“Are you out of your mind?” asked Gerv, clearly distraught, amongst other things, by the distance between him and the busy alley below. He was standing on a shaky platform connecting two buildings, just below the black canopies of never ending cables, questioning his partner’s choice of transportation.

Something whooshed past them, nearly knocking the psyker off balance with a blast of air. An oversized metal claw tightly clasped around a container creaked as it swayed to the sides under a degraded steel rail it was hanging on, and rapidly grew smaller. Then, a loud screech sounded out in the distance, when the thing reached a turn, creating a brief wave of sparks, before disappearing behind a corner.

“Hey! You wanted to get there fast, so smile a little, because this is your lucky fucking day. Those babies will get us there in five minutes,” Bergamont beamed up at his partner from where he was sitting, legs hanging, as he stared at something in the distance.

“An express ticket to the afterlife was not what I meant!” he was fuming. “What even are those things?”

“Logistical skyrails. Courtesy of the Runners Guild. A bit ironic, innit? This is what they use to transport the things they can’t carry on their backs to the checkpoints around the island, the shrewd bastards. They have a warehouse not far off, so you could probably catch a ride headed anywhere from there.”

“I’m climbing down. We’re taking the second fastest route,” he declared, rubbing his eyes. The fatigue was finally catching up to him. Porrigan hours… My ass! he couldn’t help but think to himself.

“Grow some balls. As long as you don’t fall off, this thing’s actually pretty fun. Like taking a ride on top of a train.”

“You’ve rode those things before?”

“A couple of times. Needed my fill. Riding trains for hours is the one thing I do miss about the Plot,” He sighed, shrugging his arms, before something caught his attention. At the junction, a part of the rail shuddered and violently snapped into a new position with a loud clang, prompting Berg to rise to his feet. “That’s our cue. The chariot’s here.”

“I’m not letting you goad me into suicide. I’m walking by foot.”

“In that case, I hope you’ve burned that address into your memory real good. I sure have,” he waved a crumpled piece of paper in front of him with a stupid smile plastered on his face, before setting it ablaze with his flamethrower, all the while taking a few slow steps back for a running start.

“Don’t you dare.”

“See you there,” he nodded his head and dashed forwards towards the ledge.

Gervyl didn’t have a single moment to process the situation. On the spur of the moment he followed, his legs springing him off the rickety scaffolding onto the incoming cargo crate. His jump was too short, however, too careless, and he only managed to latch onto the side of the metal box by the skin of his teeth. Immediately he felt his grip starting to slip, grime seeping through his fingers, and he would have surely been flung off at the next turn, was it not for Berg’s instant reaction. The brute, barely having landed himself, grabbed the psyker’s arm and pulled him up.

“So you do have the stones! Tad heavy though, almost made you fall,” the Forester jeered clutching one of the claw’s cables, as the city scrolled below them.

“To hell with you,” he snapped back, giving the man a scornful look, which quickly turned to panic, when a bump on the rail almost knocked Gerv off the crate. His untimely demise was thankfully prevented only by Bergamont’s tight grip on his arm.

“I’d fit right in… But you watch your mouth, hotshot. It’s a long way down,” he warned, only half-jokingly, and pulled him in, so Gerv could grab something and catch his balance.

“That’s a few years off my lifespan…” Gervyl sighed to himself, his blood pumping.

“At least it woke you up. You looked ready to snooze.”

“I just… needed a moment,” he answered grumpily. Between the plain old fatigue and the psionic backlash, he was feeling a little lightheaded, but not much more than that.

“You’ll be happy to hear, then, that we have about ten minutes ‘till we get there. Plenty of time, no?”

“This is why I work alone… Shit…” he sat down on whichever part looked the most stable and hung his head in defeat. “Should have kept that paper to myself.”

“You trusted a Forester. The blame’s on you.”

“Right… A Forester…”

“What? Did I stutter?”

“You may look and fight like one, but you sure as hell don’t act like one.”

“The heck would you even know about that?”

“Ever heard about a thing called soldier’s discipline?”

“I’ve seen enough ‘disciplined’ fools get ripped in half by some barkskin beast the size of a locomotive to know better. Smashed into no more than a wet smear on the ground, or grasping at their spilling guts moments before their handlers ‘mercifully’ put them down. The sons’a bitches… Discipline ain’t worth shit,” he spat to the side with contempt. “But you don’t choose who you’re born as. I am a Forester, alright. Just not as stupid as the rest. Anyone with half a brain would piss off from there, too.”

“And how did you even get out? Deserters get shot, that’s a pretty universal rule in the military world.”

“What, you suddenly want my life’s story?” He furrowed his brows, realizing now that his lips got a little too loose.

“I don’t really care, but since there’s time to kill…”

“Nah. Don’t feel like telling,” he took out a small flask seemingly from thin air and took a sip, before offering it to Gerv.

“Pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

With this the conversation was officially dead. But Berg seemed content with just enjoying his drink. Gervyl on the other hand turned his attention downwards, stealing glances at the city below, where the masses of people flooded into the streets like a high tide. Most likely to enjoy the last few wanton days to the fullest before the Esharan storm hit the island. Their colors were even more vibrant than usual, full of lively red and blue contrasts with yellow and purple accents sprinkled in. They swirled like vortices on the ocean’s surface, as the people danced and frolicked to the sounds of music, bathing in the neon glow mixed in with the orange warmth of the night lanterns. It almost looked like a festival. Did someone organize it? Or is it maybe some sort of tradition? Gervyl simply couldn’t tell. But he did know for a fact that from a distance it all looked… dazzling. It was a fake beauty, blurred and distorted, but somehow captivating. Perhaps there was something to this city, after all. Its underlying misery, just barely in the corner of one’s eye, only served to enhance the intoxicating allure of the never ending debauchery. But Gerv let his thoughts meander for second too long, before noticing Bergamont’s unrest, as the giant rocked to the sides, bouncing from one foot to the other. Then it struck him.

“When does this thing stop?”

“It doesn’t. We’re getting off at the next turn.”

“What?!”

“We’re aiming for that low rooftop,” he pointed with his finger “Should be easy enough, just don’t land on your neck. Just remember: Roll and tumble.”

Dozens of words, nasty beyond description, filled Gervyl’s mind, but there was hardly any time for swearing, as he prepared for the jump. This time the target was static and big as a barn. This should be easy.

They leaped, slingshotted forwards by the built up momentum, and as they flew through the air, to Gerv, the world seemed to slow down almost to a standstill. He could see Berg’s confidence as he approached the hard and unforgiving surface. His legs slightly bent, ready for impact, and arms steadily moving over his head to transition into a roll. But Gervyl simply didn’t have the technique and the strength to pull off something even remotely similar. Where he lacked, he made up with quick thinking. His Amber shone brightly as he converged the air in his landing spot, creating a sort of cushion to break his fall and in the moment just before he touched the roof, he popped the bubble open in an explosive burst of wind to disperse as much force as possible. He succeeded, though barely, gracelessly landing on his feet, and stumbled forwards, almost falling over. His fine manipulation was as bad as ever, but thankfully he somehow managed not to break anything.

Bergamont on the other hand seemed… fine at first, but the devil hiding in the details quickly poked his head out, as the giant raised his hands to set straight one of his dislocated fingers.

“Do you even feel pain?” Gervyl couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Plenty,” he casually shrugged him off, signaling him to follow.

They made their way down one of the gutter pipes straight to one of the numerous side alleys. From there it was barely even a minute’s walk to where they were headed. A tacky old pub on the first floor, accessed through an external stairway surrounded by boarded up husks of similar dens. They climbed the steps, only to be stopped at the very top by a man in leather boots and head covered by an old rag, spinning a revolver with one of his fingers, and groping the handle of some sort of sheathed blade in the other hand in a bored fashion.

“Password,” he gurgled, staring the duo down with his unblinking hazel eyes. His pupils, small like pinheads, drilled holes into Bergamont’s scar-laden scalp specifically.

“We’re here to do business,” Berg ignored the man’s demand.

“No password, no entry.”

“We want to speak with Gaidegen, and I’m sure he’d want to speak with us, too”

The bouncer raised an eyebrow, which quickly disappeared under one of the folds of his towel.

“Don’t know ’im,” he grunted, impatience growing in his voice.

“You don’t have to. We’ve got eyes, we’ll find him ourselves,” Berg was already getting riled up for no reason.

“You’ll either give me the password, or leave, unless you want a taste of my…” he couldn’t finish when a voice came from inside.

“Hervik, let the gentlemen in. Today’s special, after all.”

The towel head stared daggers at the two men for a few seconds, but grudgingly motioned them to go inside with the muzzle of his gun. They got lucky. Who “they” were, was up for debate, however.

The interior was uninspired at best, though Gervyl didn’t know what he was expecting. Aside from the absolutely crucial, wooden bar facilities mostly kept within the confines of neutrality and good test, any additional décor was more on the trashy side. Holo-displays of drawn pictures of women were plastered on the walls, most of humans with some mutants and even blatant tincans stripped of their synthetic skin thrown into the mix. There was a pool and poker table, a crackling jukebox and what Gerv assumed was an animal fighting pit in the room further back. His assumption reinforced by the vague hint of iron in the tobacco-filled air he’d reluctantly grown used to. There were some twenty men in the establishment, drinking, gambling and yelling, all having a good time, at least on the surface. Some of them, however, seemed a little twitchy, one could say, and unnaturally un-interested in the new arrivals. There was something between excitement and nervousness in the movements of their hands and eyes.

“Welcome, welcome!” the familiar voice from before sounded out again, putting an end to Gervyl’s little analysis. “Here to have a drink? Maybe try your luck at a little game? Be warned, though! All the boys here are all exceptional gamblers,” the man by the counter said without turning around with a quiet, but warm laugh.

Berg assessed him briefly and blurted out.

“You Gaidegen?”

“That’s rather sudden. What gave you that impression?”

“It’s usually the boss who gets to order the bouncers around.”

“Hah! Well, you got me.”

“So you are the boss of this place, huh.”

There was this dumbfounded look on the side of his face for a moment, before it cracked into a wide grin.

“Got me twice! Well, well… To whom do I owe this…” he finally turned around, but as he laid his eyes on Bergamont there was a split second flash of realization on his face. “…pleasure?” He finished without a hitch.

“The guy without the password,” he answered dryly, winning himself another hearty laugh contrary to the expectations.

“Isn’t that the truth. Sorry about that, but normally this is a place for a very specific clientele,” he nodded his head at the bartender and then at the guests. “Come, sit and have a drink. Both you and your companion. I heard you have business with me.”

Berg sat down without a second thought, perhaps all too eager to wet his lips.

“Thanks, But I don’t drink,” said Gerv decidedly, taking a seat nonetheless.

“A rare breed, I see! But that won’t do on Porriga, my friend,” the drinks arrived on cue. “Drink up and then we can talk.”

The psyker wanted to sigh, but decided against it. Courtesy was a rarity on this damned island, after all, so he wouldn’t want to squander what little he got. He eyed the golden liquid, which looked better than it smelled and most certainly than it tasted. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his finger against the rim of the glass and drew a circle. Then another, forming a small vortex on the drink’s surface. He then looked to Berg and gave him a little kick, but the giant was too preoccupied with chugging it all down.

“So I have a feeling, but I’ll ask anyways. What business brings you boys here?”

“We’re after Epiteka Laertis.”

“That’s… Not surprising,” his tone got more serious. “Shame that it has come to this, but alas, we could not have left the things as they were,” he paused, gathering his thoughts. “We do have some info on him. We do…” he gave the two men a sidelong glance, but didn’t dare to rise his gaze off the counter. He clapped, having risen, and the bartender collected the three empty glasses. “But this is no place to talk about him. Come with me.”

Gaidegen led them towards the backrooms, past the animal fighting pit and through a door to a bigger, closed off space that, if Gerv’s intuition was correct, was located in one of the neighboring, closed-down locals. There, in a dimly lit room was a big table with a map spread over it like a blanket, covering the whole thing. Pins stuck out from its surface, while red dots and lines marked at least three dozen locations and routes all over the city.

“What is all this?” Gerv blurted out, utterly impressed by the map’s complexity.

“Years of Epiteka’s life condensed onto a paper. Every single safehouse, shortcut, hiding spot and supply crate of his that we’ve found thus far, scattered around the city. It probably isn’t even the bigger half of it all.”

“Damn. Talk about dedication,” Berg gave a small whistle.

“For him it was necessity. This is the life’s work of the best runner the Guild ever fostered. The man who always took on the hardest jobs and the most demanding clients, only to exceed their expectations a hundredfold.”

“You speak some nice words about a man you want dead,” the giant interrupted with some truth

“He’s a legend. An unmatched courier, and nothing will ever change that fact… He’d always made the work harder for the rest of us, barely leaving us anything to barely scrape by… But only recently he’d crossed a line which should never be crossed amongst us couriers.”

“Oh please, there are no ‘lines’ on this shitty island. Only hints.”

“Call it honor among scum if you want, but the moment he started killing us to take our contracts, he signed his own death certificate.”

“How the tables have turned… Guess he got tired of all the bounties you guys put on his head.”

“There’s no proof any of the boys did any such thing!”

Gervyl suddenly perked up. “What did the Guild do about it?”

“Ignored it. Forgave and forgot. After all he still made them profit. Much bigger than what the rest of us could do combined.”

“Gehah! So it’s not all flowers and rainbows for you Guildies after all!”

“Heh… But we are the ones having the last laugh. Playing favorites eventually bit the Guild in the ass real good when Laertis betrayed them too. Now they are struggling to even keep out of the red with nobody willing to bust their asses off for them anymore.” He took a deep breath. “And I say, good! Let the Porrigan branch wither and die. The people of the island will create their own order soon enough without the foreign influences, and we’ll be at the forefront of it all. In a way I must thank Epiteka for being the catalyst of change, but he must go, too.”

“Point us in the right direction then, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“I will… But first, let me ask you this: What are you after in all this?”

“Money,” Gerv responded truthfully, without revealing unnecessary details.

“Right. It’s always about the money, isn’t it?”

“is that a problem?”

“Not at all, gentlemen,” he gave them a sad smile and reached under his jacked. A flash of cold steel blinded Gervyl as it pierced the map. “There, our freshest lead yet. Ninth floor, room 907.”

“You noted that down?” Bergamont gave Gerv a cheeky grin.

“I’ve committed it to memory,” he hissed back with venom.

Other than that not much of import was said, and after Gaidegen offered the two men another round of drinks before they left, which Gervyl promptly refused much to Bergamont’s dismay, they quickly departed, leaving the runners to their own devices.

Hervik watched them walk away, tracing them with his eyes in the crowd for some minutes until they disappeared in the distance completely. It was time. He rose from his post and flipped the sign on the door to “closed,” taking a step inside and moving past all the couriers and into the backroom, where Gaidegen was leaning against the giant table.

“You let them leave, boss?” asked the towelhead, closing the door behind him.

“Why, yes, obviously. Not much I could have done to stop the Immortal. He just shrugged the muscle relaxant off like it was nothing,” he sighed. “We don’t need his bounty, anyways. Our new ‘alliance’ will bring us plenty of profits in due time.”

“And the other one?”

“The Party Crasher, I assume. Caught on to our little folly pretty quickly, though looked like he drank his fill too. Was pretty smart of him not to start anything. He’s more cool-headed than I imagined.”

“Two of them working together?” there was a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“I’m just as surprised, my friend. Then again, this island just keeps attracting trouble. It’s not weird that the tiny specks of filth would eventually coalesce… But soon it will all change.”

“Should we tail them?”

“No. Let our problems clash. Whoever wins, that’s one of them gone, be it them or Laertis” he nodded with satisfaction. “But do send a word to our new Rusty Star friends that two troublemakers are going their way. Both Yadar and Kharboga are bound to take interest. A small introductory gift from the New Runners, let’s call it that”

“On it, boss. Anything else?”

“Remind me tomorrow to drop by the old hub and have a word with that old man. I don’t fancy having my name spread without consent.”

“Will do.”