Chapter 18: Reno of the Water Guild
Creak-groan-thud!!
Gears the size of cathedral bells ground together, lowering a metal platform the size of several football fields into the crust of the planet.
The Grand Sump-Lift was a masterpiece of crude, violent engineering. It could carry two thousand souls, dozens of battle tanks, and thousands of tons of industrial runoff in a single trip. Today, the platform was split into two distinct worlds.
On one side stood the commuters—a few hundred laborers and technicians heading to their shifts in the Underhive's "Safe Zones." They stood in disciplined, weary silence. Kian stood among them, leaning against a rusted guardrail.
On the other side, surrounded by a ring of Enforcers brandishing electrified prods, were the one thousand "Dispossessed." Shackled in heavy plasteel, they wailed and pleaded as the lift descended, their lives as "citizens" officially over.
Kian shook his head and lit a Lho-stick. A man standing nearby let out a sharp, cynical bark of laughter.
"Look at those poor bastards," the man muttered, as if to himself. "I bet half of them don't last the week."
Kian glanced at him. "Half? You're an optimist. If even ten percent of those sheep survive, it's because the Underhive has suddenly turned into a charitable institution."
The man looked surprised that a "scav-rat" would talk back. "Oh? And how do you figure?"
Kian pointed the glowing tip of his Lho-stick at the wailing crowd.
"First, the moment they hit the deck, they'll be stripped and robbed. Ten percent die in the initial scramble. Over the next five cycles, they'll be hunted for sport or worked for fun. Another thirty percent gone. By the tenth cycle, hunger, rot, and the local 'water' take another thirty. The final survivors get snatched up by gangs to be used as combat-meat or lab rats."
The man frowned, mentally tallying the numbers. "Wait. That adds up to a hundred percent."
Kian gave a shark-like grin. "Precisely. Not one of them lives."
The man stared for a beat, then let out a genuine chuckle. "I like your style. I'm Reno, lead overseer for the Underhive branch of the Water Guild."
Kian pulled out his pack of Lho-sticks and offered one. "Kian Voss. Scavenger. If you need a relic found, a job done, or a throat slit, the price is always negotiable."
Reno took the stick, his eyes lingering on the two long, cloth-wrapped shapes slung across Kian's back. Rifles. This wasn't just a scavenger; this was a professional.
K-CHINK. K-CHINK. K-CHINK.
"Lift arrival imminent," the vox-casters blared across the platform. "Machine Spirit stabilized. Prepare for disembarkation. Praise the God-Emperor."
The wailing of the exiles reached a crescendo. Reno looked at Kian's casual demeanor—a rare sight in a world that usually crushed men into dust.
"Listen," Reno said, lowering his voice. "I had a few of my technicians 'taxed' while they were taking their recreation in the Sump-Sectors. A local Sump-Matron and her thugs got greedy and rolled them."
He looked at Kian. "I'm looking for someone to send a message. If you can use one of my Guild-stamped pipes to break the legs of the Matron and her five enforcers, I can make it worth your while."
[DING! NEW CONTACT DISCOVERED: RENO (WATER GUILD)]
Kian's eyebrows shot up. A random conversation on a lift had triggered a new questline. "Keep talking."
"The Matron runs a 'Red-Light' den on the edge of the Neutral Zone," Reno explained. "She thinks she can touch Guild staff without consequence. It's bad for my reputation. I need a brutal, public response."
"Why the Guild pipe?" Kian asked.
"The pipes have the Mercator Aqua seal stamped into the iron," Reno said with a cruel smirk. "I want them to feel the logo as it cracks their bones. I want everyone who looks at their mangled limbs to know exactly who authorized the audit."
Kian got it. It was about "Branding."
"What's the fee?"
"One hundred Standard-issue Purification Tablets," Reno offered.
Kian whistled. To a Guild overseer, a hundred tablets was just a rounding error on a ledger. But in the Sump, those tablets were hard currency. You could trade them for food, ammo, or information anywhere.
"Throw in ten Chemical Filtration Cartridges for my Sanctum, and you've got a deal," Kian countered.
"Done," Reno nodded.
[MISSION ACCEPTED: THE GUILD'S AUDIT]
Objective: Break the Sump-Matron's legs (0/1)
Objective: Break her Enforcers' legs (0/5)
Condition: Use the [Guild-Stamped Iron Pipe].
Rewards: 100 Purification Tablets, 10 Chemical Filters, Reno Rep: Rank 1.
The lift hit the bottom with a bone-shaking jar. The massive blast doors hissed open, revealing thousands of Underhivers standing in the shadows. Their eyes were glowing with predatory hunger as they stared at the shackled exiles.
Kian walked off the lift, making sure his Marksman Rifle and Pipe Shotgun were visible. No one bothered him.
Behind him, the Enforcers unlocked the prisoners' shackles and literally kicked them off the platform. The exiles huddled together, clutching their children and their meager belongings, begging to be taken back up. The Enforcers ignored them, the lift already rising back toward the light.
The moment the platform cleared the ceiling, the Underhive "rats" screamed in joy and swarmed. The exiles were engulfed in a wave of violence.
Kian didn't look back. He vanished into the dark pipes of the Sump.
[SANCTUM - SECTOR 0]
Back home, Kian plugged the electric heater he'd "borrowed" from Rudolphson into his promethium grid.
[SANCTUM UPGRADE: KITCHEN (LVL 1)]
He roasted a few potatoes, the warmth of the heater making the vault feel a bit more like a home and less like a bunker.
He then sat at his Machinist's Station. He clamped the Vindicatus Battle Rifle into the vice and began to strip it down. He needed to know the "Machine Spirit" of this weapon before he took it into a fight against the Chem-Sows.
The rifle was in perfect condition—barely a hundred rounds through the barrel. It was a precision instrument. He wiped away the standard military grease and reached for his bottle of Sanctified Oil.
He carefully lubricated the bolt-carrier, the firing pin, and the trigger assembly. As he worked, he felt a strange sense of calm. Was it the oil? Or just the satisfaction of good gear?
He reassembled the rifle and kissed the receiver. "Be good to me, and I'll keep you clean."
He began loading his magazines.
Magazine 1: 15 rounds of AP Hardcore Slugs (The "Pig-Killers").
Magazine 2 & 3: 15 rounds of Standard Lead-Core Slugs (For soft targets).
He donned his Grade 3 PDF Flak Armor and secured his helmet. He looked in the mirror—a scarred, dirt-streaked operative in Imperial green. He looked like a soldier of the Astra Militarum, albeit a very disorganized one.
"Time for the Chem-Reactor," Kian whispered. "I've got three pigs to slaughter and a fridge to earn."