At first glance, “The Broken Heart” seemed to be just another shabby little den for all kinds of shady types to gather and tell stories, all the while indulging in their own sinful desires. Just another weed at the corner of a street, feeding on the repugnant essence of the city, as the grime and greed slowly kills it from within. Just another project bound to fail, like most do on Porriga.

In one of the back alleys of the lower stratum, at the very bottom of a flight of unassuming stairs, there was a metal door. Rusty and scratched. A hideous scar etched onto an even more repulsive wall. Filth from the streets trickled down the steps, coating each one with yellow-green gunk, before disappearing through a barely visible grate just in front of the ominous portal. It truly looked like an entrance to a sewer, save for the blinding pink-blue neon sign just above the door.

Gervyl pushed the hellish gate open, letting the scent of cheap booze wash over his face. The thick, warm and damp atmosphere inside burned his lungs with each breath, faint note of tobacco smoke irritating his nose and eyes.

The place was rather small and dark, barely able to hold two dozen people at most, cramped beyond measure with needless furniture. Mismatched wooden chairs and small round tables were haphazardly put all over the parquet, while red, ragged leather sofas peeked out from the darkness by the walls. Old stains from spilled vodka glistened on the floor, lit up by the cold, white lights behind the empty counter. There, a wide assortment of alcoholic beverages stood on glass shelves, backed by a murky mirror that was meant to create an illusion of abundance, but instead twice blinded the entering guests.

As Gerv’s eyes adjusted, more details came into view. The place was in disarray. Chipped wood covered the floor, mixed with glass shards. It was the furniture and beer bottles, broken and defiled, laying lifeless on the ground, as if struck by a stray swing during an all out brawl. It was like a corpse-littered field after a fierce battle.

Understandably, the bar seemed empty at first, until Gerv noticed a subtle movement by the bar. As he focused, a silhouette of a giant man, slowly and methodically taking sips from his glass became clear. Next to him, three empty bottles, side by side, stood on the counter.

“So it’s this kind of ‘job interview,’ huh?” Gervyl mumbled to himself, feeling tired already.

The mercenary moved towards the stranger in the rhythm of the faint tapping heard from somewhere In the corner of the room, carefully maneuvering between the shattered glass and chips of wood in this labyrinth of tables, sometimes sweeping the broken pieces to the side with his boot or putting certain fallen chairs upright with a press of his foot as he passed them by. Perhaps he had had some goal in mind, or maybe this mess was just hurting his eyes.

Gervyl sat down two seats over from the guy and let out a quiet sigh of relief, after finally being able to rest his legs after a long day of searching. The man seemed to notice, because without a word he produced a glass full of liquor, and in the absent barkeep’s stead, slid the drink in Gerv’s direction. Reluctant, the mercenary stared at the glass for a moment.

“S’good,” said briefly the stranger in a low voice, though a little higher than Gerv expected, pointing to the drink with the same hand he used to hold his own.

Though he had his doubts, just one sip was enough to confirm Gervyl’s fears. It was vodka with a few drops of cherry juice. Was the guy drinking only that all night by himself?

“I guess the barkeep’s out for a while?” Gerv asked, already able to guess the answer.

“Long, long while… No need for his meddling,” the man stretched his shoulder tellingly.

“Figured,” he put down the liquor, unwilling to torture himself with it, turning his gaze towards his interlocutor.

The man was even bigger from up close. He probably stood at just under 2 meters tall, and even though both his head and some of his upper torso were covered by a dark, loose hood, the contours of his broad shoulders and muscular arms pierced right through the measly cloth cover. From underneath, what looked like an old, worn down military uniform peeked out, eclipsed only by the hefty, coarse plates of a modified tactical vest right on top. The armor seemed a little lighter than the models commonly available on the market, but sturdy and well maintained nonetheless. What the vest lacked in mass, though, the gauntlets on the man’s hands seemed to make up for. From the elbow down, both his arms were completely covered by a thick layer of metal-like sheets, save for his palms hidden beneath a hefty layer of black leather. They looked rather archaic, but one couldn’t overstate their menacing aura. Aside from a couple of very obvious differences, something seemed familiar to Gerv about this outfit, and it didn’t click just until he saw the man’s holster loosely hanging from his hip. From under two tattered straps, stuck out a handle of a gun. Not just any other gun, though. An authentic fire-spitter, a trademark weapon of a certain infamous military organization.

“I’ve rubbed shoulders with a couple of Foresters in the past,” Gerv said, hoping to probe the man out.

“In one of the city-fortresses?” he asked with a hint of interest.

“No, no… I’ve only met the Hunter-Inquisitors.”

“Well, I’m sorry for my colleagues.”

“What’s there to be sorry for, though?” Gerv asked, giving the man an insincerely expectant look. The reason was rather obvious to anyone even remotely familiar with the Foresters’ follies.

“Things tend to go up in flames wherever they go. Even more so than back at home. We don’t mind a little heat, but some people do,” he shrugged with some indifference, taking a bit away from the apology. “It wouldn’t hurt the overworlders to build cities from less flammable stuff, but alas…” he grumbled under his breath.

“Aren’t you one of them? The Inquisitors I mean.”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here on my ass if I was…” he shook his head. “So to whom do you owe this doubtful pleasure of meeting those bumbling idiots? There aren’t that many of the nutjobs running around, after all. Most seem content playing with matches at the Plot,” the tone with which he spoke of his ‘colleagues’ was less than favorable.

“It’s a long story, but to cut it short, we were going in the same direction, so I hitched a ride with whoever was transporting them at the moment.”

“Ha! Now that’s a surprise! To think that there was someone stupid enough to let them aboard,” he seemed rather amused for a moment, but calmed himself rather quickly, his expression going sour in a blink of an eye. “The guys probably didn’t tell you what they were after?”

“I think everyone there already knew what business Foresters could have “outside”. The spore-touched,” or rather, it’s simply easy to assume that, so nobody really thinks about it, he added in his mind

“Yeah, you are probably right about that,” he replied with a sigh.

“All the rumors aside, I must say they really impressed me.”

“With their character, I bet.”

“Ignoring the fact that they almost crashed our ship, trying to get close to some stray bark-skin beast, one huge bastard by the way…”

“Sounds like something they would do, alright…”

“Their combat skills were out of this world. I’m almost tempted to say that there was passion in the way they burned the thing alive, but that word just doesn’t mesh with the savagery I’ve seen that time. They seemed normal enough at first, if a little strange. But the moment they saw the beast... Well, who’s to say what was really hiding under those gasmasks? To their credit, though, they did deal with the monster rather efficiently… After setting the whole island on fire.”

“Go figure.” He smirked briefly, but his eyes gave away his annoyance. “But enough with the chit-chat. If you are looking for an Inquisitor to do some weeding for you, then you’re barking at the wrong tree. I’m no longer in the biz, see, so if you’re not drinking, then scram.”

“I can do my own ‘weeding’ just fine, thanks. Just wanted to break the ice. Add something of my own to the heap of all the other broken things around here…” he gestured towards the grim scene behind them. “Speaking of, I think I can guess why you are here and I didn’t really come here to make friends either, so if we could get down to business already…”

The tapping that was heard throughout the bar since Gervyl had entered has suddenly stopped.

The man scoffed. “Your funeral,” he said, downing the rest of his glass, the sound of it hitting the counter marking the end of their conversation.

The Forester’s fist whooshed through the air, aimed at the mercenary’s face, who thankfully reacted just in the nick of time. He kicked the ground, rocking himself back on his chair, barely dodging the quick blow. But the laws of physics were merciless for Gerv, for just a second later, the gravity pulled him back towards his opponent, who was already waiting with a jab directed at his chin. This time the mercenary blocked with his arms, a mistake he would rather not have made. The pain spread through his whole body, as the aggressor’s fist covered in metal struck the soft and frail flesh of Gervyl’s forearms, pushing him back and making him fall onto the ground.

A quick stomp into the stomach from the giant’s side would have surely sealed Gervyl’s fate, had he not rolled to the side. Bottles of liquor clattered behind the bar from the explosive force of the giant’s stomp as it hit the ground. Having avoided a premature defeat, the mercenary kicked his adversary in the shin and quickly got back on his feet, grabbing something off the ground, as the man before him groaned in pain. Instantly, the colossus’s gaze darted towards his prey in agitation, but was only met with a shower of sharp needles. Those were the wooden splinters Gerv had sweeped to the side, now reborn as his weapon. The tiny shards did not find their way towards the brute’s eyes, however, as his instincts kicked in, forcing him to cover his face with an arm.

But that was merely a distraction on Gerv’s part, a prelude for what was to come. Making good use of the time he has bought himself, the mercenary grabbed the nearest chair and without delay whacked the giant over the head. His instrument of violence shattered into a million pieces in a single blow, but the target of this attack seemed unfazed, if a little angered.

“Shit.” Was all that Gervyl could mutter, struck with overwhelming fear at the sight of his terribly ineffective attack.

The Forester retaliated with a low blow to Gerv’s stomach, doubly painful thanks to the wound he had gotten from Yadar. Then came a quick transition into an all-out frontal assault as Gervyl curled up in pain, barely able to stand on his feet. The strongman bent his knees and charged forwards, wrapping his hands around the mercenary’s waist, putting him over his shoulder. Like a bulldozer, he rammed him through the broken furniture and slammed into a wall, squeezing the breath out of him.

Gervyl gritted his teeth as he felt the impact, but the little shock was just what he needed to clear his mind. He struck back at the rampaging bull’s back with both his hands, quite effectively as it turns out. His opponent yelped, as the weakness in his armor became apparent, his grasp loosening, giving Gerv just enough space to shove his adversary back and follow up with a front kick. The troublemaker stumbled back, and before he realized, was hit again with a jab to the chin, chained with an unexpected mug to the side of his face.

Glittering shards painted in red fell to the ground as each of the two men took a couple of steps back to catch their breath. Their fight was far from over, and this exchange of blow was but an appetizer. It might have not looked like it, but both of them were holding back. They studied each other. Calculated their moves. Gauged each other’s strengths, trying their best to not reveal their own weaknesses.

And yet… Why was Gerv’s hand trembling so much? He had a cocky smile on his face, but a single drop of cold sweat running down his forehead gave him away.

“Alright, so you can fight a little,” the aggressor assessed with a hint of amusement. “There’s some instinct in that noggin. Gears turning, sparks flying,” he smirked. “Too bad you hit like a little girl.”

“You got your ass kicked this hard by some girlie before?” Gerv chuckled, painfully stretching his fingers, having realized just how hard he had been clutching the handle of the broken mug.

The man didn’t answer immediately. He instead grabbed his hood and rubbed the blood off his face, leaving but a few reddish smudges, a subtle smile peeking out from under the cloth. “I’ve barely even started and you already look like shit.”

He wasn’t wrong. Wounds, both old and new quickly piled up on Gervyl’s body, slowly siphoning his strength and slowing his reactions. He rubbed his abdomen, taking a deep breath to relax his tensed up muscles.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hit a sore spot?” mocked the Forester. “I’ll make sure to hit it again, then. Put you out of your misery,” he propped himself up against the counter and grabbed Gerv’s vodka, downing it in one gulp. He shook his head a little, as the burning in his throat traveled down to his stomach. With little care, he threw the glass on the ground, taking a step forward. The break was over, but before fists started moving again, the man took a moment to take his hood off completely, revealing a bald head marked with many small scars.

“You trying to blind me?” Gerv squinted his eyes, as the reflected light hit his face.

“I’m trying to work up a good sweat, so amuse me for a little longer, why don’t you?” having said that, he raised his arms in a boxing guard and dashed forwards, keeping his head low and feet moving. Compared to before he moved much faster and less predictably, making it clear that brute strength was not everything he had.

This sudden change of tempo caught Gervyl off guard, but he just barely managed to react to the flurry of blows aimed at his vitals. He ducked and rolled to the side, grabbing the nearest table and tipping it over in an attempt to create some space for himself.

The brute, however, as if anticipating this move, nimbly slid over the fallen piece of furniture and attempted a right hook, using some of his momentum. The punch nicked Gervyl’s skin, as he guarded with his arms and jumped back at the same time, fearing the man’s metal gauntlets. And for good reason. Just this grazing strike was enough to draw blood as the sharp edges of the glove’s plates cut Gerv’s skin, leaving a long red line in his flesh, barely missing his tendons.

But the Forester was unrelenting in his assault. His fists fell upon the mercenary like a hail of blades, chipping away at his body. Gervyl could only try his best to weather the storm, but his time was quickly running out, for with each dodge he was being pushed against the wall once again.

Then he had an epiphany. When he felt the heel of his foot touch the room’s boundary, he pretended to stumble and lowered his guard, opening himself up for a powerful finisher. Sure enough, the bait worked like a charm and the boxer went for a straight to the mercenary’s nose.

It hit the bullseye… On the dartboard behind Gerv, and went straight through it and the rotting wall it was hanging on. Darts fell to the ground and the whole place rumbled as the energy of the blow coursed through the building, causing something within its bowels to shatter and fall, momentarily trapping the baldy’s arm. This was the perfect opportunity for Gervyl to take his revenge. A chance he wouldn’t dare miss.

As the giant struggled to free his limb, Gerv made sure to punish his previous overconfidence with swift retribution. The man’s armpit, right where his armor was the most lacking, made for an easy target. Two blows connected there without a problem, bruising the flesh, but just as Gervyl was about to push the goliath down to his knees with a precise kick to the back of his leg, the giant got fed up with his annoying poking. He roared and flexed his muscles, freeing his arm in a show of inhuman might. The wall gave out as the man twisted his whole body, his elbow cutting through the air at a deadly speed, on its way to knock the mercenary out.

But Gerv refused to be put down by this simple move. He crouched under the incoming guillotine blade and struck at the side of the man’s chin, using his opponent’s momentum to amplify the force of the blow. A loud crack could be heard, before the rampaging colossus stumbled back, grabbing at his face, his jaw now hanging below his skull at an unnatural angle as the muscles of his face contracted, trying to pull it back into place in a futile spectacle of body horror.

He seemed to be no stranger to those kinds of injuries, however. Without hesitation the strongman grabbed his jaw with both hands, shoving fingers in his mouth, and pushed with all his might, popping the dislocated bone back where it belonged with no more than a groan and a sigh of relief that followed.

Gervyl recoiled at the sight, the disgusting display before him being enough to stop his advances. Was the thing before him even human? Did he feel pain or even get tired? He dreaded the answer.

Seeing this, his adversary gave him an indulgent smile and claimed his rightful place by the counter once more, just to start blindly rummaging behind it. “As good a time to take a break as any,” it took a moment, but at last, he found what he was looking for. A waterskin. “Maybe there is something more to you than meets the eye. Maybe,” he took a sip of water and wiped his forehead. “But it’s all just tricks, no real substance, no backbone. Nothing. You are a wuss, a weakling, not even a stepping stone,” he insulted Gerv as the mercenary wheezed, his body finally feeling the built up fatigue come crashing down all at once, now that the adrenaline rush was fading away in this moment of lull. “That being said…” he added after a second, throwing the waterskin towards the mercenary. “It’s been fun, so drink up before you pass out. I want to finish you myself.”

Sitting down on the floor, Gervyl greedily emptied the waterskin, his body accepting every drop of the life giving liquid without hesitation. A feeling of relief filled him, lifting some of the pain. He groaned and gasped for air once again, as the container fell to the ground, completely empty.

“Tricks, huh? Now that pisses me off a little,” He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, a glint of determination shining in his eyes. “And here I was going easy on you,” he smirked, his exhaustion clearly showing.

“Are you done playing, then?” the brute riled Gerv up with his derisive tone.

“You’ll be wishing I wasn’t”

“Oh, I like that!” he bounced from his seat, roused by the promise of violence. “You know how to get others pumped, at least. Show me those claws of yours, if you really have them.”

The third round started slow. It was the baldy’s victory lap, or so he seemed to think to himself as he slowly approached Gervyl, taking in the moment, perhaps giving the mercenary a few moments to pick himself off the ground, as he scrambled on the floor.

“So you’re all talk after all,” he sighed with disappointment, looking down on Gerv in his sorry state. Maybe it was his way of showing mercy, or perhaps he just could no longer stand this pitiful display, but he planned on landing one decisive kick to end it all. “Good-night!” he groaned, straining his muscles, the force of his kick picking up the dust.

But even it could be stopped, if it met an immovable object. The flying foot suddenly came to a stop, as if hitting an invisible wall. In this moment, Gervyl made his move, seeing as all went according to his plan. With the amber on his head glowing faintly, he moved in to attack, his clenched fist striking the side of his adversary’s foot, a concealed weapon residing between his fingers. Slim but unusually large, the steel dart Gerv picked from the flood during the break, penetrated the colossus’s boot and pierced the muscle right above his heel, just centimeters away from his tendon. The Forester howled in pain, startled by his rival’s miraculous recovery, but the mercenary did not stop there. A series of three lightning fast jabs followed, each aimed higher than the last, the final one finding its target just under the knee.

With the metal pick buried deep within the flesh, Gervyl rose up and, using it as a handle, pulled upwards with whatever strength he could muster, trying to throw the brute off balance. A commendable effort, but ultimately futile in the eyes of the giant’s power. He stomped down with his foot, having regained his composure, but that, too, was to be expected. Seeing his first plan fail, Gerv pulled his weapon out and went straight for the brute’s eye, the dart tip flashing in the bar’s cold light.

“Not so fast!” yelled the baldy, shielding his face with his hand, seemingly unbothered as the steel instrument went right through it, only stopping on the metal plate of his glove on the other side. He then closed his wounded hand, grasping Gervyl’s fist, bloodlust burning in his eyes. Or perhaps it was something else that caught fire.

A different kind of pain smote him, as his tissues started sizzling and burning. On reflex, the giant pushed Gerv back, unable to bear this agony. He pulled at the spike, which now glowed red, and yanked it out with his other hand, whimpering as parts of his flesh were ripped out, fused to the pick.

“You son of a whore!” he exclaimed, shaking his still smoking limb, much to Gervyl’s enjoyment.

“Did that hurt?” the mercenary put on a wry smile, still hurting all over. “Good.” he snickered with satisfaction, his breath condensing into a milky cloud, as the air suddenly got cold.

The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, suppressing the alcoholic stench.

“You’ll regret doing this,” said the giant in an unexpectedly shaky tone, his hand trembling, as he involuntarily took a deep, long breath. His pupils widened, taking up almost the entirety of his eyes. Something snapped inside him.

“Fine then, let’s just drop the act and kill each other already.”

The Forester entered a feral rage as he jumped forwards swinging wildly at Gerv. He became erratic, almost animalistic in the way he fought. His blows grew in strength, but the skill with which he dealt them dropped drastically. Destruction followed in his wake as he tried to close distance to Gervyl, but the mercenary would have none of that. He extended his hand towards the darkness of the room and at a moment’s notice, with a screech of metal, a pipe flew into his hand. He parried with it, immediately striking at the colossus’s side with its ragged end multiple times. He was finally going on the offensive and just when the brute was about to land a stray blow, a chair flew out of nowhere and crashed on his back, as if it suddenly came to life to protect the psyker.

In a fit of rage and confusion, the Forester got low and stuck his hand into the floor as if it was mere paper, sending a wave of broken planks towards Gerv. He responded by guarding, barely covering his eyes, but leaving himself open for a follow-up attack. The giant dashed, and the mercenary waved his hand, summoning more furniture to block the monster’s path, but the maddened beast cared not for those cheap tricks. He jumped up and off the barricade of chairs and tables, preparing an overhead attack.

With no time to escape, Gervyl was forced to block with his weapon, which got bent like a wet noodle the moment it made contact with the giant’s hands. However, it was not due to the strength of the blow. It was yet another of the psyker’s ruses. The reality bent its knee to Gerv’s will once again, as a paralyzing headache shocked him in retaliation. But he didn’t falter, tying the Forester’s hands with the altered instrument in one deft movement of his fingers. The pipe hardened once more the second the mercenary let go of it, cuffing the brute in an unexpected twist of fate.

“It really suits you,” Gervyl could not suppress his desire to mock his opponent, letting his pettiness surface in this brief moment of minor triumph. In a split second he then grabbed the nearest plate and shattered it on the man’s wounded hand, smirking while he hissed in pain. “Talk about sore spots, eh, big guy?”

But Gerv having the upper hand was merely temporary. The beast may have been slowed down, but it could not be stopped with just a piece of metal. A swift boot to the stomach from his side quickly knocked Gervyl down a peg, while giving the brute a moment to call upon his strength once more as he pulled the pitiful cuffs apart with his bare hands.

“Useless junk,” the mercenary cursed the frailness of the pipe and jumped behind cover as the giant reached for his holster, evidently having ran out of patience.

A salvo of flaming balls flew through the air, colliding with the fallen table, behind which the psyker took refuge, lighting it ablaze. Fiery droplets splattered all around the bar in a halo of hellfire, creating a destructive chain reaction with the alcoholic spills, covering the ground in bluish-purple and red pools of liquid blaze.

As the wave of heat seared Gerv’s skin, he launched his cover towards the Forester, but with just one kick he shattered it into pieces, further spreading the wildfire as the shards of burning wood scattered towards the farthest corners of the place. Then, with the line of fire clear, he unloaded his flamethrower once again.

The balls of gunk fluttered through the area, none but one finding their way towards Gervyl, each knocked to the side midair with a wave of his hand. The last one almost reached him, but collided with something just inches away from the psyker, splattering and sliding to the sides and past him like water drops running down a glass window.

It might have looked like Gerv’s victory, at least for the time being, but a painful cough that escaped his mouth was a dreadful reminder of his own body’s limitations. His skin was burning and his vision started to blur as water welled up in his itching eyes. He might have survived thus far by dodging and weaving, but there was only so much he could do to avoid the fiery grasp as it slowly closed around him. And in the heart those flames stood his greatest threat – his adversary, commanding the fiery tongues with his mere presence, thriving in them, immune to their painful embrace. At last, Gervyl understood. Before him was no mere man, but a true Forester. Flesh, bone and fire.

It was do or die for Gerv. He had to end this now, else he would surely fry. He gritted his teeth, his head splitting in half from the growing migraine. Just one attack… One would be enough. He glanced at the Forester’s flamethrower, fire still dripping from its muzzle, and knew instantly what to do. A plan was ready, now he just needed to put it into action.

Baldy seemed to pick up on Gervl’s desperation, not only bracing himself for his attack, but ready to charge in and take it head on. There was no reason in his eyes, no fear, no hesitation. Just the insatiable desire to crush his opponent.

They moved in without a word, merely exchanging a look before fists started moving again. This time, though, Gervyl was not afraid to block, nor did he hesitate to answer with an attack of his own. Each swing the brute took at the mercenary stopped a hair’s breadth away from Gerv’s palms, halted by an invisible force. With a mere flick of his finger, the psyker pulled the giant closer, striking at his soft spots with magnified power, then pushing him away again as he attempted to counter. He was like a rubber ball on a string, being shoved every which way by unseen hands.

Blood gushed from Gerv’s nose, however, with each such throw, painting his face in crimson red, which shone brilliantly in the orange glow. He had it. He knew he did. And yet, a wave of pain took him by surprise, giving the Forester a chance to grab the nearest table, half-consumed by the fire. He ripped off the top part, and like a circular blade, hurled it at Gervyl, completely breaking his focus.

The mercenary ducked out of the way, but before he could even realize, the colossus was upon him, his metal gauntlet landing square in the center of Gerv’s chest. A devastating blow, which on its own was enough to lift the man off the floor and send him flying a few meters back. Yet somehow, he still stood, an aggravating smile plastered on his labored face. A bloody grin that said “is that all?”

The brute’s blood started to boil. It was like an insult, and as insignificant as it was, it pushed him over the edge. Weapon drawn, he launched his body forwards to finish what he started. Exactly what Gerv’s been waiting for. He extended his left hand towards the muzzle, feigning a strike with the other. The world seemed to slow down as the fight had finally entered its climax in this adrenaline-filled moment of pure, violent ecstasy. The beast’s mind was taken over by unadulterated madness, but Gervyl seemed calm… coy even, as if he’d won already… And just as they were about to clash, steel about to rend flesh, everything came to a screeching halt with a single sound of a shotgun being cocked somewhere behind the curtain of flames.

“That’s enough, Bergamont,” hissed imperiously a muffled voice like a distant howling of wind, sending shivers down Gerv’s spine.

For a fraction of a second everything seemed to have stopped. The flames leashing in every direction, the two men locked into unnatural poses, even the time itself – frozen and still. The anticipation was almost palpable, painfully so. The sweet release of either a glorious victory or a bitter defeat – delayed. Denied by the interloper. It was like a limbo born of a single sound. A click, weak enough to be almost drowned out by the cracking of wood. A threat, powerful enough to make Gervyl completely thunderstruck when he realized just who the gun was aimed at.

“Give me this moment, Ol,” grunted the baldy, his breath heavy and filled with excitement. He was staring at whoever was standing behind Gerv, deep darkness clouding his eyes. He licked his lips, challenging the stranger with his gaze, testing the limits of his patience. With a crack of leather, he tightened his grip on the gun’s handle. “Just one pull.”

“Drop it,” the phantom commanded sternly. “Or I will make you.”

The titan furrowed his brow, unwilling to yield. Not to Gervyl, and especially not to the man… And yet there was a subtle change in his expression as he glanced at the mercenary, who was now more concerned about the man who intruded upon their duel, than the duel itself. He took one big breath, which caused all stages of grief, one by one, to flash on his face… But at last, after a few seconds he relaxed for good and dropped the gun. Or at least he intended to. Startled, he realized that even though he let go, the weapon was still floating in front of him, suspended by an invisible force, the palm of his hand seemingly stuck to it, pinned in place.

“Wise choice,” said the mysterious figure with an overbearing air of superiority. “That hand of yours can still prove useful to me,” the last of his words were almost completely cut off by the sound of a fire extinguisher flooding the place with a bluish-gray foam. “And you…” he snapped at Gervyl, mercilessly snuffing out the flames. “Lower the force field and the spike, If you will,” he said, though he obviously wasn’t asking.

The giant visibly flinched at the mention of a spike, just enough to tap its pointy end with the back of his head . But his short lived fear quickly turned to amusement as he smiled, mouthing voicelessly: “Damn…”

The mercenary clenched his teeth as he struggled to decide whether the battle really was over, the thumping in his chest deafening out every other word he heard, the tingling at the end of each finger being like a constant reminder to never stay idle if he wants to survive. Could it all end so anticlimactically? His mind was now fighting the urge to go for the kill. He could even go a step further and shoot the guy behind him with the Forester’s gun in his psionic grasp. But just as those thoughts popped into his head, he thwarted them completely, only then realizing how much he got caught up in the rhythm of the battle.

He laughed with a note of bitterness, raising his hands so the guy behind could clearly see them, as both the spike and the gun clattered to the ground

“So much for my little surprise ‘trick,’” he shook his head, unable to stop smiling like an idiot, one part embarrassment and two parts pride welling up inside him. “You’re the ringleader, I assume.”

“Not a bad guess,” he answered as some small object flew over Gerv’s shoulder, right into the baldy’s hand. “Compose yourself, Bergamont. Your better half was showing.”

“Much to your amusement, huh?” he mouthed off, splitting the gift in half and burying a needle deep in his neck, letting out a gasp as his pupils returned to their normal size.

“I never cared for your petty brawl in the first place,” the man retorted, disdain oozing from each word. “You are finished here, so clean after yourself,” he added, throwing a blue metal bottle his way before he could even pull the syringe out of his body. “In the meantime, we will talk.”

Gervyl felt that the words were not merely directed at him. He felt them weighing on his back like a bag full of lead. The man would not take ‘no’ for an answer. Gerv felt compelled to follow, pulled both by his curiosity and the man’s domineering aura alike.

But at the same he found himself tarrying, his gaze stuck to this ‘Bergamont’. The air around him changed somehow. He seemed drained of all but few specks of energy, his face seemingly drooping lower with each breath he took. He was fiddling with the extinguisher, inspecting it halfheartedly, contemplating it with an empty look, doing everything he could to not actually use it. The glint of madness was completely gone from his eyes, now replaced by a sense of disappointment and fleeting pride. With a whoosh of foam leaving the jet black muzzle, he finally began steadily, albeit reluctantly, ridding the place of the flames, briefly stopping once when he sensed Gerv gawking at him.

“You heard the man. Now fuck off,” he scowled back at him, nodding his head towards the table in the farthest corner of the room, before going back to work with a click of his tongue.

Gervyl could feel a perfect riposte burning at the tip of his tongue, but ultimately held it in once he picked up on the impatient drumming of fingers, the same one he’d heard before. It was like the sound of a ticking time bomb, urging him to drop everything and come immediately. A timely reminder that he came here to do business, even though bickering with the baldy seemed very tempting at the moment.

At the edge of the dimming light the shotgun wielder has already seated himself on one of the trashy sofas, one of the very few which escaped the fiery grasp of the duel. From afar, Gerv had already made out the man’s short and corpulent silhouette, but it wasn’t until he took his seat across the table, that he realized what the guy was wearing.

A deep-diving suit the color of freshly roast seeds faintly glimmered with each methodical movement of the man’s body as he dexterously flipped through the pages of his hardback book, a rarity the title of which eluded Gerv. His face – invisible, hidden behind the frosted visor of his thick helmet, which was seemingly welded shut around his head.

“You were slow and inefficient,” the diver assessed bluntly, skipping unnecessary pleasantries.

“And my opponent was hasty and irritable. Your point?” he pressed his temples with his thumbs, trying his best to ignore the ringing in his ears. He was sore all over and not necessarily feeling up for conversation.

“A psyker who doesn’t use his gifts is like a holstered gun. Useless.”

“Knowing when to use them is also a part of being a psyker. There’s a the right time and place for everything. When push came to shove I used them plenty,” the stinging sensation behind his eyeballs being a constant and very irritating reminder of that fact.

“The time to act is always now. Hesitation means death, which in turn is failure,” he closed his book with an audible clasp and pushed it to the side. “And I do not tolerate failures,” at any other time his words might have come off as threatening, but right now they just got on Gervyl’s nerves.

“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he shook his head. “Just know that it’s common sense among us composers to hold back and keep our heads low. Lone psykers are commodities, and I don’t want a price tag attached to my head.”

“A futile endeavor. The word about you is already making rounds on Porriga.”

“A small-time merc like me?” he played dumb. “There’s bigger fish around for people to gossip about.”

“Don’t take me for a fool. You already displayed your abilities for everyone to see just a few days ago,” he glared from behind his visor, or at least Gerv felt like he did. “Some ‘Party Crasher’ they named you.”

“Right… That little fiasco,” he rubbed his forehead in embarrassment, wincing at the trashy nickname. “All the more reason to lay low, don’t you think?”

“I do not waste time thinking about the problems of every disappointment that walks through this door,” he snapped back at him with bile.

“And yet you seem to know all about my problems,” he gave him a crooked glance. “Bah! It’s not every day that I get scouted for a job, whatever it may be,” he added, letting his proud tone slip.

“Do not get full of yourself, Germetryi Vylmare. You are but one of many sellswords I’ve had my eye on. Unlike them, you may have survived against Bergamont for some time, but I am still unimpressed.”

“I didn’t just survive. I was about to win,” he objected, getting visibly heated, ready to rise from his seat. “If only you didn’t…”

“You were about to damage him at most,” he interrupted. “If you were really about to kill him, I would have gladly let you…” the gravity of the man’s words quickly pulled Gerv back down. He continued. “But I cannot use a defective tool,” he paused for a moment, clenching one fist on the table. “And it goes for the both of you,” he didn’t just state that. It was a warning about what could have been.

“Why would you want one of your own men dead?” Gervyl couldn’t help but ask, almost completely ignoring the rest of the man’s statement.

“It is none of your business,” he replied calmly. “What you should concern yourself with is the fact that despite your shortcomings, I am willing to offer you a job.”

“Oh, so first you shit on me, and now you are willing to talk work, right after dropping that bomb?”

“I’ve grown tired of watching failure after failure come to my doorstep just to get stomped like worthless insects they were. The one resource I am not willing to waste any more of is time, so you will have to do. If not as a competent pawn, then as a disposable placeholder until I find something better.”

“And what makes you think I’ll accept? Have you been listening to yourself? You are clearly off your rocker.”

“You will accept,” he said plainly, but his words seemed to boom, filled with otherworldly confidence. It was as he was commanding Gerv to do his bidding already. He placed a bulgy sack on the table, not unlike the one the mercenary found with the message. “Human greed is boundless, after all,” he rolled it towards Gervyl. “What I sent you before was a mere greeting. A fee, so to say, for your attention, because one thing I hate wasting is again, time, mine or otherwise,” he gave a moment for Gerv to really take in the situation, taunting him with deafening silence. “So? What will it be?”