even after it faded away, my ears were still ringing. I made a note that I would need some ear protection unless I wanted to go deaf within the week. It was an awe-inspiring sound, and it wasn't just bark; it had bite too.
The shot strikes the Stalker member, cracking his carapace armour open like an egg.
But this power did not come without cost.
Even braced for the recoil, it was brutal, smashing the gun into my shoulder and almost ripping it from my grip. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I noticed how silent it was, like the entire city was holding its breath.
Then the gunfire kicked off again, but different now. The enemy was hesitant. Especially the no longer invulnerable carapace wearer. They were looking around for me. I stayed low, deep in the shadows within the room, out of sight.
I lined up another shot.
It was a harder shot—he was closer, ducking and weaving, forcing me to constantly need to shift my stupidly sized gun to get an angle.
But when I did, the deep boom thundered out once more—reaping another life.
This broke the last of them; even the leftover veterans retreated, a few dropping dead as they did. As the gunshot faded, my ears still ringing, I could finally make out sounds it had masked. The screams and cries of the wounded and likely dead men.
Not much in the way of docs this low in the hive. The gang had a few; we even had some halfway decent surgeons who could slap on basic bionics. Nothing fancy, none of the truly complex stuff. That kind of work? That was the Ash Stalkers specialty and they were some of the best around.
Rumour was, several of their surgeons were disgraced medicae from higher up the spire.
Looking at the blood-spattered streets, I'd say we did well, five heavies, and seventeen Stalker members dead. Only eight Court members died for it.
Which sounded good, until you realised that there were five people left, including me, Voff and Caidold, who I could just make out barking orders. Even so, the carapace armour was rare even amongst the elite gang members, so that had to have been a big hit to them.
I had no idea what they were doing out this way, but then we could be near an important storage warehouse for all I knew.
Glancing at Voff, I asked, "You okay? Hit anywhere?"
"Nah, all good, kid. Good shooting."
I nodded, grinning and settled into silence, eyes scanning the street below. I wasn't expecting anything, but better safe than sorry. I had no interest in dying, thank you very much. A few more years of collecting sparks, and who knows where I would be.
Far better off I hoped.
"You alive up there?" Caidold shouted from below.
"Yeah boss, all good!" Voff shouted back.
Once he knew we were keeping watch, he went back to wrangling the chaos. It wouldn't be for several hours until he stepped back into the room. Down below, bodies were already scavenged for anything useful—weapons, clothes, gear. Nothing went to waste.
Bionic were either yanked out or set aside for someone who knew what they were doing. Even the corpses wouldn't go to waste. I tried not to think about where they went, or what they became. There were many corpse merchants down here ready to take all the dead up to the processing plants further up.
Corpse starch. If I thought about it too long, it made bile rise in my throat. Best left in ignorance.
I didn't know how most gangs handled loot, but part of the appeal to the Court was their mostly fair system. So after a good battle like this, you could find yourself really upgrading your gear.
"Good shooting, you two, I reckon without you we might not have held them off."
Voff asked what I'd been thinking. "What was worth that kind of attack?"
Shrugging, Caidold said. "Fuck knows. Only thing nearby is a warehouse, so it might be that. But it doesn't matter, we go where we are told." He nodded towards the long-barreled beast by my feet, "Those last shots from your monster?"
Smirking I nodded.
He chuckled and gave a whistle, "Glad I wasn't on the nasty end of that. Salvage is nearly done; you two will get a good cut. But that carapace armour?" He shook his head. "Even if you dropped the guy, Aleric, that'll likely go to some higher up. But you'll get first picks of the rest. So that's something."
I nodded. I wasn't surprised. Maybe a dozen people in our gang had a full carapace armour. It would've been a miracle if it had gone to me. The Court was fairer than most—but there was still a pecking order.
And I was most definitely at the bottom.
For now.