Gervyl sat alone by a wooden table, staving off boredom in complete silence. His body felt tired, but the mind kept racing, even despite the growing feeling of drowsiness which pulled on the psyker’s eyelids like a pair of metal weights. Reality, dreams and memories blended together on the edge of his consciousness, into an incoherent mass of thoughts, twisting, writhing and crashing against the walls of his skull, until some inevitably rose to the surface, jolting him awake.

“Do not strain yourself, G,” her words reverberated faintly in his head as he eyed a colorful, wallnut-sized bauble in his hand. “You have the knack for it, but you can’t learn everything in one day,” he rotated it slowly, observing each surface, as the liquids inside stirred and mixed, creating new dazzling hues with each turn.

“Try one decade, huh?” he grumbled to himself, focusing on the object as it slowly lifted itself up into the air just above his palm. He nudged it lightly with his finger, causing it to freely spin in a state of weightlessness, as his mind bounced between then and now.

“Listen,” she said, tilting a small tube in her hands, the grains inside shifting ever so slowly to imitate the sound of the waves. “To how the world around you sings.”

“Hard to hear anything with your nagging constantly in my ears,” he clenched his fist and took a deep breath as he spun the thing again, faster this time, small black crystals forming within the iridescent liquid.

“Imagine,” she continued, sliding her slender fingers across the instrument. “How the notes fall into place.”

“if only they had fallen a little differently…” he sighed, stopping the spinning die with his two fingers, letting the solids within fall to the bottom.

“And then… Start playing. Steer this song with the music of your own,” she tilted the tube again at a steeper angle, filling the silence with a sound of a rainstorm.

He turned the item again and the contents seemed to briefly boil and bubble, changing color yet again as another substance, this time deep crimson, split off from it and drifted to the surface.

“I wonder sometimes what songs you would have taught me,” ten different tones soon emerged, each stuck to its own transparent corner of the bauble. Only two more…

“… But never force it, lest your ears start ringing,” she tilted the thing again, this time a little too fast, causing the lid at the bottom to pop off, spilling the contents into the sea below.

“If only I had the time to do everything the right way…” then, in a flash he opened his palm, and the block cracked open, splitting into a dozen even pieces, orbiting the shapeless mass of the odd fluid, which now seemed to be shrinking. As it was growing ever smaller with each passing second, the space around it seemed to bend and collapse, as if to fill in the void left behind. Then it stretched back out at two separate points, now filled with two distinct liquids. Finally, twelve colors glimmered in the faint light, each stuck to its own transparent little plate as they floated through the air.

The puzzle was complete at last, but Gervyl felt no pride at his accomplishment. He scoffed as he violently put all the pieces back together with a wave of his hand, letting the neatly divided substances mix into a psychedelic soup. The icosahedron fell back into the middle of his palm.

“Taking shortcuts is all I ever do,” he mumbled, taking a sip of water, his gaze stuck somewhere in the darkness. Then, he lifted the toy into the air once more and absentmindedly spun it with his finger yet again, trying his hardest to ignore the subtle pressure building behind his eyeballs, which only grew stronger each time he completed the riddle. Not quite a headache, but an unpleasant feeling nonetheless.

His thoughts were in disarray, even more so than usual. Between the usual muddled memories and the events of yesterday constantly playing on repeat in his head, his mind felt like an active warzone. The promise of fortune was still as vivid to him as the bruises on his arms, which were already turning a light hue of yellow thanks to the stim he received.

“I want but one thing at the moment, and that is to get back what was stolen from me,” the hissing voice explained then. “How you go about recovering it is none of my concerns. Threaten, rob, kill, it matters not to me. I am only interested in results and that’s what you will be paid for, should you succeed,” his suit whirred, as he prepared to leave. “Should you die or betray me, though, Bergamont will be there to bring me back your carcass. In either case we never worked together.”

Olgriggor was the man’s name and, somehow, in Gerv’s mind it perfectly fit his ruthless demeanor. He was dour and calculating, but with enough ego to somehow make each sentence coming from his mouth seem like an insult or a threat. If not for the confidence with which he spoke, he might have come off as a caricature of some big-headed despot of some backwater archipelago. But no. Apparently he was an affluent businessman and a trader, trying to get a foothold here on Porriga, vying for influence against the few established groups who ruled the island. Their names escaped Gervyl for now.

The mercenary accepted the contract, of course, as evident by him currently sitting at the Broken Heart, idly biding his time for what seemed like an eternity and a half. Human greed apparently really was boundless, but the psyker quickly realized that his patience was far from it. Olgriggor partnered him up with Bergamont – that part was non-negotiable, he made himself clear – and assured that ‘rabid dog of his’ would brief him on the details of their mission the very next day. And yet, noon has come and gone in lonesome silence for Gervyl leaving him with his own thoughts, the thing he dreaded the most. He could let the bruises let go, if barely, for the sake of the contract, but making him wait was cutting it dangerously close. And just as he was about to snap and go look for him, the hulking mass of tardiness has finally made its appearance, slowly shifting through the doorframe into the bar-proper from the backrooms, where he’d been snoozing.

The bumbling giant stumbled forward holding his head and clenching his jaw as he slowly made his way towards the liquor, all the while groaning and moaning like an old man. The sight was… sad. Almost disappointing for Gerv, considering what he’d seen the brute was capable of. Their scuffle ended in a draw, or so the psyker diplomatically decided, so it was perhaps just mildly infuriating to see his opponent-turned-ally bested by a mere hangover.

“Pathetic,” Gervyl covered his face with one hand, as the words slipped out on their own.

“Shut,” Bergamont blurted out almost immediately, his mind still hazy. He held up his outstretched arm roughly in Gerv’s direction, barring him from talking, as he felt his way towards the nearest bottle, which he then downed in record speed and, immediately after, let his body rest on the counter, face-down. Minutes passed.

“Are you done playing?” Gerv raised an eyebrow at the sorry state of his colleague.

“This is not a damn game, you bastard. This is what hell feels like,” he gritted his teeth so hard, Gervyl could almost hear it..

“Painful?” the psyker rolled his eyes.

“Yeah…”

“Exciting?” he snorted, feeling his mood lift just a little.

“What do you think, smartass? Fuck no, it’s not exciting,” he barked back, lifting his head to meet Gerv’s gaze. “Are you done playing with your toy?”

The mercenary realized then that he was, in fact, still playing with the puzzle, unconsciously spinning it in the air. A little embarrassed, he shoved it into his pocket.

“Can we go already?” Gervyl asked, impatiently drumming his fingers on the table, one of the three which survived yesterday’s assault.

“You asking me out, or what?” Berg crouched down behind the counter and began rummaging through the drawers in search of something, but quickly understood he was out of luck and slammed them shut.

“To do the job,” he barely kept his composure.

“Oh!” something finally struck Bergamont, but it was not the realization Gerv had been hoping for. “So you stayed after all, eh?” he asked with a smirk, as if only just now truly connecting with reality, leaving the psyker speechless for a second. “You must be in a real hurry to your grave.”

“I’m going to send you to yours in a moment,” he fumed under his breath, but just as he was about to growl back some insults, he noticed that the man passed him by, heading for the exit.

“Not before breakfast,” the Forester spoke into the ether, already climbing the stairs to the surface.

A single second passed in silence.

“Damn it!” Gervyl slammed his fist on the wooden table to let out some steam and dashed out right behind him into the crowd.

Warm, late afternoon glow barely seeped through the canopies above, onto the repugnant streets, heralding another night of shameless overindulgence for the city dwellers. For Bergamont, however, who somehow already got a hold of three greasy skewers full of slightly burned meat and other mystery ingredients, this time of day might have as well been a morning. And judging from his content expression and slightly round cheeks full of warm food, a very good morning at that.

He was striding along at a comfortably slow pace in a direction only he could possibly know, as the oncoming floods of people instinctively got out of his way, creating a sort of bubble of empty space around the giant, where the irritated Gervyl now found himself following the oaf. The man was like an icebreaker effortlessly going through an endless white plane, or like a rock in the middle of a river, which the water had no choice but to flow around.

“Where’d you get those scraps from?” Gerv’s curiosity got the better of him, but Bergs simply answered with an assortment of incoherent sounds and finish with a loud burp which made the psyker wince as he sidestepped the skewer stick thrown his way. “Are you even the same person as yesterday? Ah, whatever… Just tell me what exactly Olgriggor wants me to do and we can go our separate ways.”

“No can do, pretty boy. We’re in this together now, for better or worse,” he shrugged with indifference. “Old Ol’s orders.”

“So obedient…” Gerv sighed sarcastically. “Now you only have to work on your sense of urgency. Do you even know what time it is?”

“Listen here, wimp. On Porriga I’m working porrigan hours. Makes sense, eh? Good luck getting anything done with everyone either snoozing or puking,” he shook his head in disapproval, and unfortunately for Gervyl, there was some merit to his words.

“Are you going to fill me in, or not?” he prodded the man, poorly hiding the bitten note in his voice.

In response, Bergamont extended one of his remaining snacks to Gerv, taking a big bite out of the other one.

“S’good,” he said with his mouth full, accidentally spitting out a few pieces of half-chewed meat, not really minding as they fell to the ground.

The vaguely familiar words instantly put Gerv on edge, the burn of the “good” vodka still tickling his tongue. But the rumble in his stomach overshadowed any reason within his mind, and he ended up taking Berg up on his offer.

“So about the job…” he nagged again, eyeing one particularly juicy chunk on his stick, but was quickly cut off by Berg.

“Just stick that thing in your mouth and shut up for a moment, could you?” he rolled his eyes. “You are a pain in the ass, you know? There’s no rush, nothing’s on fire… yet,” he snickered with a touch of menace, making quick work of the food, and then spoke up again. “So, Germetryi, huh?” he briefly sized up the psyker, letting him know with his gaze that no late introductions were in order.

“Gervyl will do,” annoyed, he corrected the man. For some reason hearing his full name made his stomach turn.

“Well… Listen up, Gervy, because I don’t like repeating myself. Old Ol wants us to get back an item which got… lost in transit. Or I suppose that’ll be our end goal eventually, seeing as the old idiot didn’t even bother sharing what the thing even is. For now we’re stuck looking for the guy who last had it.”

“Which is?”

“The courier.”

“Let me guess, the Runners’ Guild?”

“Bingo, smartass.”

“Well that’s just great…” he groaned. It just had to be the Runners’ Guild.

“You’re familiar with them, I see? Well then, you should also have an idea of how those slimy fucks do business.”

“They’ll deliver anything uickly and efficiently, with some added perks. Total anonymity for everyone involved being the most important one. The cargo might as well be moving on its own… Which may… no, will be a problem, considering our goal.”

“Yeah. Normally it works like clockwork, and if it did, there would be no issue, but this time they just had to shit the bed, and it pissed Ol the hell off.”

“Did the guy croak along the way?” that was the most obvious guess, considering how widespread and profitable brigandage is.

“If he did, we’d have known by now. Brooms work fast on Porriga, you see,” he traced a Y-shape up his stomach and chest with his thumb.

Though disgusting, the news hardly came as a surprise to Gerv. Figures that corpse-cutters would prefer their meat warm, he thought, Not that that mind it stale.

“They are tight with the Guild, being business partners and all, but their lips are pretty loose.” Berg rubbed his fingers together, laying the motivations of the shady bunch bare.

“Did you contact the Guild, then? I bet they have procedures for such cases, even if they are pretty hands-off when it comes to the runners.”

“Oh, we did! Passionately!” he placed both of his hands on his chest theatrically before relaxing again. “But they are trying to sweep the whole damn thing under the rug. They did offer a hefty compensation, and I do mean hefty… But the old fart is not one to make compromises, you see? So he started digging.”

“And what did he find?”

“Surprisingly little, even if the guy’s a Guild member. Almost nothing concrete, actually. The man was not even a blip on people’s radar, but that in itself became a clue.”

“Cut to the chase.” Gerv rolled his eyes.

Berg clearly enjoyed himself too much telling a story, while the psyker just wanted info.

“The old man ran a tiny little check on everyone else. Every. Single. Runner. Bastard. On this very island. Sightings, gossip, what have you, we sifted through it all,” He chuckled to himself. “The morons probably thought that being in the Guild turned them into ghosts or something. They didn’t even bother hiding their tracks… Well… Except for one guy, that is. Some Epiteka Laertis. After we got that name, and the name only, the pieces finally started falling into place.”

“Hold it. How can you be sure about any of it? Normally it would be a miracle to find info on even one of the runners, let alone all of them.”

“Ol may not look like it, what with the dumb suit and all, but he has both the metals and the influence. If he pulls the right strings, he can find at least a lead on just about anybody. That includes you, too, so bear that in mind.”

“Is this a threat?”

“Oh, It has already happened. I’m merely giving you a warning.”

“Worry about yourself first,” Olgriggor was rather open about wishing death upon Bergamont, and it still stuck to Gerv like glue.

“Heh… Sure,” he smirked, but there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “Anyway, this Epiteka turned out to be a man with quite a reputation. That is to say, the Guild got one of their top players involved. And it makes sense, too, considering how precious the package supposedly was. Not that I’d know.”

“So which is it? Is he a ghost or a celebrity?”

“A little bit of both,” he paused for a moment, rubbing his jaw in thought. “It’s more like a… myth? Yeah, he’s something of a local legend,” he nodded to himself with a self satisfied smile on his face. “Nobody really knows who he is. No face, no ties, no home. Bah! You’d have to look pretty hard to find even a footprint of his in this shitheap! The name’s all we’ve got, and even that’s premium info. Doesn’t stop all his ‘colleagues’ from knowing exactly who to fear, though. Supposedly, he almost chewed them out of business a few times, stepping on some feet and spitting in a couple of faces in the process.” He briefly paused, giving Gerv a sidelong glance. “Ha! As far as I can tell, most runners have wanted him fucking dead for a long time and now, suddenly, they are not too shy about putting bounties on his head. Somehow, though, he always manages to give those fools the slip… Not easy to catch a shadow, I suppose”

“I guess he must know the city well, then.”

“Oh, that too. He’s a pro, alright, but the main kicker here’s a little more exciting. The word is that he uses salvage tech. A piece unlike anything seen before, and you know just how powerful those can get. People say the one he’s got has something to do with phasing through walls.”

Gerv’s eyes went wide. “An artifact? Impossible!” he protested vigorously. “A mere rumor about those could cause a war, already had in the past. Don’t you think he’d be getting a lot more attention if he really had it?”

“Ha! True or not, that’s just a part of the gossip. We can ask him after we break his legs, or something, if you’re that curious. But, who knows, maybe he’s already on some warlord’s leash and the whole delivery thing is just a side gig.”

“Besides, walking through walls? Chances are he’s just a skilled Nocturne,” ‘Just’ being perhaps a huge understatement.

“A what?”

Gerv clicked his tongue. Obviously he wouldn’t know “A space manipulator. A very good one,” he oversimplified. Being able to call oneself a fully fledged Nocturne was for some psykers a goal of a lifetime, so only saying that much almost felt worse than not saying anything.

“It doesn’t matter either way. He could be a fairy for all I care, but everyone talks when you carve them up a little. First, though, we’ll have to find him.”

“And how do you suppose we should go about it, then?”

“We’ll pay a visit to the Guild’s local branch for starters.”

“So you’ll just knock on their door and politely ask for their best agent? You’ll be lucky if they just kick you out.”

“Oh, I’ll be the one doing the kicking if they try. I’ll climb in through the window if they make me. Have a nice, long conversation… Face-to-fist, hammers involved kind of deal, if you know what I mean. Plus, you’ll be the one helping me with that”

Gervyl sighed, having lost all will to continue this conversation. “Let’s stick with the front door at least.”

Berg smirked, but didn’t say much after that, continuing his trek towards their destination mostly in silence, interrupted only by a few loose comments here and there – Mostly pointless small-talk and a couple words of playful mockery, which Gervyl had little interest in.

He seems harmless enough now, Gerv thought to himself, keeping the brute in the corner of his vision as he scanned his surroundings, learning about the city one nasty fact at a time. He was trying to figure out just what to make of his “partner,” whom he didn’t trust, not even a bit, But where did the rabid beast from yesterday go? he pondered. It was just a glimpse at the very end of their battle, but Gervyl saw something hiding within the man’s eyes. Something unpredictable, something alien, which now that his mind was clear, unnerved the psyker to his very core.

“He is a fierce dog, but a loyal one,” Olgriggor assured him when the psyker openly doubted this whole arrangement. “He will not lay a finger on you without my say-so… For his own good.”

Only time will show, he nodded to himself, pushing his worries aside for a moment. Losing his nerves over a sleeping giant would only serve to impede his mission. If worse comes to worst, Gervyl now knew to not hold back against Bergamont… But for now he had to, if not work with him, then at least make good use of him. He decided to just observe for the time being, both the man and the city.

Gervyl never gave it much attention until now, but the alleys really did seem a little less cramped at this time of the day. The usual torrent of bodies was now at most a somewhat gently flowing stream, with enough space between people to occasionally make out just what waited below the flashy neon signs. All the different unsavory businesses eking a humble existence with what little they had to offer within the rundown confines of the rusty buildings. Bored clerks, doubling as bouncers, standing by the doors, smoking crumpled cigarettes with one hand, always keeping the other on the holsters of their guns as they watched their girls desperately trying to reel in an early guest or two. Were the women real, or just robots acting all too genuinely as the subtle stress of failure slowly built up on their faces with each lost, passing client. The line between life and what merely imitated it was all too thin for Gerv to tell.

On those same sidelines just meters away, with their backs against the cold, rusty walls, were the wretched beggars in ragged clothing, tittering on the brink of starvation. Some with their trembling, blemished hands outstretched, others missing limbs entirely, their stubs bearing marks both old and new. Some were perhaps cyborgs robbed of their prosthetics, or otherwise forced to forfeit them. Others, unlucky souls brought low by disease, circumstance, or most likely poor decisions, now festering in agony. All in desperate need of money. All too eagerly ignored by the masses.

And among those most unfortunate, the reaper and its helpers roamed silently, reaping both life and whatever remained in death. Masked men with carts full of corpses stalked the alleys, collecting bodies of the departed, piling them up into heaps without as much as a twitch in their hands, hauling them towards their grim dens, ready to salvage, to claim just about anything useful before the rot settled in.

Death was all too common on Porriga, though the same could probably be said about the rest of this god-forsaken world. Here, however, it felt different. Outside, death was abrupt, almost never fair, and always heart-rending, but it was never this… pathetic. People here were slowly withering away on the streets with their faces down in the filth, almost as if accepting their inevitable fate. It was but just another way to die… But to see it in the open, so brazenly ignored by everyone, it made the psyker feel queasy. He realized his hypocrisy, however, as he too averted his eyes. He was no messiah, he had nothing to do with those people… And yet they lingered in his mind.

What Gervyl saw here was a far cry from the sights of the middle stratum, where he first stepped foot on the island. There, a modicum of subtlety was maintained for the sake of business. Appearances were kept up and whatever undesirables appeared, with little choice, quickly trickled down to the lower parts of Porriga.

“Let’s see how they try to ignore us now,” Bergamont tightened the straps of his gauntlets.

Lost in thought, Gerv barely even realized that they’d reached their destination where the two strata, lower and middle, blended together. Before them stood a comparatively small and modest building of brick and steel, barely three floors high and almost identical to its immediate neighbors, save for a relatively fresh coat of paint to cover the brown hues of decay. It was neither pretty, nor eye-catching, stripped of the usual neon adornments, marked with just a single faded sign reading “Edel Hix”, or simply “Delivery Service” just above the doorframe. A bland little pebble among plastic gems, but the Guild simply did not need to advertise itself. Their reputation preceded them wherever they went, promising impeccable service to anyone willing to pay. Perhaps it was this very reputation, which they strived to uphold, made them so resistant to receiving complaints from their clients… The two men headed in.

The inside was rather plain, dusty and a little cluttered, but the simplicity was almost a breath of fresh air, standing in stark contrast to the endless sprawl of overabundance just outside the door. Yet it remained vaguely familiar, unable to fully erase its heritage as an ex-bar, refurbished and remodeled to fit the Guild’s needs. The thin layer of lacquer could not hide the decades old alcohol stains, embedded deep within the wooden planks. The space where barrels of beer once left their round marks on the floor, was now only in part occupied by small piles of wooden crates, boxes and old, yellow packing paper. Even the stuffy, musty air, so typical of all the Guild’s offices, carried a subtle hint of alcohol, which in itself was like a fading memory.

And even though some renovation work has clearly been done, the building was still quintessentially porrigan. Uncovered pipes, scratched and dented in places, hung on the ceiling and latched onto walls like overgrown vines. They must have been leaking at one point or another, because the wallpaper, old and weathered, bore multiple dried stains, menacingly pointing towards the girthy bundles of uncovered cables, meticulously tucked away into the corners of the room, just barely out of sight. A fire waiting to happen one day. That is, if Bergamont doesn’t set the place on fire first.

The merry spirit has all but left the building, but it didn’t take long for another to take its place. The successor, a pale shade, eternally toiling away. Its hands thin, with long, bony fingers, deftly sifting through the mountains of white paper sheets. Its eyes, two grey marbles, now sternly glaring at the two men from beyond… the counter.

To Gervyl, there was something peculiar about the man, but it was neither his face, or his dress, both of which were rather unremarkable. Rather, he had this… aura. His movements were swift, but calculated. His posture disciplined, despite the strain in the back and shoulders. His gaze, that of a hunter, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, or flee, if a need arises. There was more than simple wisdom in his eyes, but decades of experience… But what kind, exactly?

Then it dawned on Gerv as he looked upon the man’s left hand, where three silver rings shimmered in the warm light of a desk lamp. Each with a different engraving, just barely visible at the distance and tarnished almost beyond recognition by the passage of time, yet still truly unmistakable to a keen eye. The index bore an image of a coiled snake. Its head alive, but its body in various states of decay, with the tail wrapped around its own throat, forever pulling it forwards, suffocating it. An endless cycle of life and death. The middle one, a simple design with slightly tilted, parallel lines. One for each life taken in battle. The last, a family crest, this one in particular depicting a feather crossed with a wrench. A technician, then, Gervyl couldn’t help but realize, various clans’ symbols vivid in his mind.

“Enough gawking!” Bergamont interrupted the silence, tired of this staring contest between Gerv and the man. He took a step forwards, his hands restless, his face flaring up with impatience, but his path was quickly blocked by Gervyl’s arm.

“Hold it,” the psyker spoke in a hushed voice. “Sit on those wrecking balls you call hands for now. Let me try first. No need to paint the floor red yet.”

“Awfully naïve of you to think you can boss me around,” he scoffed.

“If you break him, we won’t be getting any info.”

“Who said anything about breaking anybody?” the Forester retorted in an almost playful tone.

“You did,” Gerv sighed, raising an eyebrow, the humor of the situation lost on him completely.

Bergamont, seeing no response on Gervyl’s face, just rolled his eyes and, crossing his arms, leaned on a nearby wall. “I’m an impatient man,” he warned, gesturing him to do whatever it was that he wanted to do, quickly.

At least you don’t completely lack self-awareness…

“Aber vintis!” saluted Gerv, speaking fluent Kerran as he approached the counter, focusing on the man behind the bolted-on divider made of thick pane of glass. The whole teller’s section seemed rather sturdy, and Gervyl could make out a poorly concealed mechanism sticking out of the ceiling. Probably an instant barrier for when things get a bit too heated, and on Porriga, it was just a matter of time before they did.

“Eber ithu…” replied he, squinting his eyes a bit, taking yet another look at the psyker from up close. A mild sense of surprise coming over him at the sound of a familiar language. “To hear the voice of Mesostant so far from home… Today just keeps bringing in new surprises,” he continued in the language of his forefathers.

“It’s only proper etiquette to speak Kerran when doing business. Is that not one of the basic precepts of war they teach in Naurr’forrhra?”

“It only applies in our home ports during wartime and when negotiating in the open blue. Here, though, it would only serve to hinder business, I reckon. So speak freely, so that your companion can understand.”

“I’m only making small talk. He doesn’t need to be a part of this conversation yet. Besides, Kerran’s rather close to my heart, so let us continue.”

“Close, you say…” he stole a glance at Gerv’s left hand, which he made no effort to hide, as if inviting him to look. “But you bear no marks of service. You’re no blood.”

“Did my accent betray me?” he joked. “No. No, I’m not. My father did serve in the navy, though. He was a marksman in the crow’s nest... At least until he resigned to take care of his family. He was the one who taught me the Kerran ways.”

“Geh. To think he would disgrace himself to look out for some mute whore’s child,” he shook his head with apparent disdain. “You better be thankful to your old man, mongrel child. He’d sacrificed more than you’re worth.”

There was a slight twitch on Gerv’s face. Right, there were those types, too…

“Three lifetimes are not enough to pay back the debt I owe him,” he smiled, feeling an inkling of nostalgia. “It must be a real bother, though, living among those very ‘mute’ whores on this pulsating tumor of an island,” he gave the man a cocky side glance, letting him know just how much he’d overstepped his boundaries, making it clear just how low he himself seemed to be. He took another glance at the man’s now clutched fist, where the rings grinded against each other. “You’ve paid your inborn debt a long time ago, it seems. How long have you been stuck on Porriga? A decade? Two?”

“Enough!” he boomed. Seems that Gerv has struck a nerve. “I could tell the moment you two waltzed in that you were no customers, so spill it already and stop wasting my time.”

“Epiteka Laertis. Does this name ring a bell?”

“Five dozens of them, and I’m already sick of it. What’s he to you, anyways?”

“A target.”

“Well, nothing new there either, I see. I’ll just tell you the same thing I’ve told everyone else, namely, fuck off and stop meddling with Guild’s business.”

“You misunderstand. I… We are working for the client, whose package was either lost or stolen by this courier.”

“The Guild should have already sent due compensation in that case.”

“We’re not interested in hush money. We only want the package, and to this end we need information that will get us to it. Anything will do.”

“Tough. Luck,” he glared. “Now leave, there’s nothing for you here.” He said, putting one of his hands somewhere out of sight, clearly reaching for something.

Gerv looked at the man with intensity, which quickly turned into disappointment. He sighed, taking a step backwards. This one will need some “convincing.”

“That was quick… Alright, the dialogue has failed. I leave him to you, Bergamont.”

“Finally!” Berg bounced forwards with his eyes on the man, who suddenly seemed to turn even paler than before.

“Wait, Bergamont?” panic flashed across his face. “Shit!” The man slammed something and the safety measures of his cubicle sprung to life, launching steel plates down from the gap in the ceiling to form a defensive shield.

“Oh no, you don’t!” yelled Gerv, bending the mechanism’s frame with his mind, jamming it halfway with a loud screech, giving Berg enough time to close the gap and brutally pull the old man out of his little space by the collar.

On the spur of the moment, the clerk reached for his belt, and a moment later, with a crack of electricity, swung his telescopic baton at the pile of muscle holding him hostage. To his dismay, however, its flight was stopped short, blocked by Gervyl’s hand, him unfazed by the charge flowing through his body.

“Is this how you should treat customers?” huffed the psyker, yanking the stick out of the man’s hands. His hair puffed up with all the voltage.

“Let me go, damn it!” the old man thrashed in Berg’s grasp.

“Gehah!” the Forester couldn’t keep down his laughter at the sight of Gerv. “You look like an idiot.”

“And I feel like one, too, for helping you out there,” he frowned, discharging the energy into the bent metal frame with a single touch, frying its circuits for good.

“Not only this monster, but a psyker, too? What was even in that blasted package?!”

“That’s for us to worry about, old fart. We’re the ones asking questions now.”

“Just how many people did you wrong before I came to the island? I can see it in his eyes that he knows you, or your name at least, and he knows it well.” Gervyl digressed for a second.

Berg shrugged. “What, don’t want to fall behind? Keep blowing up streets, and you’ll catch up in no time.”

“I didn’t blow..! Ah, whatever. Just take care of the guy.”

“I will, don’t worry,” he assured turning his attention to the man in question. “So, which do you like less, your arms or your legs?”

“W-wait! Wait, I’ll talk!”

“See? Look how quickly they change their tune! And I haven’t even started yet!” Berg announced with a hint of pride. “So, legs or arms?”

“Now, now, he said he’ll talk.”

“And who’s to say he won’t lie just to get rid of us and scram at the first opportunity?”

“I’m in no mood to watch you terrorize an old man. Give him a break. He looks eager to share his secrets after all.”

“Yes! Yes! Just let me talk! I don’t have a deathwish!”

“Wimp,” Berg disapproved, but let the man go, shoving him onto the floor. “Do you even know what fun is?”

“I do find the sight of a proud, full-blooded Kerran brought down to his knees amusing, yes… If that’s what you’re asking. But let’s get back on track. Let me ask again. Epiteka Laertis. Where is he?”

“I-I don’t know. Nobody really knows!”

“Are you toying with us?” Berg knelt down beside the man, piercing him with his glare.

“Hold on,” Gerv put up his hand to calm the giant, then turned towards the clerk. “But since you work with the runners, you must have heard something, no? They have the hots for him, after all, in the worst sense possible. Isn’t that right?”

“Word is that his hideouts have been cropping up all around the city, but whenever the runners got there, the places had already been raided. Nobody knows by whom, but it’s certain that it’s none of the Guild Members.”

“Any fresh trails?”

“N-none t-that I remember.”

“Want me to rack your brains for you?” Berg threatened, pulling dangerously close to the man.

Gerv wanted to intervene, but something caught his eye for just a split second. A glint of metal where it shouldn’t be and an empty holster at Berg’s side. Yet he didn’t react, not even a twitch.

“I’ll give you a guy! He knows! He must! He’s one of the runners leading this whole witch hunt! He’s open about it, too.”

“Ha! And what happened to the famous runner confidentiality?” Bergamont mocked.

“The Guild will thank me when Epiteka finally turns up dead. They thought he was a goose that laid golden eggs, but they were all rotten from the start.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Gerv threw a pencil with a piece of paper his way. “Is that all you can give us?”

He hastily scribbled something on it and handed it back. “I gave you everything I could. Way more than I should have.”

Gerv showed the note to the Forester. A name and an address. “You know where that is?”

“More or less. We done?” he raised up.

“Let’s go, there’s nothing for us here,” he said, nodding his head towards the exit, letting him take the lead. “But we’ll be back if we don’t like what we find there,” he threatened.

But as they were leaving, their backs turned towards the man, Gervyl stopped, one foot already out the door and then just stood there for a moment. It was a provocation. A deadly trap, ready to trigger with the slightest disturbance. But alas, nothing happened, and so he turned around, only to see the man still on the ground, his hands frozen in place, tightly gripping Berg’s gun.

The old man breathed heavily as he looked upon the psyker approaching him, bits and bobs between them clearing the way for Gerv with each step he took, as if nudged to the side by invisible hands.

“And here I was hoping you’d do something stupid,” he ripped the flamethrower out of the man’s hands with one firm pull. There was no resistance. Just pure terror filling the two grey marbles looking upon him with despair. There was no will to fight, nor flee. “Time really is ruthless. Enjoy your retirement.” He saluted him like one would a veteran, though it was unclear if that was just mockery. Then he took his leave to join Bergamont’s side.

Did his pettiness get the better of him? Was this whole theater really necessary? Really, it was ironic how in the end it was Gerv who terrorized the old man for a reason no other than appeasing his own ego. He shook his head, as he finally stood shoulder to shoulder with the Forester.

“You know where we should be headed?” he asked, seeing as the brute was looking around, looking rather confused.

“I do have a few routes in mind,” he nodded, giving him a side-glance.

“Let’s take the shortest, then,” Gerv said decisively, handing the flamethrower back to his companion.

“What the hell?” he patted his holster in surprise.

“Keep a better eye on your things.”