>>5806381
>L-301, a simple laborer.

>>5806381
>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.

In the decaying Imperium, a stroke of the pen can cause the most damage. Though silently listening and relaying or the right person going missing could do much as well.

>>5806381
>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.

>>5806381
>>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.

>>5806381
>K-455, a bodyguard model, easily replaced and yet durable, strong, made to fight and die. You were to be more resilient than most, vigilant in ways that others were not, and yet not entirely trusted. Unobtrusive, precisely tailored to the aesthetic specifications of the order, and nothing more.

>>5806381

>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.

Not really sure where this is headed lol

>>5806381
>L-301, a simple laborer. Smaller than most, soft of step and keen of senses. Carefully grown, observant and sharp. Even a laborer, however, can have their gifts. Uncanny silence and springiness of movement, a surprising complexity of thought. Surprising gifts, nothing more.

>>5806381
>K-455, a bodyguard model, easily replaced and yet durable, strong, made to fight and die.
There's already a 40K bureaucrat quest somewhere

>>5806381
>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.

Voting isn't closing yet, but I would like to remind people to set second-choices if you'd like. There's a clear favorite, of course, but it never hurts when it's the big choices like this. Quoting from the OP:
>This quest allows you to designate a second-choice vote on decisions with three or more options before Write-Ins. When votes are totaled, the option with the least votes for it will be removed, with votes for that option instead being changed to the second-choice of those voters

>>5806575
I read that, was just too lazy/didn't care.

My second choice would be
>L-301, a simple laborer. Smaller than most, soft of step and keen of senses. Carefully grown, observant and sharp. Even a laborer, however, can have their gifts. Uncanny silence and springiness of movement, a surprising complexity of thought. Surprising gifts, nothing more.

>>5806381
enough with the trans quests already

>>5806381

First choice
>>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.

Second choice
>>L-301, a simple laborer. Smaller than most, soft of step and keen of senses. Carefully grown, observant and sharp. Even a laborer, however, can have their gifts. Uncanny silence and springiness of movement, a surprising complexity of thought. Surprising gifts, nothing more.

>>5806483
I'll add
>L-301, a simple laborer. Smaller than most, soft of step and keen of senses.
as my second choice. Completely forgot about your runoff system.

>>5806381
>>K-455, a bodyguard model, easily replaced and yet durable, strong, made to fight and die. You were to be more resilient than most, vigilant in ways that others were not, and yet not entirely trusted. Unobtrusive, precisely tailored to the aesthetic specifications of the order, and nothing more.

>>5806381
>K-455

Second choice:
>A-414

>>5806381
>K-455, a bodyguard model, easily replaced and yet durable, strong, made to fight and die. You were to be more resilient than most, vigilant in ways that others were not, and yet not entirely trusted. Unobtrusive, precisely tailored to the aesthetic specifications of the order, and nothing more.

>A-414, an actuarial model with prestigious memory. Sparsely, and precisely refined, with weak and pliable flesh. Easily made, and easily modified to suit whatever clerical or technical task was required, with a deft hand and a keen eye.
I think even if a last minute vote for K-455 power slides under the finish line as I write this, the tie-breaker would still put bureaucracy in the lead. Writing.

>>5806775
It's not used very often, but I keep it around so that people are more free to vote for options that they like but aren't in favor.

Checking if this unicode character is valid on 4chan: •

QM, the logo is

siiiick

did you make it?

>>5807161
I dabble a bit. It's a picture from google with parts masked out in photoshop, then taken into illustrator and traced with a low color count. The words are just partially masked text with a modified gear shape from another project laid on top.

File: A-414.png (1.43 MB, 1920x1038)

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Gothic. High and Low, literacy and speech. How to show deference to Administratum bureaucrats. Sorting by decimal or in alphabetical order. The order cants used on message tickets and how to send them. Notation in short-hand, with movements that pulled at your mind in confusing ways. Strange things that curled and churned in the water, and strained your mind.

Hand. That was a word who's meaning still evaded you, try as you might to understand it. With short-hand also came how to use short-hand with an auto-scribe, something you might have when the client modified you for their needs. They would remove something and then replace it with another, but you did not understand what that was.

That disappointed the Voice, but you don't recall asking it why.

Proper deference to enginseers and techpriests. Their needs were different, their rituals obscure and given only by their will. Oils you should carry, both sacred and practical. Light tech-chants, as expected of an assistant. These things were harder to glean from the water, and it made it churn tightly around you before repeated tides eroded your worries, and allowed you to return to the depths.

The following Parameters have changed:

Conditioning •
Manipulation •••
Vigilance ••
Logic ••••
Intuit •••

Parameters are a simple metric of your basic abilities. They are rated on a scale of one to five. Two is average. Having sufficient dots in a Parameter means that you can fairly easily complete some choices, but if you lack sufficient dots for a choice, attempting them will accrue a point of Strain and risk failure. You can have maximum Strain equal to your points in Conditioning. Attempting to Strain while at your maximum will incur a Strain Check. Finding safe shelter will cleanse all your points of Strain.

The Parameters are:
Conditioning - A combined ranking of your body's strength and swiftness, and also the limits of your endurance.
Manipulation - Your ability to understand the behavior of objects in motion and how to manipulate them, either personally or with tools.
Vigilance - Not only your sensory acuteness, but also your ability to interpret your senses and other information.
Logic - The ability to handle large quantities of discrete information, retain it and organize it, as well as interact with complex systems.
Intuit - Capacity to engage in lateral thinking, understand others and make accurate assumptions.

The further you sank into the water, the more you were taught about yourself. The client was nobility - those who lived in the upper spires of Hive Odrev. A secretarial model, intended for one of the great many attendants who must accompany the lower ranking nobles on their duties. The sacred ports, guarded on high by adepts by divine decree.

>>5807272
‘Divinity’ was another word you did not know, but you knew you would find the meaning deeper in the water. As you tried to dive lower, the tide would push you back, and as it did so, it would pass through you and teach you more. You could feel yourself swell each time, retaining more of the water and losing less to the tide. You were to be a living recorder, at the disposal of those on high. You needed to hold these things effortlessly.

You and your lot were headed to the domain of House Porta, the guardians of the way to the sky. You were to be one of a number of living manifests, monitori-

You are imperfect."

It was no longer inside, but outside. The Voice had become muffled, gurgled through the water as if it was drowning. There wasn't time to ask it's meaning, there was only the tearing of your senses. Pain. You had learned that word in the water, but now the water was rushing away from you as you fell up and away from the sea. You felt tight, and for the first time you felt the confines of the womb.

Something was pulling away from you- a thick dome, tipped with many fine points, melded with a pair of needle-lined goggles that floated away from you in the water. Your vision was blurry, filled with a sea of amniotic fluid entirely unlike the water had been. Something flicked inside of your skull, and something inside of you spasmed, jerking your body. Tears welled up at the stinging rush of water, and the burning that was consuming your chest.

Fluid was rushing past your body, the bottom of the womb opening, and the clear bag that held your body tightly in place split, jostling against it's neighbors. A strange, pale thing slid from it, dragging your head down with it. Leg, whispered a strained part of your mind. It's weight was dragging you down, soon joined by another. Your chest was spasming powerfully, making your head hurt and feel swollen, only making your thoughts churn painfully before you dropped free.

Things tore free from you, jerking your limbs back from your body for an instant before you were taken by the hateful tide and torn away. Your vision went dark, and the water churned around you. Your head went under again and again, while your body burned until some instinct screamed in your ear: Breathe.

Lungs seemingly unlocked, but instead of heaving air in, you expel a sudden stream of foamy fluid before your head goes under again. Your body catches on a hard rod of metal, and water gives way to air.

You fall, and hit something soft and slimy.

>>5807274
DEPTH 1

THE CORPSE-GRINDER

A gentle trickle of amniotic fluid continued to flow from your mouth as you took gentle, shallow breaths. It spilled from your lips and gathered on a sleeve, soaking into the cloth. Your head slowly turned, following the pale limb laying to your side, flexing the thin digits it was topped with.

Right, hand.

You had been awoken by a groan - or perhaps, a sob - from beneath you, if that was possible. Fumbling, you struggle to lift your head and right yourself, trying to sort your limbs out from each other. Hands, feet- the knowledge comes thickly, and slowly. They were not things the voice in the water had taught you, and whatever instincts you had yielded the information jealously. A warning klaxon sounded, somewhere. It was muffled through walls, and swallowed up by the ambient din of spilling water, and background atmospherics.

Twisting, you raise your head up. You are part of a pit of corpses.

Hundreds of bodies interlock and fit together, spreading out around you to fill the vast circular pit you find yourself at the base of. Bodies in the center slowly sink, as if being drawn into a pool of quicksand, and are slowly pulled under while the surface layer is slowly covered up by fresh corpses. Most were naked, just like you, but some were dressed, others still clutched things or slowly bled from wounds cut across them.

It seemed like only you lived- but if that was the case, who had spoken before?

Turning, you slowly crawl your way out of the bed of bodies, pawing at skulls and slipping when your hand grabs arms that pull free with your grasp. Tufts of hair pull free when you pull too hard without thinking, and you gag when your fingers sink into uncomfortable dampness more than once.

You pull yourself to the edge of the pit, your knees scraping onto bare metal before you roll over the size and collapse, exhausted by the brief labor. You are not among the spires of the hive. You are not to be one of them. You are alone.

>You don't understand. The tide brought you here, is this another test?
>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.
>...whatever this is, it doesn't matter. You aren't ready to die just yet.

>>5807276
>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

IMPERFECT

>>5807276
>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

>>5807276
>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

>>5807276
>>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

>>5807276
>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

>>5807276
>>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

>>5807276
>>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.

>A warning klaxon sounded, somewhere.

Alarm warning klaxon, imperial manufacture, type Rho 122-4 model T, used to signify alert to imperial guards.

Run! Run!

! Survive!

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Let us venture, venture it on!

>This is rejection. Your purpose has been taken from you.
Writing.

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192 KB JPG

Something wells up in your chest, and you instinctively bend over and hack, but instead of yet more amniotic fluid being expelled from your lungs, you simply heave dry air and shudder. You try to stop, but it comes again in a wave, leaving you powerlessly gasping for breath. You didn't know what to do. What could you do? You were to go to the spires and - no, that doesn't make sense, there were other things humans did than what you...

A frenzied scream shakes you out of your paralysis. Someone yelled, muffled by many layers of bodies, mixing into the background whine of engines as their voice seemingly approached you, then spun away from you, seemingly passing by the bodies just under your feet. You flinch as the sound echoes up through the chamber and across the hive walls. Things thump in the distance, and in the other room, you hear the din of another engine die down.

...it wasn't safe to be here, at least. Only corpses were supposed to fall down these chutes, you were sure.

Your hand finds it's way to the wall, and you slowly grope the punched metal for hand holds. Humans were not supposed to crawl on all their limbs, you think. The Voice hadn't taught you much about that, yet, but you recall standing upright. Fingers closing around a line of slots, you carefully lift yourself up: first onto your knees, then unsteadily onto one foot. It shakes as you try to figure out how to position it, but it holds, so you bring your other foot forward and manage to stand up.

You immediately stumble, but something in your bones makes your arms come out, and instead of falling, you merely fall forward and smack yourself on the wall.

The world goes blank for a moment, and a few seconds later when things swim back into focus, you realize that the thing that just shrieked was you. You feel dazed, and your ears ring slightly with a harsh pain that makes you wince. You were slumped against the wall, again, the side of your thigh and chest that were scraping against the metal felt hot and angry.

Memories from the water stirred, and you struggled to recall. You knew that you were never to harm certain soft parts of your body, as they... they- right, it was a feature of your series. Enhanced intellect, expanded brain matter. You were forbidden from replacing several specific body parts with bionics, as they would damage your capabilities. The throbbing pain told you something was wrong, though - a simple bump wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

File: Status 1.png (1.46 MB, 1920x1038)

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>>5807928
Quality gained: [Genetic Curse - Thinking Tissue] Your body is laced with additional grey matter in key locations. This grants increased intellect, memory and in some cases, reflexes. However, it renders you more vulnerable to physical injuries to certain areas of your body, which are much more painful than normal and heal slower.

You have just gained a Quality. A Quality is a trait different from average that can affect the outcome of certain actions, and they are retained until they are spent or lost in some way.

You find your feet again, and begin to follow along the wall, squinting slightly in the gloom. What light the room had was provided by low-power lights set into the ceiling, which cast the entire room in an off-white haze. You rub your sore leg with a grimace, the contact against bare skin making you remember - you were naked. Humans wore clothes, you think, and your body was starting to gently shiver as the fluid clinging to you cooled in the circulating breeze of the chamber. You were supposed to be given some clothes upon delivery, but obviously that wouldn't happen, now...

You look around. You could...

>[Vigilance] Rob the dead.
>[Conditioning] Some of the hive walls are exposed. You could try to rip insulation and cabling from the machinery.
>[Logic] Hives were supposed to maintain emergency supplies. All you need to do is find the locker.

>>5807930
>[Logic] Hives were supposed to maintain emergency supplies. All you need to do is find the locker.

>>5807930
>[Logic] Hives were supposed to maintain emergency supplies. All you need to do is find the locker.

>>5807930
>>[Logic] Hives were supposed to maintain emergency supplies. All you need to do is find the locker.

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>>5807930
>Quality gained: [Genetic Curse - Thinking Tissue] Your body is laced with additional grey matter in key locations. This grants increased intellect, memory and in some cases, reflexes. However, it renders you more vulnerable to physical injuries to certain areas of your body, which are much more painful than normal and heal slower.

>[Logic] Hives were supposed to maintain emergency supplies. All you need to do is find the locker.

Well they say two brains are better than one.

>[Logic] Hives were supposed to maintain emergency supplies. All you need to do is find the locker.
Writing.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, closing your eyes briefly are you search what you had been told in the water. What you had been told swam in and out of reach, the memories dimmer than what you had been given in the womb, but still there. Although, now they seemed almost suspect- if the promise of your purpose had been a lie, what else could you have been lied to about?

Hive Odrev was founded in M36, and it primarily used off-world parts from the local forge world Abraham in it's initial construction. The orbital tether, the initial foundries and the habitation blocks built on top of them were thus primarily constructed to Abraham's standards, with the rest of the hive and anything constructed after M38 utilizing Odrev and Malignax's local techniques.

Your eyelids flutter briefly as you struggle to recall more.

Abraham-pattern Flush Emergency Lockers cost precisely 149 thrones, were exactly two meters tall and one and four-tenths meters wide, but it could also be the Heavy Equipment Locker at three meters tall and five wide. The Odrev-pattern equivalent cost 50 thrones and would have a bare metal exterior due to the omitted primer. Was that useful information? You knew what it looked like, at least.

All that said, you had no way of knowing how deep you were and thus the era until you went looking.

Less than a second after you closed them, you open your eyes again. This was a corpse-grinder for the production of corpsestarch. Mechanicus safety protocols demanded the installation of appropriate emergency tools at specific points. Odrev had not followed these safety standards for six hundred Terran years - you had been taught how to bypass that on paperwork when required.

You look around the room. There was a red light flickering in the gloom, but when you get close, still leaning with one hand on the wall for support, you find that it doesn't seem to mark an exit like it's supposed to. Instead, the slight inlet where the exit was supposed to be had been sealed over with scraps of sheet metal, clumsily welded into place. You reach out and push on it gently with a hand, and the whole construction gently groans as it flexes.

Instead, you follow the wall to a point where the hive wall had been cut through and joined with replacement flooring to create a new exit. Instead of the smooth inlet of atmospheric doors, the edges of the exit were melted slag where exposed girders and walls had been fused together, leaving knobbly welds that you traced your fingers over as you rounded the corner.

The new exit bypassed the normal hive structure, leading to a new hallway that clearly didn't join with the intended exit. If it had, it would turn left when you walked through it, but instead, it turned right and continued on. Strange.

>>5808416
As you walked and followed it, your steps became easier and easier, the half-formed skills given to you in the womb starting to make more sense to you as you got an opportunity to actually use them. You wonder - if you had been perfect, could you have stayed in the womb, and learned how to walk before being released, or would you have always had to relearn how to walk?

The texture of the metal beneath your hand changes, and you pause to look at the wall. There was a patch where the wall changed texture, becoming a metallic matte grey against the cast ferrocrete. This was the flush Abraham-pattern locker. It was an intentionally sparse design- no helpful labels or obvious markings to discourage idle civilians. Your hand quests along it until you find a seam, then you pull the recessed latch.

Doors swing open with a metallic click, and you swing the door wide to find... nothing. Where there was supposed to be medical supplies, extinguishing units, ration bars and the fire blanket you had desired was instea three spent extinguishing canisters thrown into the corner and several bundles of crusted cloth on the floor.

Strange. Had this been used recently? The hive authorities should have refilled this by now unless it was very recent, yet the canisters themselves were empty.

A distant clatter made you look to the side. Was someone coming?

>[Vigilance] ...you should hide.
>Workers, possibly? Come to address the damaged wall? Maybe they could help?
>You could possibly take what you need from them.

>>5808417
>[Vigilance] ...you should hide.

>>5808417
>[Vigilance] ...you should hide
Digging this so far

>>5808417
>[Vigilance] ...you should hide.

>>5808417
>>Workers, possibly? Come to address the damaged wall? Maybe they could help?

>[Vigilance] ...you should hide.
Writing.

Your first instinct was that they were Imperial officials, maintaining the hive structures. Then you remember the jury-rigged entrance, the corpses and the fact that you're naked and among the dead. Legitimate authority would just break down the sealed off entrance, and even then you wouldn't want to be found like that.

For an instant, you debate sprinting back to the grinder and hiding amongst the corpses in plain sight, but you decide against it. There was no telling what they were here for, and you didn't want to risk accidentally being pulled into the grinder.

Instead, you clumsily shove one leg into the locker, then the other. Turning, you grab the open doors and try to pull them shut, but they get stuck on your chest. You try to flatten your back against the wall, but the locker is shallower than it should be. Twisting to the side, you breathe sharply in and pull the doors shut with more force, feeling it press against your chest and leg before abruptly clattering shut, pinching your foot and making you pull it back with a wince. Thankfully, while your body is being partially squeezed by the interior, it wasn't so tight as to be painful.

Your mouth keeps twisting strangely when you do these things. The movement concerns you, but you don't have time to debate if it's a problem or not as voices approach.

“No, seriously, I swear I heard something.” A masculine voice came.

“It just sounded like a fan or something to me, man.”

“Ugh- maybe? It just didn't sound right...” The same voice replied, growing closer to the locker.

“Could be something in the grinder giving way.”

A third voice joined, that of a woman. “Let's hope it's just someone trying to muscle in, because we can shoot that.”

“...think it might have been the barricade?”

“I keep telling Tolley we need to reinforce that shitty thing.” There was a brief pause as footsteps approached and passed the locker. “No, I swear it was closer, though.”

You try to quiet your breathing, shifting your body to lean away from the locker door. A piece of metal in it's construction creaked slightly as your weight shifted around on it.

“Look, do you want to check it out or not?” The second voice kept moving further away.

The first voice, though, stayed right next to the locker. “I don't want to screw this up, is all I'm saying.”

A footstep came closer, but softer than it had been before. Hesitant, not sure.

Your breathing starts to pick up for some reason, and you realize your lungs are tickling and burning with the urge to cough. You cover your mouth with a hand and try to resist the urge. Amniotic fluid was pooling at your feet where it was running off your legs and torso, with only your shoulders partially dry.

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>>5808784
Your eyes roam the inside of the locker, but in the gloom there isn't much to make out. Used, empty equipment, something mounted to the upper corner- an alarm, possibly? Or an atmospheric sensor. meant to detect the fires the extinguishers are meant to put out. You fumble to it with a free hand, but as you blindly probe it, all you find is a cheap, encased sensor with a slit for detection.

A shadow crossed the gap of light streaming in from outside, and you leaned yourself back from it, while your head throbbed, pressure building in it like the tide.

Don't come any closer... don't come any closer...

“You coming or not man?” The feminine voice called.

“Huh? But I-” The voice stopped, apparently reconsidering himself. “Yeah, be right there.” It lingered for a second, then began walking off with a sigh of exasperation.

After a few seconds, you let a stream of breath out. At least you know that you were a trespasser, now. The relevant Imperial statues flash to your mind aimlessly, but you doubt this was the work of the authorities anymore.

You grip the inside seam of the locker door and lift up the small counterweight that was attached to the other side of the latch. The locking arms twisted, and you were able to stumble out of the locker, before turning and carefully shutting it. Sparing a glance over your shoulder and not seeing anyone watching you, you turn and find your way to the end of the corridor as fast as you can.

At the end, you find another termination - the corridor turned, but then abruptly terminated in a thick slab of welded metal. Unlike the one that had blocked the exit to the corpse-grinder, this one had been reinforced with angled braces punched into the floor, holding up the welded paneling so it couldn't be knocked down. It also seemed to be much thicker and heavier. Next to it, another hole had been punched in the hive structure, opening up an entrance into another impromptu room.

Ratty mattresses had been thrown on top of cargo crates, creating impromptu benches that clustered around a broken ventilation grate on sticks. Beneath it, a low-cetane promethium canister sat, flame issuing from a hole that had been carefully punched in the top to make an improvised burner that heated a small pot filled with a off-white stew. Cloth bags were strewn around the room, some bursting with random pieces of scrap metal, others empty, and there were a mismatched pair of dressers against one wall.

A camp, of some kind. Belonging to those people back there, maybe?

>[Vigilance/Strain] Rob the place before you go.
>You really should keep moving before they come back.

>>5808786
>[Logic] Use the presence of flame to dry off the last remains of amniotic fluid and get warm before moving on.

Dunno if write-ins are okay, so here's mine.

>>5808800
Write-ins are fine, but I usually put in a
>[Write-In]
when I'm intending them. That said, so long as they're not bending reality too badly, I don't mind if they're given without being called for.

>>5808786
>>[Vigilance/Strain] Rob the place before you go.

>>5808786
>[Vigilance/Strain] Rob the place before you go.
We should see if we can get clothes and a knife or something out of it.

>>5808786
>[Vigilance/Strain] Rob the place before you go.
I find pants to be quite underrated to starting a day, personally

>>5808786
>>You really should keep moving before they come back.

>>5808786
>You really should keep moving before they come back.

>>5808800
Support also are we a big titty plump thighs lady filled with brain? Beacuse if it was a guy I would imagine a giant belly brain

>5808786
>You really should keep moving before they come back.

Wouldnt it be funny if we looked for clothes and we just found sunglasses.

Completely naked
Except for sunglasses.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

Okay, I believe that's a... even split? I can work the write-in into either of them, so I suppose I'll roll off for them.

1 for robbing, 2 for moving on.

You snatch the pot off their improvised cooktop and drop it on the floor, fluid on your hands steaming, but protecting it from the heat that had built up in the handle. Sticking your hands out over the flames, you feel the remaining amniotic fluid drying and steaming a little in the heat, leaving only a slight crust that was easily brushed off.

With your arms clean, you turn to the bags and pull them open. They seemed to be useful scrap components salvaged from the hive- machined pieces like corner pipes, springs and bearings. You remember that these were often difficult to make if you didn't have a forge with which to work out of. Were they not able to legitimately purchase these from the hive forges, or was the hive engaged in an intensive recycling program?

That was certainly odd, but you weren't going to worry about whatever hive law you were breaking right now. Keeping your back to the fire so it can dry off from the ambient heat, you pick your way halfway through the second bag, struggling to pull the parts around with your limited strength before determining that it was all just scrap. Skipping the remaining bags, you pull open the dresser drawers and find it stuffed with the camp's actual supplies.

Two drawers were filled almost to overflowing with ratty, grease-stained clothes, to the point that you couldn't even open one of them up all the way, the latch instead catching on something that had overflown on the inside. Rather than waste any time trying to free it, you simply rifle through the one good drawer until you pull out a stained set of coveralls. They were a faded grey color, and whatever insignia had been included by the original manufacturer on the sleeve and back had been stitched over with bands of colorful cloth, forming a procession of colors on the sleeve that cycled between red, yellow and orange.

At the very least, they seemed to be meant for a woman, so you opened the front and put your leg through one hole, then the other. When you try to pull them up, you nearly sent yourself catapulting into the fire as the coverall's ankles don't come over your own, forcing you to roll up the hems two, three, four times until they're the correct length.

A clank sounds in the distance, and you flinch. The corpse-grinder? Footsteps? You listen for a few seconds as your pulse slowly dies down, then you go back to zipping the coveralls up. They rub uncomfortably against your bare skin, and feel oddly damp, but they'll do for now.

>>5809564
You pull open the remaining drawers, looking for anything else useful while you were here. One drawer opens with a clatter of metal, and you look in to see several Mars-pattern power packs, like those used in lasguns. Most of them were apparently scorched by flame, and there was about eight in total. Another drawer was stuffed with several oddly immaculate foil-wrapped bars - ration bars, according to the label. Strange why they were here, when the citizens were clearly cooking themselves, but no matter. More drawers contained ratty books, spent promethium cartridges and hair pins, nets- even a small pile of throne coins, shiny pebbles and strips of foil. Strewn around the bottom of the dresser was a small sea of boots, shoes and sandals- far more than three people could need.

You spare a glance at one of the less-full bags in the room. It's tempting, but you know very well that you wouldn't be able to carry much. And even if you wanted to, you didn't have many options on what to carry except for what you could fit into the sewn-in pockets of your coveralls unless you wanted to constantly hold them in your hands.

Choose up to two:
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>The power packs.
>The ration bars and the spare change.
>Try and find a promethium can that's full, and take any important looking parts.
>[Write-In]

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>Try and find a promethium can that's full, and take any important looking parts.
Wait, we're a woman? Ew

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.

>The ration bars and the spare change.
Take nothing to noticeable that would get those we take from too interested that could be found on us if we get searched.

hopefully those aren't gang colors on the sleeve

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>Try and find a promethium can that's full, and take any important looking parts.

>>5809565
>>The power packs.
>>The ration bars and the spare change.

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>The ration bars and the spare change.

>>5809594
It's literally the third word of the Quest title, not sure how you missed that

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>The ration bars and the spare change.

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>The power packs.

>>5809565
>>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>>The power packs.

>>5809594
>The False WOMAN

I believe that goes to
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>The ration bars and the spare change.
Writing.

>>5809565
>Take the time to find a pair of shoes that fit.
>Try and find a promethium can that's full, and take any important looking parts.

>>5810111
That's cruel- y'know what, anon, since that would have tied with ration bars, we'll throw in a promethium can, just for you.

>>5810120
I matter!

OKAY MAYBE EATING THREE POUNDS OF BEEF IN TWO DAYS BY MYSELF WAS A BAD IDEA, BUT NO AMOUNT OF INDIGESTION WILL STOP ME FROM UPDATING

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The most important thing was that you don't walk barefoot. The boots on display were in various stages of ratty, stained or chewed by machinery - more than likely stripped off corpses that were jamming the machinery - and many of them were mismatched. You had been promised grand clothing by the waters- a gown and hood for the supervision of the spaceport, and more when serving at the behest of the nobility. The boots you held - one synthleather and the other slicked cloth - were not what you had imagined, nor were they strictly in spec for your model, but you knew you could tolerate a fairly wide range of footwear.

Setting them down, you shove your bare feet in, quickly yanking the laces shut and tucking them down the tongue instead of wasting time tying them. Without looking, you pull the bars from the drawers two at a time in your hands and begin shoving them into the pockets of your coveralls, first your breast pockets, then the ones on your stomach. The fistful of change - barely twelve thrones - goes into a small flap pocket that sat behind where a identification patch would go on your shoulder.

You turn to leave, then spare one look back at the empty promethium canisters. Some were the size of your torso, meant to be carried in the back of vehicles or with one hand, but the others were smaller - probably canisters that had been used as improvised stoves like the one that was currently running. One by one, you pick them up and shake them, hoping for one that was both reasonably full while also not being too large to carry. You go through several large canisters before trying several meant for portable ignition devices, until you find one that resembled a lubricant bottle. Smaller than a drink bottle, squarish and made of flexible plastic. It was only half full, but it was better than nothing.

The hairs stand up on the back of your neck, and you turn suddenly.

...nothing. Or, nothing for now?

With a sudden feeling like you've outstayed your welcome, you push the drawers shut quickly, shoving the promethium bottle into your pocket and hastily returning the cooking pot you had removed to the spit. With your hands dry, the handle was uncomfortably warm, but you bear it for the two seconds it takes to replace it, then turn and move through the exit as fast as you can.

You notice that this doorway hasn't been bypassed through the hive walls, but instead connects to a corridor clearly meant for maintenance. A grating on the floor exposes the supply pipes within the walls of the hive, and you new boots clatters on it loudly, no longer silent with your bare feet.

Wincing a little bit at the noise, you decide to not linger to hear if they notice their camp has been plundered. A part of you is beginning to wonder which department they're actually associated with - or are the hive authority's standards much lower than you think? Instead, you turn and walk off at as brisk a pace as you can without making a racket.

>>5810918
There were multiple rooms off this corridor, each roughly the same size as the room containing the camp. Most were abandoned, or used as rough storage for something, but all of them featured many additional layers of metal welded to their far walls. Those walls would be connected to the same corridor they had bypassed and sealed off next to the camp. Strange.

You follow the corridor to it's end, where it terminates into a set of stairs and another passage forking off to the side. Without much of an indication as to where either of them lead, you elect to follow the staircase upwards. Hives were constructed to fairly detailed standards, and you knew that every five sublevels - where main elevators were dictated to have stops - was mandated to have navigational information. If you could find that, you could determine where you were in the hive.

Were you even in Odrev? Had that been another lie? The locker had matched, but it wasn't inconceivable that Abraham had supplied other hive worlds than Odrev in it's history.

You round the stairs, going up one flight, then another, tugging on the bent zipper of your coveralls as it kept snagging, then abruptly working down. The landings you pass seem equally empty, leading to simple, straight corridors that go straight and then fork further down. That would make sense- the grinder chamber was large, more than several stories, and the delivery infrastructure would take up additional space besides, it made sense that the hive would be sparse for several stories above it. Not to mention several below where the actual processing machinery was.

A noise was beginning to filter in from above you- human activity, perhaps even a crowd. This section of the hive was still inhabited, which was promising for your-

"Why don't we get to make stew?”

The sudden voice from the landing just in front of you makes you start back.

“Because we're not guarding the grinder.”

“It's not that bad down there.”

“What, you like hanging out with the dead of the next twenty sublevels?"

“Don't be a baby, it's fine down there. It's not like they make you watch.”

“Yeah, but then you have to unjam the Emperor-forsaken thing. It makes my skin crawl, and that's not even counting the shit that's in the Bilges.”

“Everyone knows that's just a myth. We've been to the Bilges, it's just people who couldn't hack it up here and crooks.”

You lean into the wall, perhaps on instinct, but lean back when you realize it's not actually covering you at all. One voice was coming from either side of the entrance, and you could fairly easily string together the implication. These men were guards? Why would that be necessary? And they were clearly associated with the people in the camp...

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>>5810921
The sound of voices echoed more loudly through the landing- clearly there was civilization on the other side of this. You could keep ascending, but that would be loud, now that you were this close. Turning back was equally tricky, and you weren't sure there was a way to navigate around to this level once you were down there.

You spare a look around. One of the maintenance hatches, maybe? There were plenty strewn around the stairwell in order to access the infrastructure behind the walls, but you weren't sure of the utility once you found your way in. It's not like they were meant to be traveled through, and you weren't sure you were strong enough to climb it vertically, much less silently.

A Strain Check is the only dice roll you will make in this quest. When you attempt to Strain while your accumulated Strain is equal to your Conditioning score, you may attempt the action, but 1d10 must be rolled per dot in the corresponding Parameter. Results that are 6 or above count as one success. Dice that roll a 10 count as two successes. Three successes must be rolled to avert a critical failure. Fail or pass, after a Strain Check, you cannot Strain again until you restore your Strain by seeking shelter.

>Turn back, find another way.
>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.
>[Vigilance/Strain] Go up to the next floor.
>[Vigilance] Get into the maintenance access.
>[Logic] Pretend to be an authority.
>[Write-In]

>>5810930

>[Vigilance] Get into the maintenance access.

Whew, just caught up with this quest, interesting work QM

>>5810930
>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.
if we get pressed we may as well answer honestly, practically anything could happen and we can probably bullshit well enough if we're careful.

we don't know if the Hatches opening wouldn't be loud enough to attract attention considering we can overhear their conversation.

>>5810930
>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.

Our intuit’s pretty good, and I’m pretty sure that pretending to be an authority would be way harder considering our clothes.

Neat quest OP

>>5810930
>>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.

>>5810930
>>[Vigilance/Strain] Go up to the next floor.

>>5810930
>>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.

>>5810930
>>[Vigilance] Get into the maintenance access.

>>5810930
>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.

>[Intuit] You don't need to worry about them. Just pretend that you're supposed to be there.
Writing.

...strictly speaking, you didn't need to pretend to be or actually be a hive authority or any kind of authority. Searching your memory, you've actually seen this enough times in the waters, even without being strictly taught it. The need to wear an identification flasher or have the proper electoo implanted, uniform protocols, even grooming standards. All of these were for decorum, of course, but they were also for fitting in.

Don't look around, don't look nervous, and seem like you know what you're doing and they won't bother you.

You take a breath, then start up the stairs again, not bothering to keep your steps light this time. The landing comes up properly into your vision, the conversation becoming clearer and clearer as you hop up onto the landing.

“I'm just saying, what's the point in being superstitious?”

“What's the point in assuming?”

“I should be asking that- look, I'm not saying there isn't anything down there, just that it's not nearly what everyone makes it... out to... uh..."

The conversation trails off as you walk past them, not looking back and trying your best to recall the movements that had been implicit in the images you had seen in the water. Your clothes and especially your shoes were hardly what you had expected, but you could make the motion work if you thought about it. You raise your head and look around, taking note of how the chamber opened up higher, now - two floors tall instead of merely one. The walls also partially gave way to mesh and grate, framing meant for habitation levels with sight-lines and room to breathe. A residential or commercial area, or at least an area close to one.

“Er... hey, there?” One of the voices raises a little.

You pretend to just notice them, despite the clenching in your gut, turning around like you were surprised at being stopped.

The two men were dressed in a bizarre manner, wearing what appeared to be leather aprons cut with deep lines along the hems and sides, creating a slitted image that you vaguely recognized. Beneath it, they each wore many layers of fabric- thin shirts and then jackets on top of the other, creating a striped set of yellows, oranges and reds at the lapel.

Seeing that they had your attention, the one on the right - with shaved sides and a close-cropped beard - waited for you to reply, but then leaned forward. “Er... what's up? Everything okay down there?"

Truth be told, you hadn't replied as part of your deception, you hadn't replied because you've just realized you barely know how. You've yet to actually speak, only sob and in one case, scream. Not good, but at least while you scrambled to think of something, you could pretend to be surprised.

>"Everything is fine. Why?"
>"We're condition normal."
>"Go and ask them yourself if you need."
>[Write-In]

>>5812247
>"Everything is fine. Why?"

>>5812247

>”Mind your own business, please.”

A sort of catty remark will get the job done I think

>>5812247
>”Mind your own business, please.”

>>5812283
+1

>>5812247
>"We're condition normal."
it stinks, it's dark and cold. the usual.

really interesting premise qm excited to see where this go's

>"Everything is fine. Why?"

>>5812247
>>"We're condition normal."

All these replies are terrible.

We gon die.

>>[Write-In]
>They said they found salvage.

>>5812247
>"Everything is fine. Why?"

Fuck it. Dice gods bless us.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Roll-off time, it seems. 1 for Fine and 2 for minding your business.

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Your lips move soundlessly for a moment as you recall the movements. Each one was almost like a gear in sequence- when you began it, the others would move, and the motion would return to you. You look at the one who had replied to you. “Mind your own business, please.” You tried to avoid sounding surprised at the high-pitched, harsh sound of your own voice, which strained with being used for the first time. It wasn't how you had expected it to sound- although, you had never been prepared for what you might sound like...

“But-” He looks instantly taken aback. “Isn't the-”

“If you care so much, check yourself.” You reply flatly, which wasn't difficult with how much effort it took you to speak. “I have obligations.”

He shares a look with his neighbor, who shrugs at him in bemusement, thoughtlessly elbowing the handle of a pistol that was leaning out of his apron back into place. A skull, you realized belatedly. The apron is cut to resemble the jaws of a skull when it hangs off the body. At the very least, neither of them were reaching for theirs, both of them seemingly distracted by something.

Without another word, you turn and walk off with a not entirely fake sound of irritation at a slight pinch in your boots. You turn and follow the perimeter of the walkway, fighting the urge to look behind you while you fuss with the zipper of your coveralls again. The guardrail comes up to you, and you look over the side while you walk, acutely aware that the two of them could still be watching and judging you.

You were standing above a grand commercial thoroughfare- at least three stories high, to create an open-air space filled with bays for the construction of shops, supply depots and offices. The walls featured pillars that bore suspicious, Aquila-shaped holes where gold ornamentation must have once been displayed, but had long been ripped over, leaving only their inlets behind.

The style was familiar to you, it's more modern counterparts had been imprinted into your mind along with the common layouts of the upper floors. This must have once been part of the old hive administration centers, where the hive admin had once governed it before relocating higher and higher with the rising spires. Multiple generations of bureaucrats must have used this place, but they seem to have abandoned it. Or was it taken?

An oversized thoroughfare ran the length of the room, with wide streets that would have left ample space for ornamentation and gardens if the residents hadn't filled it with their own constructions. An entire central block had been constructed out of many stacked modules- some with sturdy plascrete and others out of reused girders and metal siding, with drapes of colorful cloth were used to cover up some of the shoddier construction. While it was obviously unauthorized and ramshackle, you took careful note of the coordination and labor it would require to erect tall plascrete structures and build on top of them.

>>5813009
Many of the central buildings had bright white light spilling out from them, with walls not enclosed with plascrete, but with plastic tarps. They were carefully placed so that they were next to as few buildings with windows as possible. Crop production, maybe? You dismiss that after half a second of running the numbers. Far too small.

Residents moved around with a guarded air about them, never quite relaxing even as they spoke with half-smiles and carried on casual conversations. Most of them flowed in and out of a few long buildings that you didn't quite grasp the purpose of. They were restaurants, clearly, but they seemed to primarily serve drinks instead of food. You searched your mind for the businesses you could remember... wineries? You had received quite specific instructions in how to check bottled wine for imperfections, but the refined impression you had of them didn't quite match with the raucous noise coming out of the largest one.

Your eyes roam to the proper, intended walls of the thoroughfare, and you search for a few moments more before realizing something: business here was quite limited. There were grocers, the wineries, even what appeared to be a tailor- but the people transporting bags of scrap and other valuables, what they were doing escaped you. There were no Mechanicum adepts you could see to oversee the delivery of these materials to the forge - and even if there were, you didn't know what forge in proximity would be accepting... segments of pipe? Pieces of enamel, slabs of meat?

The transport took up a seemingly large swathe of the far wall, with what appeared to be offices of some kind open on the level above them, where people flittered in and out, occasionally shouting something at the workers down below. A part of you perks up at the idea of Imperial authority having a presence here. Maybe they could help you locate yourself?

You had been impressed upon multiple times by the Voice that your nature was somewhat illicit, but you knew that meant little of it's legality, especially when you were being sold directly to Odrev's upper class. Further, it wasn't apparent to anyone who happened to look, so it wasn't an immediate concern to hide it- even though you had been quite pointedly rejected and disposed of, you doubt your creator would care.

An expression you can't quite process comes onto your face at that thought. A deep-seated part of you wanted to believe that your survival was some kind of horrible miscalculation, but the Voice had been very clear about your intended purpose: disposable, replaceable. High quality, to be sure, but not a masterpiece.

While logical, that assurance couldn't stop the worry that made your head throb with a faint pressure.

>>5813010
The guardrail opens up, and you find a pair of stairs leading down. Still slightly wary of your half-formed walking abilities, you grip the guardrail tightly and you walk down the flight as carefully as you can. As you hit the first landing and pedestrians from the crowd begin pass by, you make a mental note that many of them seem to be significantly taller than you- by a head or more, in most cases. That made your relative frailty all the more concerning.

Your feet hit the bottom of the stairs, and you stop briefly. A hand goes to the shoulder pocket that contains your change. It wasn't much, and if your count was right, it wasn't enough for even the most basic of equipment, just a few meals. A traitorous thread in the back of your mind asks what you would even do with equipment, anyway?

Where do you do?

>Visit the ‘winery’.
>Visit the offices on the far side.
>[Intuit] Look around, try sizing up what little commerce there is here.
>[Logic] Try to find a place to rest.
>You don't want to stay here, just pass through and leave as soon as you can.
>[Intuit] Find a shrine.
>[Write-In]

>>5813011
>Visit the offices on the far side.
One way to get to the upper levels would be alongside someone we help, we seem to know a lot of little details so could be quite useful if we find the right line of work.

>>5813011
>[Logic] Try to find a place to rest.

>>5813011

>[Intuit] Find a shrine.

Maybe we can hide amongst the scribes of the religious authority?

>>5813011
>>Visit the ‘winery’.

>>5813011
>[Intuit] Look around, try sizing up what little commerce there is here.

>>5813011
>Visit the ‘winery’.
40k barwench quest lets go!

>>5813011
>[Intuit] Find a shrine.
I wonder what kind of priest serves these people.

>>5813010
>You were standing above a grand commercial thoroughfare- at least three stories high, to create an open-air space filled with bays for the construction of shops, supply depots and offices. The walls featured pillars that bore suspicious, Aquila-shaped holes where gold ornamentation must have once been displayed, but had long been ripped over, leaving only their inlets behind.

For a moment i wondered if this planet is the hands of chaos. Thats even more frightening.

>[Intuit] Find a shrine.
Lets see what kind of shrine they have.

Also, anyone selling arms?

>>5813011
>>Visit the ‘winery’.

>>5813011
>Visit the ‘winery’.

>Visit the ‘winery’.
Writing.

You recall that these sorts of establishments are also social venues, in the same manner as a lounge or a parlor where customers would arrive to participate in conversation and a fine food, like the ice cream parlors and coffee shops in the upper hives. One of them was located within your immediate sight upon reaching the bottom of the stairs - likely no coincidence, if the majority of foot traffic entered and exited through these areas.

There was no door, instead the entrance was covered by a set of cloth drapes. This time, you take proper note of the colors- once again orange and it's neighbors, an arrangement that was prominent in the area, down to the patch sewn onto your sleeve. Some kind of affiliation, maybe? You don't recall any Imperial organization that used similar colors. Abraham's personal colors included red and yellow, but that wasn't particularly notable for a forge world, much less one that had concluded it's construction duties centuries ago.

The drapes fall behind you, and instantly warm air rolls over your shoulders and face. Many people were packed around tiny tables, using mismatched chairs, stools and in one case a bucket for seating, shoveling dark-brown rolls of bread and bowls of a whitish substance into their mouths while others talked in low murmurs or clinked bottles that in the confined space added up to a deafening background roar. Your assumption of a parlor proved both accurate and woefully incomplete of this place, as while the customers were ordered and spirited, the dried flecks of food, drink stains and exaggerated gesturing spoke to an atmosphere entirely like upper hive decorum.

For a second, you're tempted to turn back before concluding that these people were likely no threat to you. If you had seen their guards back there, then you likely had nothing to worry about.

You made your way around the inside of the room, stumbling out of the way of a burly man who unexpectedly stands up, raising himself easily two heads above you before turning and walking past as if you weren't even there. While backing up, your rear collides with someone's shoulder, who takes the contact without a word of complaint before gently nudging you off as soon as they're able. For a second, instinct kicks in to apologize as profusely as you've been taught to, but when you turn and see the woman barely paying any attention, you judge it would make too much of a scene and turn away.

A woman who was clearly a cashier or server of some description stood behind the bar, pulling two bottles out from behind the counter for the burly man with a smile. He takes them in one hand and nods before turning back around and lumbering past you, giving you enough time to squeeze to the side once again.

>>5814054
She sees you moving around him, and leans over the counter, raising her voice to ask. “Can I getcha something, hun?”

You glance to the side, waiting for them to answer. After a few seconds, you realize that she was referring to you. “My name is not Hun."

Her eyebrows go up. “Of course it isn't. I meant: do you want something to drink?”

>Order something.
>Ask her for directions.
>Ask her who's in charge around here.
>Ask her where you can find the hive administrators.
>[Write-In]

>>5814055
>>Ask her for directions.

>>5814055

>”Are you hiring?”

Working as a barmaid would be an excellent way for us to get oriented and learn about our environs.

>>5814055
>Ask her where you can find the hive administrators.

>>5814055
>>Ask her for directions.

Chaos food, Chaos drink.

Im callin' it now, boys.

>>5814055
>>”Are you hiring?”

>>5814094
I'll allow this, but I'll caution that while mixing drinks is probably Manipulation or Logic, the actual manual labor that a lot of your time will be spent on would be Conditioning and thus cause strain.

>>5814364

Well, we could always dodge out after a single shift. We seem pretty smart so this might be enough for us to get oriented.

>>5814055
>”Are you hiring?”
This will be good.

>>5814055
>”Are you hiring?”

>”Are you hiring?”
It's time, boys.

You glance around, trying to take stock of your surroundings before you answer her. The server wore an incredibly simple dress- in fact, you'd hazard it's closer to a smock, possibly one modified out of an apron. Specifically, you note the prominent blue sash made of what seemed to be handkerchiefs sewn together end-to-end. Not the same as the yellow everywhere else, then. The significance was lost on you, but you couldn't appear ignorant by asking about it.

Instead, you abruptly ask. “Are you hiring?”

The woman seems taken aback. “Hiring?”

“Yes. For employment.”

“Er... it's a small place...” She said, more to herself than anything, scratching the buzzed side of her hair. “Kitchen's full, but if you want to help out, I can throw you a few coins. You ever work in a bar before?”

Bar. So that's what this place was called. The name seemed familiar, actually- something in the periphery of what the Voice had taught you. “No.” You admit.

“Know how to mix a drink?”

You glanced at short racks of drinks, all cheap bottles of bitters and chilled, reused bottles of some kind of alcohol. Sommelier had not been your intended designation, and you didn't imagine they mixed wines, either. Surely it was similar in process to mixing medications. “Yes.” You reply.

The server stared at you for a second, then shrugged. “Alright, then.” Immediately, she reached behind the counter and started stacking bottles on the table, fishing up a scratched silver tray from somewhere. “Then wait for three rolls and a slab of grox steak to come out, then you can haul this over to Georj and his boys.” She catches your blank look. “That man.” She points over your shoulder briefly, pulling her hand back before you can turn to look. You spy where she was pointing anyway- a group of five men sitting in a row along the back wall, looking tired and carefully cupping glass bottles beneath their hands.

Five bottles in turn go on the tray, and you dubiously try lifting it. Immediately, your arms feel slightly sore, before three wire baskets filled with rolls clatter down on top of it, which you barely keep steady. A heavy plate follows, topped with a slab of meat only about the size of your hand, but also comically thick, to the point that you would likely struggle to eat even a small cut of it. Your arms now feel like they're burning, but you lift it with effort, balancing it on the back of your hand while you turn and try to weave across the room, stepping between chairs and bodies to make room for your own body. The tray tips in your hand as you yourself lean, before slowing and tipping back on your relaxed hand.

Stepping over what appears to be an unconscious man on the floor, you stop at the table and lower the tray with a grunt and burning muscles. “Georj?”

“That's me, kid." One of the men replied, stroking a full beard and looking slightly bemused.

>>5815484
You nearly correct him on your age, but decide against it. “Is this your order?” You relax the tray on the corner of the table, before quickly sliding a bottle across the table to each of the men, handing out baskets with your off-hand.

“The grox's for me.” A scrawny man at the end raised his hand and you leaned across the table to place it in front of him.

A few of the men leaned back as you did, and you straightened up, flipping the now mercifully light tray vertical.

“Thanks, kid.” A man sitting next to Georj said, his expression now somewhat thoughtful. He dug in his pocket and produced a few coins, holding them out for you.

You take it with some bafflement. Was this a bribe? A part of you recoiled at the idea, but... under the circumstances, you could simply take it and just continue to give him the same service quality. That was something you could handle.

Mustering up a quick nod, you turn and make your way back to the counter, where the server seemed fairly impressed. “Okay, that wasn't too bad. Keep that up.”

Professionally, you wanted to, but your muscles already protested a bit at the exertion. You were designed to tolerate standing up all day, even in unfavorable equipment and conditions, but you weren't intended for manual labor, merely clerical work or assistant labor. Any task that required your memory, but also high strength was a better fit for a servitor, not a clerk. That said, the thrones clenched in your palm were likely a precious commodity in this place. It wasn't a good idea to pass them up.

>[Conditioning/Strain] Try to do your job.
>[Vigilance/Strain] Fake working to try and observe as much of your surroundings as possible.
>[Manipulation] Focus on mixing drinks to avoid overly tiring yourself.

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Shoulda realized I was forgetting something.

>>5815485

>[Manipulation] Focus on mixing drinks to avoid overly tiring yourself.

Tell her you have a bad back and you’re better off serving beverages

>>5815485
>>[Vigilance/Strain] Fake working to try and observe as much of your surroundings as possible.

>>5815485
>[Manipulation] Focus on mixing drinks to avoid overly tiring yourself.

>>5815485
>>[Manipulation] Focus on mixing drinks to avoid overly tiring yourself.

>>5815485
>[Manipulation] Focus on mixing drinks to avoid overly tiring yourself.

The first day on the job is a bad time to slack off, and straining is ultimately unsustainable.

>>5815485
>[Conditioning/Strain] Try to do your job.
I want to see what happens if we have more strain here.

>[Manipulation] Focus on mixing drinks to avoid overly tiring yourself.
Writing.

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You look up at her. “May I see what drinks you mix here?”

“I suppose?” The server replied, gesturing for you to come behind the bar. “Ever make a screwdriver?”

You hesitate briefly, unsure of what she's referring to. “Not yet.” You say.

“It's pretty simple.” The woman sighed, pulling out a strange pair of cups on a stick from behind the counter. The insides were denoted with different measurements, you could easily see, but it's actual function remained a mystery to you. “A screwdriver is a drink made with one of our pure spirits-” She pulled a large bottle out from behind the counter, grimy on the outside but filled with a perfectly clear liquid. “-and a good amount of pipeclod.” She followed it with a large jug of some greenish liquid.

Slang. Of course it was slang. That could potentially be a problem, since you hadn't been taught any beyond the basic concept. You knew that imperial loading workers had slang for certain terms - mats for oversized cargo palettes, lofts for stacked materials and so on - but nothing beyond the scope of your work. Down here, though, there was clearly a lot of slang you still had to learn.

You watch as she pours the ‘pipeclod’ to a seemingly arbitrary level in a glass. “Two fingers.” She explains, as if you should already know what that meant. “Move the nozzle to whatever bottle you're using, but we only have one, so if you lose it, I'll kill you.” Flipping out the cup, she measures out an entire full cup and drops it into the glass. “Sometimes they ask for it on the rocks, but either way, we stir it." She swirls a spoon around the perimeter as she explains. “Hard to get a strainer back here, so we make do with it the improper way. You get all that?"

You glance around at her workstation, but see not stones. Another piece of slang, then. Looking down at the wet tool she was now rinsing under a small tap of water, you review the steps you had seen, then quietly condense the instructions down to something useful.

Four-sevenths pipeclod to three-sevenths spirit, stir slowly. Maximum volume approximately three and a half fluid ounces.

Not outside of your skill level. That was a promising start. You nod to her. “Yes.”

“We also serve mixed spirits and-”

“Fries and two rolls.” A new voice calls from the room behind you, sliding a set of food through the slot.

You internally wince at the heavy-looking tableware and glance back over your shoulder.

“Alright, you're bringing that to-” The server turns around with the tray in hand, stopping when she sees you talking to the customer who just sat down.

>>5816523
“What do you wish to order?” You ask him, unsure of whether to fold your arms behind your back, as if addressing low nobility or with your hands clasped in front, as if addressing a senior clerk. After a moment, you settle on clasping your hands in front.

“Ah...” The man, thin and emaciated, strokes a beard hanging from his chin for a moment. “I'll take a straight up whiskey and cream, if you've got it.”

“We don't.” The server called as she passed with the tray on her shoulder. “No strainer.”

“Oh, yeah?” He thought for a moment more. “Bah, on the rocks, then.”

You nod, still acutely aware that you have no idea what that means. At the very least, you recognized what whiskey was, and locating it behind the counter was simple enough. Cream- that was a dairy product, and by opening the small cooler located under the bar, you're able to locate a carton labeled ‘preserved cream' with tape and a marker. For a moment, the question of how these people had cream floated to you, but you put it aside for the moment. If there were crops, there was at least in theory lifestock, or it was synthetic. Cream did not, by definition, have to come from offworld as it did for the nobility.

“Nice to see a Sun behind that counter for once." The man nods to you as you straighten up.

This had to be more slang. It was unlikely at best for you to be a ‘son’ for a number of reasons. “Yes?” You answer politely, turning with the carton and retrieving a fresh glass from the inlet under the counter top.

“Yeah.” He repeats, then shrugs. “Just nice to see someone with the colors.”

Colors. As in regimental colors? You turn, and see the colorful cloth on your arm, then remember the colors hanging from the buildings outside and the clothes of the people inside. Ah, you see. You decide to risk something. “My employer seems agreeable.”

“Who, Tea?” The man glances over his shoulder to where she's setting drinks down across the room. “She's alright. Got no problem with Oilers, anyway."

Oiler. She wasn't a Sun, and that must be why her sash was blue, although why it was blue specifically wasn't evident. At least you could see the meaning for Suns, if your assumption that they meant a star by that was accurate. That was evidence that the colors were some kind of group signifier, like wearing hive or imperial colors. What division of the hive administration were they, though? You think back to the aprons the guards had worn. Maybe they were associated with the Adeptus Mechanicus?

>>5816524
Without knowing the proper ratio, you settle on simply using the same ratio of alcohol that had been used for the screwdriver. You swirl the whiskey in the bottle, watching the fluid slide back down into the bottom of the bottle carefully. Then you tilt it and pour it directly into the glass without using the measuring cup, mentally working back from the end volume. It sloshed out quickly - much faster than the pure spirits had issued through the tube inserted into it's opening. At an ounce and a half, you pull your arm back and set the bottle aside, then pour two ounces of cream directly into the glass. You heft it in your hand for a moment, gauging the volume of fluid inside before nodding. Your ability to evaluate sizes from sight was still intact, then.

Then you remember it was meant to be ‘on the rocks’. You had already confirmed a lack of rocks to put in their drinks, so it had to be a euphemism. Rock, stones... rock candy? Although it was technically crystalline candy- crystals? Additive- ice... ice crystals? Served with ice crystals?

You kneel down and open the cooler again. There was a small tray of large ice crystals in the bottom. Not cubes as you were expecting, but uncannily sized to fit into a glass. You don't find any tongs, so instead you pull the glass down and quickly drop one into the glass before stirring it again.

That was probably as close as you were going to get without seeming unusually slow, so you straighten up and place the glass in front of the man. He leans back to give you room as you place it down, then picks it up, glances down and takes a gulp of the fluid. His lips purse, and you briefly worry that you've ruined the beverage before he nods and sets it back down. “Thanks.”

You offer a brief nod before turning to look at other bar stools. Most of them were full, but everyone at them already had drinks. That didn't bode well for you. Just the thought of lifting another one of those trays made you feel tired, and the server - Tea - was already looking expectantly towards the kitchen as she came back.

A quick mental estimation of the room tells you that even if everyone in the room had one drink an hour, you'd only need to make a drink approximately every three minutes. That two and a half minutes of downtime would wind up being spent bringing food to tables as you had done already. There just wasn't enough demand for drinks in a bar this small to save you from manual labor.

...not unless you tried to increase the amount of drinks being served, somehow.

>[Intuit/Strain] Try to drum up business by assembling a new drink.
>[Logic] Find a technical task to attend to, instead. Something minor, but time consuming.
>[Conditioning/Strain] In theory, serving all the drinks you can might reduce your workload?
>[Write-In]

>>5816525

>[Logic] Find a technical task to attend to, instead. Something minor, but time consuming.

Obviously we should scrounge for materials and build a straining device out of mesh or something we can collect from odds and ends.

>>5816525
>[Intuit/Strain] Try to drum up business by assembling a new drink.
Come on Hun, use your charm.

>>5816525
>>[Intuit/Strain] Try to drum up business by assembling a new drink.

>>5816525
>[Conditioning/Strain] In theory, serving all the drinks you can might reduce your workload?

>>5816525
>>[Intuit/Strain] Try to drum up business by assembling a new drink.

Gotta work these muscles! Wait tables and get coin and drum up drinks orders, thus halving the workload.

Hopefully we get strong this way. We have a few days worth of ration bars. Might even get dinner!

>>5816525
>>[Intuit/Strain] Try to drum up business by assembling a new drink.

Okay, the
>[Intuit/Strain] Try to drum up business by assembling a new drink.
seems to have it. Since it's our first one, a brief refresher on what a Strain check is.

This is only happening because you're out of Strain, normally this would just add a point of Strain. In this instance, you're still allowed to Strain, but you need to pass a check or suffer a critical failure and screw up in an unusual way. I'm going to need people to reply rolling 1d10s, and we'll just go straight down the replies until it's the number we need- in this case, you have three Intuit, so we need a total of three rolls.

The target number is 6 or higher, but 10s count for double, and your target number of successes is three.

Rolled 4 (1d10)

>>5817008

Rolled 1 (1d10)

>>5817008

Here you go boss

Rolled 9 (1d10)

>>5817008

Rolled 1 (1d10)

>>5817008

>>5817008
>5817061
>5817068
>5817151

The 9 means we succeed right?

>>5817061
>>5817068
>>5817151
Okay, so that's two failures and a success, which is not a pass, so we've just critically failed- but not to the same degree as three straight failures. As you progress, you'll pick up Qualities that change how the rolls go, double successes on a 9 or 10, more rolls, etc.

Since we're just learning about the system, this first failure is going to be a little soft- also because you can't really lethally screw up mixing alcohols.

>>5817365
Is this the new dice system you're planning for COADE?

>you can't really lethally screw up mixing alcohols.
It is, in fact, possible to lethally mix alcohols

>>5817416
Somewhat. I'm exploring different ways to have random chance in my quest without making everything random chance, hence this hybrid system of building up Strain until you make a roll. Of course, the character I thought was least likely to be picked was, and she's got a low Strain threshold, so this is gonna be interesting.

I was under the impression that the only risk in mixing alcohols was introducing an unexpected allergen, but given that allergens would have been present in the base drinks that's not really making a 'new' one like it would be if you mixed ammonia and bleach.

Pardon the delay, due to a schedule shuffle I just realized that my post 'yesterday' was more like two days ago.

Strain Check: FAILED - 1/3 Successes

You look at the array of bottles before you. Glancing up at the patrons seated at the bar, you make a fairly simple calculation: while food and drink were being ordered, tables needed to be served- but if more drink was being ordered than could be handled comfortably by one person...

It wouldn't hurt to try and ingratiate your skills to your temporary employer either, which made it appealing to try and drum up some business. Drink mixing seemed to follow a fairly basic template, with one primary drink and a smaller additive of something else. Given that you already had the flavors, you just had to mix something together that tasted good. That wasn't exactly your area of expertise, and while you were intended to eat mostly nutrient paste, you were also perfectly incapable of imbibing a large number of foods and enjoying flavor like the people you were intended to occasionally be in the presence of.

With that in mind, when the next customer sits down at the bar, you look expectantly to him for his order. He makes a vague gesture, cupping his hand and moving it towards the bar counter. After a few seconds, you realize that he wants a drink, and pull a bottle of pipeclod from behind the counter. You unscrew the bottle, and take a gentle whiff of the contents. The scent was slightly acidic, energizing, with an acute sweetness that stirred your periphery memory.

A part of you was tempted to simply mix it with cream and be done with it, but instead you hunt for more bottles behind the counter. Several were bitters, which did not seem appropriate for your purposes. Your fingers brush a bottle that seems much heavier than normal, and you withdraw it to find a large, rounded bottle with a dusty label proclaiming it to be apple juice. That seemed roughly appropriate, and so you unscrewed it, pausing to smell it briefly. It didn't smell soiled, and so the smaller portion of your new drink became apple juice.

The urge to add a third ingredient came upon you, but you swallow it and instead swirl it briefly before placing it in front of the customer.

He takes it with some evident surprise at the color, shrugging it off in favor of taking a sip. After a moment, he takes a deeper draft before looking at the glass in puzzlement. “This is... punch...?” He asked, more to himself than to you. He glances up. “I'm sorry, I was hoping for something a bit... stronger?” He stresses the question oddly, as if unsure he's supposed to be asking it.

“Of course.” You reply, suddenly unsure of yourself. Was it possible to concentrate the flavor simply by mixing things? It had seemed to agree with him, and yet it hadn't met his expectations. What had you done wrong?

>>5818639
You bring another glass up from behind the counter, frowning to yourself and looking over the bottles you had. Both of the drinks you had made had used low portions of alcohol. The alcoholic drinks possibly had greater flavor, then. If that was the case, then into your new glass you pour half whiskey and had the unlabeled spirit you had used before.

The man seems pleasantly surprised when you set the mostly clear glass down in front of him. He takes it and swirls it around the glass once before gulping some of it down. From the way his eyes water and his cheeks flush, you instantly fear you've committed some crime against flavor, but he seems pleased, and instead of immediately going for a second drink, he seems to savor the flavor while letting his eyes go a little unfocused.

You feel rather pleased with yourself for a second, then a hand comes down onto your shoulder.

“What did you just serve that man?” Tea asked.

“A drink.” You reply, unsure of the tone in her voice.

“A drink... that contained enough alcohol for three separate glasses.” She sighs. “That's called ‘losing money'. It's also not good for much other than getting drunk as fast as possible.” She waves her hand. “I'll handle this. You were good at balancing that tray, before. You can go on serving duty."

“My back isn't in the greatest shape.” You lie. “I'm not sure I could carry that much weight.”

“I'd believe it.” She rolled the word oddly as she said it. “Grab a mop, then. You can clean the floors.”

Yet more work you weren't suited to- but on the other hand, at least it wasn't hefting heavy loads around. For a blessing as well, you had been trained in the basics of cleaning, albeit a servitor would still be better suited for the task. When you open the washing cupboard, you're at least heartened to recognize a broom and mop, and retrieve them so you can get it under the table's legs and the customer's feet. The problem, of course, would be getting around them.

Nevertheless, you put the mop on the floor and begin to push the head around with careful steps, mostly standing on the perimeter of the main guest tables as you do so. One of the tables clears off as you get close, and you take the moment to mop under it, instead.

“You're not from around here, are you?” A voice, female sounds from behind you.

You turn. A woman in Suns colors sits with a group of people too busy with their own conversations to notice her speaking to you. She had a shaved head, with only a small puff on top to account for her hair.

“Excuse me?” You reply.

“I said you're not from around here, aren't you?”

>"I'm not, no."
>"How could you tell?"
>"I'm from nearby, actually."
>"I don't think that's any of your business."
>"No, I'm from around here."
>"I'm sorry, did you want something to order?"
>[Write-In]

>>5818641

>"How could you tell?"

>>5818641
>>"I don't think that's any of your business."

>>5818641
>[Write-In]
>"I dunno. I hit my head a couple times and woke up in an alley."

>>5818641
Great quest op!

>>"How could you tell?"

>>5818641
>>"I'm sorry, did you want something to order?"

>>5818641
>>"How could you tell?"

>"How could you tell?"
Writing

“How could you tell?” You reply, partially softening your voice. Hopefully you could avoid looking like you were hiding something. The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention to yourself.

“You just don't look it. Too well-fed.” She holds up a hand, just above your eye-height. “Plus, I've never seen anyone as short as you who wasn't a child.” She didn't care to elaborate on what she meant, instead continuing on. “So, what? Did you get thrown down here? Hopped over from Uptown?”

You hesitate on exactly what to tell her. Being thrown down wasn't entirely inaccurate, but you weren't sure you wanted to reveal that. It didn't seem like they would throw you back into the corpse-grinder if you told them the truth, yet you had stolen from them and lied to them already. Did you want to risk compounding those lies?

“I came from...” You pause for a second to actually think about your answer. You had fallen, then come up the stairs, but without knowing what level of the hive you were on... “What level are we on?"

“What, you mean the floor?”

“The plate level.”

She snorted. “Plate level- you're beneath it, kid. Sector Primus, hive ground floor, the only thing beneath us is the bilges.”

Finally, a clear answer. It doesn't take long for you to approximate your location: if this level bore the signs of being hive administration, once upon a time, then this must have been one of the top floors of the original hive construction. Several floors above it, the initial founding structure of the hive began, part of the vast frame holding up the entirety of Odrev. Over the years, the hive population would have added to it, creating progressive layers and sectors capped by reinforcing slabs of ceramite and plasteel, forming layers and columns that formed the hive. Of course, Odrev was yet incomplete- it only had an orbital tether, and not a grand port, as older hives did.

It was also... bad news. That put you several thousand stories beneath the spaceport. Did that actually matter, though? Dim memories - warnings imprinted into you by the Voice began to surface, explicit instructions pressed into you again and again by the Voice:

Never go to the underhive.

“...you okay?” The woman asked.

You make a wordless noise and settle your thoughts. “Ah- yes, I'm from approximately a sector up.”

“I gathered that.” The woman replied, patiently. “What I'm asking is- why are you here?”

“I'm just passing through.”

“Passing through?” The woman sounded surprised, then furrowed her brow, as if you had said something exceptionally strange. You wondered briefly if it had been something you said before you notice how many empty glasses are on her table.

>"If there's nothing else, do you wish to order something? I am working."
>"Where can I find a hive official?"
>"Where's the nearest floor exit?"
>Silently walk away.
>[Write-In]

>>5820504
>"Where can I find a hive official?"
The only way to go is up.

>>5820504
>>"Where can I find a hive official?"

>>5820504
>"If there's nothing else, do you wish to order something? I am working."

>>5820504
>"Where can I find a hive official?"
This could either fuck us because we are in gangland or we will just be called naive.
Either way, autism go!

>>5820504

>Where can I find a hive official?

This lady seems informed and maybe she’ll throw us a bone

>>5820504
>>"Where can I find a hive official?"

For gods-sake.

We were thrown back by the hive official if we go back there we'll end up in grinder again!

>>5820504
>>"If there's nothing else, do you wish to order something? I am working."

>>5820504
>>"If there's nothing else, do you wish to order something? I am working."

>"Where can I find a hive official?"
Writing.

File: underhive.png (926 KB, 700x688)

926 KB PNG

“Where can I find a hive official?” You ask, interrupting whatever the woman was about to say.

“A what?” She laughed. “You mean one of the Arbites? They don't come down here! Nobody does! You might as well ask me where you could find the sodding Emperor!"

“Someone must." You continue, pausing momentarily as you recall. “Otherwise you would know nothing of them.”

“Yeah, I guess that's Uptown...” She wipes a tear from her eye, still stifling some stray giggles. “Like they'd pay any heed to a little exile like you. Not unless you've got a few tons of corpsestarch stuffed down your suit.”

“Then I'll go there.” You reply shortly, then turn away.

“Eh? Wha...” You hear her voice trailing off as you turn and push your mop across the room.

The tempo of the room changes as the first hour becomes hours. Customers endlessly chattering start to grow exhausted, while the ones who arrived late and stayed quiet seem to recover more of their energy. You avoid some labor by attempting to clean more than just the floors - a task that finds you on your knees and scrubbing caked on dirt from the foot rails of the bar more than once - but you're unable to avoid carrying trays to table in it's entirety. Tea seems to recognize your plight after the fourth time you nearly collapse, and begins splitting them into halves. Not that it helps all that much.

At some point, a hand catches your shoulder. “That's enough.” Tea's voice comes. “It's late, anyway. You going to be safe to go home?”

You look at her blankly for a moment, startled out of a strange haze. The bar was suddenly much emptier, only a few people remaining while finishing off drinks or fiddling with dataslates.

“...yeah, nevermind.” Tea says dryly. “You're not making it more than a block. Go ahead and find a bench. You can sleep it off there.” She waves you off towards one of the benches that were bumped up against the wall, and you stagger off, before you're suddenly stopped again. “Oh, nearly forgot.” Several strips of something are pressed into your hand. “Here's a cut of the tips. If a man named Hop asks, we never spoke.”

You nod, unsure of her meaning, opening your hand slightly to see a small fistful of paper bills and coins. For a moment, you're confused as to what you actually did before you recall that most professions were compensated in currency. While you did know that, the idea of actually being paid was slightly baffling to you. Money was something you managed on the behalf of others, not for yourself.

It goes into your shoulder pocket regardless, your eyelids trying to close of their own accord. You had been prepared for fatigue and the need for sleep extensively, especially when extended hours would be required of you, but experiencing it for the first time, you were somewhat overwhelmed by the effect it was having on you.

You don't even recall reaching the bench before you lose consciousness.

File: Status 5.png (1.44 MB, 1920x1038)

1.44 MB PNG

>>5822098
Your accumulated Strain has been cleared.

You thumb through the bills again. Roughly sixty thrones, when combined with what you had in your pockets already. While it obviously wasn't tabulated according to Odrev's Standard Compensation And Labor guidelines, it was money valid almost anywhere, and that made it useful to you. Although it wasn't a lot, even by the standards of a hive world, it was something. Perhaps it'd go further down here, as well. Mindlessly, you roll your shoulders again, working at the slight strain you'd gotten from sleeping on a somewhat hard bench. When you'd woken, you'd found yourself slightly rolled over, your zipper having worked itself down so low it was practically falling off you, and the pocket holding your promethium bottle pinned against a nearby chair.

That had woken you up quickly, but in the end, the bottle was fine. The bar was coincidentally starting to fill with customers again, primarily ordering some kind of hot food from the kitchen instead of drinks. You'd left before you overstayed your respite.

Mindlessly, you bit into one of your ration bars, chewing the flavorless paste without much thought. Corpsestarch was a fact of life for your spec, since there was never any intention of feeding you fine meals on a regular basis. The flavor had been imprinted in your mind long before you had ever tasted a bar, and while the chewy, slightly savory meal had been novel at first, you had quickly gotten distracted planning for your day.

If it even was day. The synchronization lights were either malfunctioning or broken, giving the city a perpetually dark sky, with bright grow lights and a smattering of glass bulbs lighting up the habitation blocks.

>Look for a route to this ‘Uptown’.
>[Intuit] Look for a shrine.
>[Vigilance] You hadn't seen any before, but there had to be businesses down here.
>Those offices you had seen before. What was happening there, if not hive business?
>[Write-In]

>>5822100
>Look for a route to this ‘Uptown’.
See, it even has up in the name. We're clearly going places.

File: captcha.png (5 KB, 311x137)

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I think captcha is onto me.

>>5822100
>Those offices you had seen before. What was happening there, if not hive business?
Nice we are the only person who can eat the starch willingly

>>5822100

>Look for a route to this ‘Uptown’.

Our talents are wasted in the Underhive, we should work our way up into the Hive proper

>>5822100
>>Look for a route to this ‘Uptown’.

>>5822100
>>Those offices you had seen before. What was happening there, if not hive business?

>Look for a route to this ‘Uptown’.
Writing.

File: underhive commercial.png (246 KB, 483x295)

246 KB PNG

Both ends of the city were blockaded- checkpointed, rather. The citizenry seemed free to come and go as they please, especially as the side passages seemed entirely unguarded, but the large, main thoroughfares out of the city itself were capped by a pair of stands on either side of the main road. Groups of what seemed curiously to be freight traffic came through the checkpoints at regular intervals, and given the lack of guards at the checkpoints, they seemed to free traders and not unfortunate travelers.

Trade, this far outside of Imperial jurisdiction? You suppose it wasn't the most unbelievable thing.

Their cargo was pieces of salvage ripped from the hive walls, small scraps of functioning technology, bundles of spices and bags of mushrooms and crops in the back of flat-bedded trucks. Some even carried cartons of stubs, racks of alcohol and stacks of what appeared to be small hides on the backs of herd animals- six-legged insects with blunt faces and lidded eyes that you identify as tabba, an animal native to Malignax.

You had made your way up through the main thoroughfare of the city, moving pointedly in one direction until you came up against a place where the city ended. A part of you had kept expecting the city to end several times already, but it just kept going, and you decide against mentally downgrading it to a town just yet. You had eventually reached the end, though, after passing more than ten improvised city blocks.

The checkpoints were positioned close to the office space you had seen before, but now that you were viewing them up close, you thought that trading post was perhaps a more accurate assessment. The arriving traders would receive lot numbers, and while they were unloading their goods, a representative would enter the offices. You could see conversations happening through the windows and the doorway- people not wearing the local colors in quiet discussions with people wearing the colors of the Suns, while seemingly lone civilians waited in lines or talked to representatives at the counter.

“To Uptown?” The man you were speaking to shook his head. “Nah, I'm due south into Jade Eyes territory, don't really go up north."

“Any idea what would be charged for that destination?” You ask. “Any passenger services?”

“Passenger services...” He thinks about it for a second, clearly debating how honest of an answer to give you. “I dunno, twenty portions? Eighty thrones? That's as much as I'd charge to ride along, not sure anyone has ever bothered taking just passengers around.” Someone apparently calls something to him, and he steps away almost immediately, leaving you disappointed.

>>5823907
While waiting for one of the trucks to pass, you notice that it's replacement cargo seemed to be uniform crates, roughly shoulder width. They were wooden, but also clearly reused many times, with the wood splitting where it's top had been opened and then re-secured with nails many times over, or replaced with a scrap metal lid entirely. They seemed to be selling the same things over and over again.

What was in the trading post didn't interest you. It seemed to be purely a place of business, and unless that business was transport, it didn't matter to you right now.

“Uptown?” The next trader you ask laughs in your face. “Maybe ask a bootlicker. I'm going that way, but you'd have to walk a few dozen kilometers east to reach it.”

His answer leaves you somewhat puzzled, but you shrug it off.

“Not many people go up that way." A woman in Suns colors tells you apologetically. “We do, maybe twice a month, but it's a rough drive. The hive foundations fall out about halfway through, and the bypass will only take you into Teeth territory, so you have to go along the underside and come back up at the Tribute.” She dragged on the cigar between her fingers again, blowing foul-smelling smoke into your face. “Dunno the fare, but I doubt it's cheap, hundred thrones, easy.”

“How long is the journey?” You ask.

“Bout... ah, six days, each way?” She hazards. “Like I said, it's a long drive.”

That was longer than the ration bars you had would last, even taking into account your somewhat reduced caloric consumption. “Is there no faster way?”

She opens her mouth and lets a cloud of smoke escape. “Supposedly you used to be able to take some sort of express route straight to Uptown just north of here. Journey would take no more than a few hours or something, salvagers and runners would use it back when the Imps used to run this place."

“And why isn't it used now?” You ask.

“Because it's in the Bilges.” She replied simply, as if that explained everything. “Just not worth the damn effort.”

“...I see.” You reply. “I take it nobody goes to the Bilges?”

“Oh, some do, I'm sure.” She waves the cigar in her hand. “They basically start right on the other side of some of those walls, but it's just not worth it. No better scrap than you'd get anywhere else in the hive. Everything else was picked over a long time ago, that's why nobody lives there if they can avoid it.”

“Know anybody who goes in there?”

“Eh, I'm sure some of our people do..." She looked thoughtful. “I'd ask the boss, he'd know if they're getting paid for it, at least. Or... er...” She scratched her head. “Not sure where you'd go to get work otherwise. The west gate, maybe?”

>"Who leads the regular convoy?"
>"Which way is the west gate?"

>>5823911
>>"Which way is the west gate?"

>>5823911

>"Who leads the regular convoy?"

We should become a trader’s accountant

>>5823911
>"Who leads the regular convoy?"

>>5823911
>>"Who leads the regular convoy?"

>>5823911
>>"Who leads the regular convoy?"

>"Who leads the regular convoy?"
Normally I wouldn't close so early, but I've got some extra time today and we might be able to squeeze in a double update.

You walk through the cloud of cigar smoke with a slight wave of your hand where it mixes with the gout of acidic-smelling exhaust from another truck. The woman had gestured vaguely in the direction of a loading area, where a fleet of three trucks bearing hoods painted in the colors of the Suns were parked. Whatever they were intended to transport, the beds were currently empty. Behind the line of trucks, two men spoke, one leaning up against the wall of a plascrete building constructed as part of the checkpoint.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you ‘Cad’?” You ask, using the name the woman had given you.

“Make sure to bring the extra cans- yeah, we need to refuel twice more than usual, considering the load." One of the pair- a shorter, but stocky man gestured to his companion, although he kept glancing around vaguely. “Yeah, I know it's basically one truck down, but it's just what we gotta do- and- ah-” He finally seemed to realize he'd just been spoken to, and also that he should look down. ”Ah... sorry, wuh...?"

“Are you Cad?” You repeat.

“Ah...” He seems briefly confused by something, before recovering quickly. “Yeah, actually. What's up?”

“Are you traveling to Uptown?”

“Sure am, although I don't handle freight. You'll wanna ask Lev up in the office.”

“I need to get to Uptown.” You correct. “How much would it cost to take me there?”

“Twenty five portions, I'd say.” He answers easily. “And you'd have to bring your own food and water.”

“That's fine.” You pause. “How much is a ‘portion’?”

"Fourth a ration." He studies you closer.

“Ah.” That would explain some things. And if the other woman equated twenty portions to eighty thrones... converting in your head, that would make your combined wealth about ninety thrones, or roughly twenty two portions. Short by a few bars - more than a few, considering the journey would be six days. That was pushing it, even for your altered metabolism. “Is there any way you could lower the price?"

“I don't imagine it.” He folded his arms. “We're a tight ship. Everyone's gotta pull their weight, and lugging along someone who's just going to sit around will cost.”

Your eyes flick around, slightly. You settle briefly on the banged up trucks, something that seemed to be universal down here, but also spoke to a people incapable of fully repairing dents and crumples, much less the engines that drove them in the first place. Even the obvious punctures were patched with square of metal welded or riveted into place, rather than welded seals. Then the places where stub guns and pistols had been slotted into the bed at unobtrusive angles, ready to be drawn easily.

>[Logic] Engines aren't your forte, but you did know something about machines.
>[Manipulation] Offer your services as a hired gun.
>[Manipulation] Offer to drive part of the way.
>[Intuit] Try to haggle his price.
>Thank him for his time and look for another option.
>[Write-In]

>>5825106
Caught that one of the options actually got cut off, whoops.

>[Logic] Engines aren't your forte, but you did know something about machines.
>[Manipulation] Offer your services as a hired gun.
>[Manipulation] Offer to drive part of the way.
>[Intuit] Try to haggle his price.
>Agree to the price and try to figure out a way to make up the difference.
>Thank him for his time and look for another option.
>[Write-In]

>>5825152
>>[Manipulation] Offer to drive part of the way.

>>5825152

>[Logic] Engines aren't your forte, but you did know something about machines.

“I’m good with a wrench - let me take a look at your vehicles and I’ll earn my keep.”

Our girl has 4 points in Logic, no doubt she’ll be able to spot and rectify some issues here

>>5825106
>[Logic] Engines aren't your forte, but you did know something about machines.

>>5825152
>>[Logic] Engines aren't your forte, but you did know something about machines.

I had a dream where a catastrophic typo convinced everyone this was a 40k/Pokemon quest, and when I came to close the vote I found 40 posts asking about evolution mechanics and reactor fuel rods. Woke up in a cold sweat.

..anyway.
>[Logic] Engines aren't your forte, but you did know something about machines.
Writing.

“Do your vehicles receive regular service?” You ask, pointing at the truck parked next to you.

“Yeah? We got a guy here who looks them over.” Cad replied.

“What happens if something goes wrong in the field?” You press.

“Usually we can limp them back home or tow 'em if we really need to." Cad shrugged. “That or we can commit a little tech-heresy to keep them sputtering.”

“I'm moderately skilled at the maintenance of engines.” You lie, lightly. While it was true that your model was intended to possibly be marketed to tech-adepts as a form of assistant, and you had been given knowledge of a number of machines and devices as a matter of course, you had only been specifically indoctrinated with machinery pertinent to your job. Given that your intended role was on a dock, the things you were most familiar with were cranes and forklifts. “If anything goes wrong, I can repair in the field.”

“You some kind of tech-adept?"

“...no.” You admit. “I am not trained by Mars. But I am still capable."

“Can you, now?” Cad replies. “You willing to prove it?”

“Yes.” You say, unable to back down now.

“Then I suppose we should...” Cad trailed off, then looked uncertain. “Do we actually have anything for her to...?”

“Liv's truck is having that power problem.” His companion offered.

“Didn't Ken take a look at it?”

“Nah, said it wasn't important so long as it ran.”

Cad looks at you again, shrugs and then gestures to one of the trucks further down the line. “Well. You take a look and tell me.”

You nod, carefully, and walk over carefully, glancing at Cad each time you feel like you're getting close, only for him to shake his head and gesture for you to keep going. Three trucks down, then five- it was only on seven that he gestured for you to stop. Paradoxically, this one seemed to be in better condition than the others, with few bumps and a covering of paint that was only worn at the joints in the body. When you lift the hood, though, you find an engine that would make a Enginseer wince.

It was a mess of unbound piping, loose electrical cabling and badly socketed parts.

You stare at it. Then you glance at Cad, who gave you a thumbs up.

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>>5826335
The manufacturer's mark on the inside of the frame is that this was a Malignax-pattern Ground Truck, which meant it was surprisingly new for the underhive. You suppose that the Abraham-pattern would have likely ceased to function after centuries of continued use regardless of how lovingly they were maintained. Regardless, you resolve to do what you can, and begin pulling apart the engine's internal piping and wiring. Without any augmetics and only the most simple tools you're able to coax out from the rattling box under the seat, you're limited to merely disassembling what you can reach.

...not that you would know how to do much more than that.

When you press the ignition switch and invoke the machine spirit, the engine turns with a clumsy coughing sound. Pressing the accelerator pedal only makes it screech harder.

Still. You know the basic rites of maintenance- and you also have the advantage of actually understanding the size of parts. With it, you're able to refill the appropriate reservoirs of oil and lubricants from bottles, pull electrical wiring from being pulled into gaps in the internals of the engine, and in more than one place swapping sets of pipes so that their diameters actually match the valves they're attached to.

You couldn't identify the issue, in the end - in fact, you're ignorant to what the issue even was... but you're fairly certain that when you turn the ignition, the engine gives off a much louder and healthier roar than it had before.

Cad looks up in surprise from a half-eaten sandwich as you halt the engine, and comes ambling over as you slide yourself out of the seat. “Well, I'll be damned...” He muses. “Guess you know what you're doing, after all. What did you even do?”

“I performed the holy rites of maintenance.” You answer, not untruthfully, but also to avoid admitting you weren't sure, either.

“Proved me wrong, I guess.” He thinks to himself, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, if you're willing to take a look at our engines every night, I suppose for the extra insurance and the fact that you got this working, I could cut your fare to... I dunno, forty thrones sound good to you?”

That left you with at least twenty in change. “It does.” You agree.

Cad grins from behind a grime-soaked hand. “What's your name, anyway?"

“I...” You hesitate. Your designation was quite simple, but you were also warned by the Voice to avoid revealing your true nature to those outside your employer's confidence. The reasoning had never been revealed to you, but if it was intended to protect you in the upper hive, it likely applied below it, as well... or, you could pass it off as a name of someone belonging to the tech cults. Or you could lie...

>Your designation: A-414.
>Humanize it somehow- A-414... 41... At... yt... Ayta? Ayat?
>Take a name you heard earlier.
>Make something up based on your surroundings.
>[Write-In]

>>5826339
>[Write-In] Lebesnati. High Gothic for 'Cauldron Born'. It is apt enough as a pseudonym.

>>5826370

Support. Bez for short?

>>5826375
Maybe, but I'm kinda partial to the idea of the locals calling us 'Nattie'.

>>5826339
>Your designation: A-414.
Why would we lie?

>>5826416
Dunno, why did we lie about our mechanical credentials?

>>5826339
>>Humanize it somehow- A-414... 41... At... yt... Ayta? Ayat?
Ayla

>>5826339
>Make something up based on your surroundings

>>5826339
>Humanize it somehow- A-414... 41... At... yt... Ayta? Ayat?

>>5826609
+1

Hum. It's a narrow margin, so how about we zoom in a little on the current lead(s), get a better feel?
>Ayta
>Ayat
>Ayla
>Alay
>Lebesnati

>>5827160
>>Ayla

>>5827160

>Lebesnati

Bez for short!

>>5827160
>Lebesnati

>>5827160
Lebesnati A-414 (pronounce it all in high gothic and let these hivers figure out how to say it phonetically)

>>5827160
>>Lebesnati

Alright, Lebesnati it is. Writing.

>>5826339
This is a fine quest ya got here.

>panics because this place isnt under imperial control

“I- er-” You waver slightly as you try to find the words, your grasp of Low Gothic briefly failing you. Was it appropriate to just give your designation? You knew those names were normal among the Adeptus Mechanicus, and you had been told to give your name as if you were one of the Mechanicus, but among these people who seemed to have little, if any ties to the Mechanicus, you best- “Ego sum lebesnati!” You blurt out in High Gothic before you have any time to think.

Cad stares at you blankly for a second, as you look at him stock-still, holding your breath as the idiocy of what you just said hits you.

Way to hide what you are, A-414.

“...Leabess...natti?” Cad says, slowly. “That's your name?”

“Ah...” It wasn't incorrect, although you suspect your creator might have preferred ‘vatgrown’ or another technical term. “It is.”

“Lebes... er...” Cad shrugs it off. “I'm sure I'll learn it. We leave right at shift change tomorrow morning, think you can make it?"

“When's that?” You ask, fishing around in your pocket and pulling out your bundle of thrones. You've ordered them precisely, and so you're able to count out exactly forty in bills and change without looking.

“You'll know because they fire up the crop beds around that time.” He says, holding out a hand for the bundle of cash you hand over. “Even if you're inside, the light's gonna half-blind you.”

He must mean the greenhouses they set up. In that case, since they were on now, you likely had an entire day before you needed to show up for the convoy.

You retreat from the loading area, going back to the center of town to count your current supplies. No more than twenty thrones, and your ration bars. You had roughly eight on you now, and you could get by on two a day, if you needed to. Strictly, though, you'd prefer to eat at least three. That was four days of food, if you stretched it, which meant you needed to make up the remaining two days somehow, either now or on the road. At four thrones a bar, you could afford to buy four bars with your remaining money, but would that be worth it?

It was always possible for you to somehow forage or hunt for food - although you doubt there's any good hunting other then vermin down here. Also barring the fact that you scarcely had any idea how to aim a firearm beyond the basics of how to unload one and anoint it with sacred oils. Stealing is was another option - given you were leaving tomorrow, even if your theft was noticed, any search for you would come up short. Stealing it from the convoy was another option, as well. You could also just go without it, or beg for it.

You feel a pang from your stomach at that thought, but it was an option. It would free up money to get something else- tools, maybe. Or scant electronics, something.

>>5828523
Picking up another odd job was viable, but you'd then have to show up tired the next day. You're not sure that's a good idea, either.

>Buy the food.
>Buy a weapon to hunt with.
>Buy some basic tools.
>[Vigilance] Steal the food from a greenhouse or store.
>Beg for the money and food.
>[Strain] Find another odd job.
>[Write-In]

>>5828524
>>[Vigilance] Steal the food from a greenhouse or store.

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>>5828523
>[Strain] Find another odd job.
wörk wörk wörk wörk

>>5828524

>[Vigilance] Steal the food from a greenhouse or store

No reason not to, really

>>5829045
Support are strippers a thing? We are atleast big thigh

>>5829056
we are short by the standards of this hive level. Maybe we can pull off the cute angle?

Rolled 2 (1d2)

Okay, that's... two and two, from the looks of it? We'll roll off, although I might be able to squeeze some of one into the other. 1 for working, 2 for robbin'.

Wrrriting.

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>pic related
>its you

We're gonna have a hell of a time once our hair starts to grow out.

>>5830220
You've actually got some hair, since accelerated growth logically means some accelerated hair growth.

Also test, can I post again?

Nice. Pardon the delay, folks. Seems there was some kind of posting error for the entire board when I would normally update.

You couldn't afford to buy everything you needed through legitimate means, and you didn't have the time to work- that meant you had only one recourse. Ordinarily, you'd feel guilty about the idea, but against these people, it was hardly treason. They were clearly some manner of leech, taking facilities from their rightful Imperial owners and co-opting them for their own usage. You were starting to get the feeling they might even be criminals. You think. Probably.

That raises a question for you, though. Where would you actually rob? A few obvious targets present themselves, and it proves extremely easy to scope out the target. After all, you can just simply walk in as a customer to most of them.

Business here takes a few forms: most are stalls, set up over small storage units with rolling shutters. When opened for the day, the secure latch is lifted and the storefront pushed out from within before being set up. As the day drags on, more and more stalls are stowed and folded away, but there's always someone present- guards, merchants, even the rare truck trundling through the street. On sale are a few stalls shoveling out mass-baked bread and stews - some made by breaking down corpsestarch and mixing it with ration wafers and boiling the combined mixture down, others made by leafy greens from the growhouses.

You walk through, turning to let others pass you as they filter through the streets, coming to and from the hab blocks raised up above the street-level businesses. Relative to the streets, where merchants ducked through simple doors and flaps to access their wares, the prospect of stealing directly from the habs with their individual locks was a much worse idea, since you'd have to get through the front, pick or break through a door or window and hope one of the residents wouldn't spot you.

Putting those out of your mind, you begin casing the full-on stores that dotted the streets. Not mere stalls, but taking up the bottom level of entire buildings. They seemed to exist downstream from the stalls- the bars and cafes served food that seemed to be made with products from the stalls - sauces, breads and meats made into sandwiches, fried breads and fine stews. They were also the only businesses that sold more heavy hardware: a blacksmith was based out of one of them, hammering chunks of metal into rough tools- knives, thin rods for handles and fans of thin metal for rakes and brooms. Even a few improvised hammers.

Something about that puzzles you. On any hive world, new tools straight from the Manufactorum should be in ready supply. Why would they be making their own? After all, Mechanicum-produced weapons seemed to be in no short supply.

>>5830826
Stealing tools probably wouldn't help you, though. There's more than a few armories along the street, even a few aimed at drivers offering mechanical services, tools, replacement parts that are wildly out of spec for ground trucks and more- but none of them sell food. And that's what you need right now. Food is in ready supply at the crop beds, though...

You couldn't not notice them, they were all over the city - especially in the erected center column - and their lights made it obvious where all the entrances are. Workers regularly moved in and out of them, pushing past the plastic drapes to work at beds of linked crops suspended in hydroponic basins inside. Most seemed to be growing some kind of large brown fungus, with room made for small trees, leafy greens and rooted vegetables in the spaces between and underneath the benches.

You needed food, and there was plenty of it for the taking- but the walls were clear and that could be a problem when you didn't want to be seen... the streets didn't clear out at night, after all.

With the ease you got a job at the bar, you had an idea of how to get into these places, but the question remained of who to hit...

>Another bar, for the food and drink.
>The stall market.
>One of the armories.
>One of the greenhouses.

>>5830828

>The stall market.

Maybe we can pretend to pick up on order on someone else’s behalf?

>>5830828
>>The stall market

>>5830828
>>The stall market.

>>5830828
>Another bar, for the food and drink.
come on dine and dash

>>5830828
>>Another bar, for the food and drink.

>>5830828
>The stall market.

>The stall market.
Writing. Might try for a shorter voting period today so we can rerail on a more normal time for me to write these things.

It's curious that there are guards here.

Not so much that a commercial district - tiny as this one is - would have law enforcement, but that there's law enforcement in this part of the hive at all. Even more that they wear the colors of the Suns. It ran contrary to your understanding of what it was like outside of Imperial control. The underhive was a place full of special interest factions at best and lawless gangs at worst, it was curious that any group large enough to develop it's own internal police force would form. Were the rest of the Sector Primus groups like this? Or were the Suns unique?

For now, it didn't matter.

What mattered most was finding a stall that you could confidently get away with hitting. With all of the activity you were facing down here, you didn't have the luxury of being choosy with your target, which made it difficult to steal from a stall that specifically sold what you were looking for. There just wasn't any knowing when that specific stall was going to be hit, so you'd have to watch for your opportunity and take it.

You could deduce a simple pattern as soon as you started observing. Merchants arrive with new wares for the day, before opening stalls and putting out the new wares, along with old wares from inside their storage units. The ones that were already open must have come earlier, while the merchants that arrive empty-handed must restock at different points in the day.

All you needed to confirm where the money went after closing was watching one of the stalls. Most of the merchants pocketed their earnings and left, while others placed them into secure metal boxes or scurried them away into places you couldn't see. The earnings were either on them or hidden among their wares, somehow. Despite the sophistication of the operation, you didn't see anything resembling a central depository, so most wealth would be stored in people's homes or a secret location, like stashing records the nobility wanted ‘lost’ behind a book shelf.

The people down here were wary, and you were sure many would be watching for the sorts of underhanded tactics you wanted to use on them. Despite the almost instinctual disdain you felt for these people, you couldn't blame them, and regardless, you'd have to be careful with your approach. Approaching them directly like any other customer was by far the safest way to interact without raising the suspicion of the guards, but it also had the lowest payout unless you tried to risk it. On the other hand, the biggest payout would be directly robbing a unit by far - even if it didn't have anything beyond currency, you could purchase whatever you needed the next morning.

Of course, the actual safest approach would be to somehow steal from a merchant's private stores - in their home or an entirely separate place, probably deeper in the hive - but with only one day to find anything, how did you know you wouldn't just turn up empty-handed?

>>5832221
The guards still bothered you, and you couldn't place why until something clicked. Who would pay them? Did they have a pay structure? And if so, where did the money for that come from? Taxes? The idea seemed almost absurd, which made you suspect the merchants paid them rent or contracted their labor. It would explain why the Suns bothered to keep such an elaborate presence here, after all.

>[Intuit] Use social engineering to convince someone to hand over their wares.
>[Vigilance/Strain] Covertly gain access to a closed unit.
>[Manipulation] Fleece a few easily-missed items off merchants.
>[Manipulation/Strain] Fleece some major items off merchants.
>[Logic] Deduce the location of a single merchant's stash.
>[Intuit/Strain] Pretend to be one of the enforcers and ‘confiscate’ wares.
>[Write-In]

>>5832222

>[Logic] Deduce the location of a single merchant's stash.

This kind of detective work is our strong suit.

>>5832222
>>[Intuit/Strain] Pretend to be one of the enforcers and ‘confiscate’ wares.

>>5832222
>[Logic] Deduce the location of a single merchant's stash.

>>5832222
>[Logic] Deduce the location of a single merchant's stash.

>>5832222
>>[Manipulation] Fleece a few easily-missed items off merchants.

>>5832222
>[Logic] Deduce the location of a single merchant's stash.

>>5832222
>[Intuit] Use social engineering to convince someone to hand over their wares.

>[Logic] Deduce the location of a single merchant's stash.
Writing.

You decide to make an investment.

One of the stalls was a young woman with hair bound by a blue handkerchief - another Oiler, you surmise - selling tough bread stuffed with what seemed to be some kind of congealed soup. You hand her five thrones - a precious amount of your remaining reserves - and take the offered bun.

It was only one throne more than half-a-day's ration, but it still felt like you were letting value slip away as you bite into it. The crust was incredibly tough, and the inside was vaguely mealy, but warm and savory from the condensed soup. You think it must have some kind of meat inside it, but you're not entirely sure what meat tastes like...

Real meat, that is. You are already well-acquainted with the soothing taste of corpsestarch.

Without benches in the square, you find nearby steps to sit on, huddling to the side as workers move past you in a steady stream. You eat, and allow yourself to soak in the movements of the crowd around you. Merchants and customers came and went at equal speeds, even some who appeared to be traveling would find other merchants to offload their wares to, or negotiate with to borrow their stalls for a day. When they closed their stalls for the day, most merchants hurried home, or went to other businesses, which made sense, but...

No, wait.

Some merchants took breaks to eat or to restock, returning with new stacks of wares, fresh breads, doughs, but you realize that some of them exit the area in a strange direction. They would follow the crowd initially, but then break off, turning into areas that left the city and didn't appear to connect to any of the other merchants or producers in the area. An hour later, they would mysteriously reappear - returning with the crowd as if they really did just go to do some shopping or visit their homes.

They all seemed to tend towards the gates that shared the same wall as the grinders. Scurrying their wares away in the disused parts of the hab, perhaps?

You think back to the locker you found before. It was unobtrusive enough, and if everyone thought they'd be empty, it might be a decent hiding place?

You stand up, casually tug up the stubborn zipper on your coveralls yet again and join the crowd. Some of the merchants were moving out, and this was your best chance to follow. They start to disperse with the crowd, but you follow the ones who wind up dispersing away from the crowds. Stealth wasn't your strong suit, but you were engineered to be unobtrusive, and that made you easily able to hide yourself among the taller people around you.

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>>5832947
That changed as you found your way out of the crowds, and you found yourself suddenly out of your depth. Where was there to hide in long, straight corridors? There wasn't any, and instead you opt to use your previous strategy and pretend like you were supposed to be there. When they glanced back to look, you would intentionally keep going straight, or take a different turn than them as if you had your own business.

If you spied them at a distant intersection, you would intentionally avoid them and loop around, forming a search area for you to narrow down. This strategy takes you far, and you begin to find blocked off and sealed sections of walls, yet again breached and closed to create the perimeter that seemingly enclosed the grinders. From this side, the barricades were flat expanses of welded metal, clearly intended to be difficult to find purchase on, but it only reminded you that you were on the side of whatever they were designed to keep out. They had clearly been battered by years of use, with scratches and the occasional pockmark from firearms present... although some were so old that you wonder if they had simply been part of whatever metal was repurposed for them.

As you travel deeper, the hab lights become more irregular. More of the walls become stripped, and the floor is occasionally damp with collected puddles of condensation that your boots leave ripples in as you walk. Finally, though, you catch sight of what you've been hoping for: the unmistakable shadow of one of the merchants traveling in the opposite direction than you. They were heading back, and that meant you could close your search area.

You close your loop, moving deeper into the underhive - the bilges, if you recall - to create your zone of searching. All you needed to do now was systematically close down these blocks, one by one, until you found one of the stashes. And if you were lucky, the person you saw had only just turned back around, with the stash being nearby.

Down each hallway you come across, you open each and every locker you find, followed by searching every sub-hall and maintenance closet, along with the rare storage rooms. They were all abandoned, likely the Suns work trying to keep their guard perimeter clear. Your eyes adjust to the darkness of the intermittent lighting as you rummage, and you're soon moving at speed, aware of how as you get closer to the city, the likelihood of actually finding one of these stashes goes down.

It soon becomes clear that whoever it was had intentionally taken a convoluted path - likely to foil people like you - and they had deposited their goods somewhere away from where you had seen them, which forced you to be thorough with your searches. You pull rags and discarded hypodermic needles, bandages, broken equipment and who knows what else aside, gripping it through the cloth of your coveralls to avoid touching them directly. You feel the metal siding, rattling on it in case it was loose or-

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>>5832953
What was that noise?

You turn suddenly, staring into one of the darkened hallways. Your eyes narrow slightly.

...no, doesn't look like it was anything.

Turning your attention back to the next storeroom becomes a fatal mistake, as with your back turned, you only hear the rush of air, the rapid footsteps and the heavy breathing before you feel the impact lift you up off your feet. You hit the wall with a gasp, the wind suddenly crushed out of you by someone else's weight, and get just as quickly pinned. A garbled string of Low Gothic issues from a mouth just behind your ear, and you feel spittle spray against your ear and neck. Your thoughts were distorting and tumbling, mixed in with the pain of being constricted like this and the pressure on the soft tissues of your body disrupting the neuron cultures that had been placed there. You felt sick, your head feeling as if it was about to burst from the pressure, your veins pounding and your skin burning.

You writhe in it's grip, panic building at the feeling of a thin, elongated hand wrapped around your bicep and digging into the flesh. With a burst of manic strength, you flip around and find yourself face-to-face with something out of a nightmare. In the gloom, you can only see the vaguest suggestion of a face, but it's enough to see the elongated jaw, beady eyes and matted hairs clinging to it's head. It was a mockery of the human form, clutching at you and screaming as it tries to push you away with it's thin, reedy limbs.

>[Omnissian] Your nose fills with the taste of ozone. Your nerves burn, and the area around you suddenly fills with the blue light of crawling sparks. A hand reaches out, and you grip it's skull in desperation.
>[Aetheric] The tide returns to your head, and you squeeze your eyes as it throbs and threatens to burst, your vision filling with an odd silver light as in a sudden explosion of force, it's outside of your head.
>[Genolysis] You feel blood running down your arm, and you scream in a panic, clawing at your attacker with sudden strength that surprises even you, heart suddenly hammering and lungs beating hard before you lunge forward.