While intense preparations were actively underway in the upper spires, deep within the Underhive, things were also moving.
It was dark and suffocatingly damp, the air thick with the pungent stench of rotting garbage and toxic chemical waste. This was the absolute lowest stratum of the Kent Hive, buried over five kilometers vertically beneath the surface, a wretched abyss that had never seen a single ray of sunlight.
Shadows writhed within a highly concealed subterranean tunnel.
Over a thousand gang members were currently massed together. They wore heavily patched, makeshift armor, their faces smeared with terrifying war paint, and the weapons gripped in their hands were a chaotic mess of lethal scrap. Improvised shotguns, black-powder rifles, and even brutal machetes jury-rigged from heavy industrial cutters. These weapons were pathetic junk in the eyes of the upper-spire PDF, but down here in the Underhive, this was the exact kind of firepower required to conquer and rule.
Standing at the very front of the massive horde was a man draped in a heavy black cloak. The thick hood was pulled extremely low, completely obscuring the upper half of his face, revealing only a jagged scar running across his jawline.
A massive, heavily muscled brute with a venomous scorpion tattooed across his face leaned in close behind him, lowering his voice. "Boss, where exactly are we heading? Mustering this many... are we finally going to war with the Bloodfang Syndicate?"
The cloaked man didn't even turn his head, his voice echoing coldly from beneath his hood. "This isn't a gang war."
"Then what..."
"We are going to get rich."
Those simple words instantly caused the eyes of the gang members behind him to gleam with terrifying, predatory light. In the Underhive, getting rich meant many things. It could mean hijacking a supply convoy, seizing a small processing manufactorum, or perhaps... taking over a rival territory that had suddenly been left completely empty.
The cloaked man slowly raised his head, staring directly down the end of the tunnel. A massive, heavily rusted industrial freight elevator sat waiting, its thick steel cables hanging vertically, reflecting a greasy, sickly sheen in the dim lighting.
"The elevator will arrive in exactly three minutes," he said softly, his voice echoing eerily through the damp tunnel. "Remember this explicitly: once we get up there, everything proceeds strictly according to the plan. No unauthorized actions, no looting supplies outside of our designated targets, and absolutely no massacring the civilian populace. Our objective this time is crystal clear. We grab the goods, and we immediately bolt."
Someone in the back muttered quietly, "Boss, that's way too many damn rules... Isn't the Underhive way to just kill everyone after we're done looting?"
The cloaked man spun around, his eyes flashing with lethal intent from within the shadows of his hood. "The Underhive is the Underhive. This operation takes place in the Lower Hive. Furthermore... this is the direct will of the Lord Governor."
The absolute second the words 'Lord Governor' were spoken, all the chaotic grumbling was instantly silenced.
In the twisted, isolated worldview of the Underhive gangs, the Hive Lord was the literal sky above their heads, the absolute law, a terrifying, god-like entity they could never hope to defy. Even if they had never actually seen the Governor's face in their entire miserable lives.
Ding!
The sharp chime of the elevator arriving echoed through the tunnel. The massive steel platform slowly ground to a heavy halt. The heavy security gates retracted, revealing a completely empty transport cage lit only by a few flickering lumen globes. It was incredibly obvious that someone was actively coordinating from above and had specifically cleared out the elevator for them.
"Enter in batches. Fifty men per trip," the cloaked man ordered, stepping directly onto the metal grating first.
The gang members rapidly filed in behind him. The massive elevator began its agonizing ascent, the thick steel cables groaning and screeching as if they were going to snap at any second. But in this rotting Hive City, sounds like that were completely normal. Everything in the Underhive was barely holding together; the fact that it functioned at all was a holy miracle.
–
Ten minutes later.
The Lower Hive, Industrial Sector, inside a massive synthetic nutrient processing manufactorum.
The air quality was significantly better than the Underhive. At the very least, it lacked that pungent, suffocating stench of rotting corpses, replaced instead by the heavy, metallic tang of machine oil and the faint scent of chemical additives.
The heavy elevator gates rumbled open once again.
The cloaked man was the absolute first to step out. He took a deep breath. This was the air of the Lower Hive—cleaner than the abyss below, but absolutely incomparable to the mid-hive, let alone the heavily purified, multi-filtered, sweet air enjoyed by the upper-spire elites.
Someone was already waiting for them in the massive, open clearing of the manufactorum floor. It was a detail of over twenty heavily armed men wearing the dark uniforms of the Hive Enforcers. Their leader was a middle-aged man in his thirties with a vicious knife scar across his face, a standard-issue laspistol securely holstered at his waist.
Seeing the cloaked man step out, the Enforcer Captain immediately stepped forward, sharply lowering his voice. "How many men did you bring?"
"Twelve hundred."
"That's enough." The Captain gave a firm nod and pulled a cracked data-slate from his vest, seamlessly projecting a heavily detailed structural schematic of the manufactorum sector. "The primary warehouses are located in Sector B, Vaults Seven through Twelve. Inside, you'll find the Hysman Merchant Guild's heavily stockpiled reserves for the past six months. It's mostly raw synthetic nutrient paste ingredients, semi-processed mineral ores, and a massive cache of high-end luxury goods smuggled in from neighboring Hive Cities. The Governor's absolute order is to loot as much as you can possibly carry. Whatever you can't carry... you destroy on the spot. We are absolutely not leaving a single scrap for those wasteland bumpkins."
He drew several rapid, glowing circles around specific vault coordinates on the map.
The cloaked man took the data-slate, his eyes quickly sweeping over the schematics. "What about logistical transport?"
"There are five heavily armored cargo crawlers still operational within the manufactorum bays. Furthermore..." The Captain pointed directly toward the pitch-black depths of the factory floor. "...there is a highly concealed smuggling tunnel back there that connects directly to the abandoned mining shafts of the Underhive. Everything you manage to loot gets funneled straight down that exact route."
"Understood."
The cloaked man securely shoved the data-slate into his inner coat, turning back to face the massive horde of gang members constantly pouring out of the transport elevator. He took a deep, heavy breath, his voice suddenly exploding in volume, echoing through the massive, empty expanse of the Lower Hive manufactorum. "Brothers!"
Exactly twelve hundred pairs of predatory eyes locked instantly onto him.
"Do you see that sector over there?!" he roared, pointing his blade directly toward the Sector B warehouses. "There is food in there! There is raw ore! There are high-end luxury goods that we haven't even dreamed of seeing in our entire miserable lives! Today, the Lord Governor has granted us the ultimate opportunity to get rich! Loot as much as you can physically carry! Whatever you can't carry, you smash! You burn it to ash! We are absolutely not leaving a single fucking bolt for those wasteland bastards who stole the Governor's throne!"
The breathing of the gang members instantly became heavy and ragged, their eyes flashing with a terrifying, bloodshot frenzy. In the depths of the Underhive, raw food and solid ore were the absolute hardest forms of currency. Luxury goods were mythical treasures they had only ever heard of in drunken legends.
"But remember this explicitly!" The cloaked man's tone abruptly shifted, dropping into a terrifyingly cold growl. "We only hit the warehouses! No raiding the civilian habitation blocks! No one leaves their designated squads! And absolutely no internal infighting! If anyone dares to break these rules... I will personally sever your head and mount it on the elevator gates, so every single rat in the Underhive can clearly see the absolute price of disobedience!"
After a brief, suffocating silence, a deafening roar of absolute fanaticism exploded.
"We're getting rich!!"
"Loot everything!!"
"For the Lord Governor!!"
The cloaked man swung his blade forward. "Move out!"
A massive, suffocating tide of gang members surged toward the Sector B warehouses like a breached dam of toxic sewage.
Watching this chaotic scene unfold, a faint, mocking sneer curled the corner of the Enforcer Captain's mouth. He turned to the squad members behind him. "Notify the soldiers stationed at the other checkpoints. Tell them to prepare for extraction. The absolute second these Underhive rats finish hauling this loot downstairs, our primary objective is officially complete."
One of his subordinates shifted nervously. "Captain, are we absolutely sure about this...? If the new Hive Lord's people launch a formal investigation..."
"Investigate?" The Captain let out a sharp, derisive scoff. "By the time the new Governor even figures out how to find the Underhive, these goods will have already changed hands at least a dozen times on the black market. The Underhive is a literal meat grinder. If you send a hundred fully armed PDF troopers down there, you'd be lucky if ten of them make it back alive. Who the hell is going to investigate?"
He patted his subordinate on the shoulder. "Relax. Governor Adela has been entrenching his power for years. He has endless contingencies securely in place. Did those wasteland bumpkins honestly believe that just anyone can waltz in and seize absolute control of a Hive City? Absolutely childish."
--
Goal = 750 Powerstones.
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