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A bit of fun I had with a few ideas for an =I=Munda gang, Seth is the first member. Enjoy. Peace. sA

The light bled through the smog, dappling between the rugged overhangs of mesh and steel; travelling intrepid through the superficial layers of the Sevault docks. It was morning, or as close to morning as could be said, the star’s rays breaching the thick clouds of Verdan, and meeting its surface in greeting – for a new day. Three decks down, it met its first living thing. For Seth Oktober, the day was almost over. Skulking in the long dawn shadows behind a grain silo in the third deck of Sevault, he had been up all of the night: another shadow amongst the invisible horde. Easing his tired legs over a rusted pipe, he gripped an overhead rung of a broken metal ladder, hauling his muscled frame into the air, feet leaving the ground. Eyes shaded behind a tinted visor, he pulled himself up and higher up the silo, getting into the light for the first time in 72 hours. From down the great hall, lined by fifty-foot high silos, he heard voices, and the clang of footsteps on old deck plates. Acknowledging his prey with a tired smile, he reached the top of the silo and, with aching arms, withdrew the elongated Las-Rifle.
Cannibalized from what was otherwise a standard and eponymous bit of Imperial Tech, the humble flashlight had been modified to suit a more sinister and specialised purpose. Stolen from a lost crate of munitions, the rifle had been shaved down, the clip fitted for a shortened battery, the barrel removed and replaced with an extended, flash hiding muzzle for a longer range. Finally, the stock was cut, and a shorter folding stock from a black market Auto-Carbine was added. This weapon was lighter, more powerful, and of longer range than those used by the Troopers of the Guard, but was less reliable. Due to the stockier, shorter stub of a battery, the Rifle was prone to overheating if used rapidly, and used up to 35% more energy than a standard Las-bolt. These were Sniper Rifle power cells, good for two shots at a stretch. For these reasons, and because of the Geralite TR scope fitted on top, it was an assassin’s weapon, for use over long range, for one or two shots, and one or two kills. And to what better purpose could Seth Oktober, Underhive Mercenary, put this weapon to now?

Prone now, upon the flat roof of the empty silo, Seth hefted the weapon into his grasp, well worn stock snapping out with a satisfying click. Raising it into his shoulder, he lifted his visor, and put his eye to the long-range scope. Through a sepia glaze, he saw his targets, striding down the decks towards him, still a hundred metres away – closing. He was still invisible, the shadows assured him of that. He had been invisible for three days, stalking these two characters through the wreckage of Deck 4, up to the wasted but not destroyed Deck 3. From the lofty reaches of the decks above, he imagined heard the morning sounds, warehouse doors sliding open, Trade Servitors buzzing and calculating. From a very real perspective, a busted Arvus Lighter flitted over a gap in the decking above, dappling his position once more. Through the scope, however, the light had not changed. As the two people walked steadily on, he caught a better glimpse of their tall, lit figures. The left-most was a familiar sight in the locality – dressed in faded but nonetheless unmistakeably Imperial fatigues. Many Mercenaries, normally ex-Guard, could afford to keep on their uniforms, and so dubbed them for the extra intimidation. What with the training and the prestige that went with the uniform, it was a status symbol, wherever you mixed. The man’s long dark face was shrouded by shadow, but had the air of a surreptitious sneer upon it. He was armed – an unremarkable Auto-rifle was hefted across his back by way of a bandolier that doubled as a sling. He wore no visible body armour, but an unnatural shift in his clothing as he moved suggested some sort of light under-armour, which wasn’t unremarkable.
His partner, who he was engaged in loveless conversation with, was more impressive. With cropped brown curls, and an equally sneering expression, she was shorter, but better built than her counterpart. She moved with an arrogant stride in long Void-leather boots, and she wore a navy blue blazer that came down past her hips, badly concealing the unique form of a las-pistol. She too wore a bandolier, stuffed with pouches of varying sizes. From their mostly elongated appearance, Seth could tell they were not batteries for a Las-weapon. She must have another firearm equipped, somewhere else on her person.

Whatever their aesthetics, he knew that they were his targets, as a Bulldon knows the Six-legged Ermine Roach is his target, and longs for it like a drug. Steadying his crosshairs, he considered his approach to the attack. Man, or woman? He breathed deep through his nose, thinking. If the woman had a longer range weapon concealed, as hinted by the long ammo clips in her pouches, she would have a better chance of getting at him that the larger, slower looking man armed with the inaccurate but popular Auto-rifle. The auto-weapons weren’t famed for their accuracy, but they were reliable, and cheap, and the ammunition was simple and easily modifiable in many, more deadly ways. As the two conversers drew to a hundred and fifty metres, he knew it was time to strike. Winding the power-slide next to the trigger to just below half way, he breathed deeply again, readying himself for the kill. Closing one eye to zero his sight on the female Merc’s jaw, he squeezed his gloved hand on the grip of the rifle, and let out out a long blast on the trigger.

Careful, it gets a bit more adult here. As in grisly, so read at your own discretion. Peace. sA

A sharp crack rent the air like a fork of static lightning, the charge of superheated light zipping through the air, smashing into the female’s exposed jaw and neckline with the force of a tiny explosive charge. A bloody vapour puffed into the air as her exhaling breath met the bloody ejaculate from her rent jugular arteries, and she crumpled like a broken android. He companion registered the disbelief, and then his eyes flicked up to the tell-tale dust streak of blackened air left in the wake of the las-shot. Squinting in distaste, he pulled the auto-rifle around in one solid, fluid motion, which signified a well drilled training. So he was ex-Guard? Seth thought no more of it, letting off a lower, less deliberate shot. He crumpled, auto-rifle clattering to the creaking deckplates, as another blast crashed into his chest, between his lungs. Two fatalities, smiled Seth. He would have to go down there, amongst the twitching, bleeding partners, to claim his trophies. But were they partners? It was hard to tell. From their stride and the way they conducted themselves – even in the arid Deck 3, you could tell a ganger from a simple trader or Dahl Egg runner. It wasn’t always so easy to tell, what with Mercenary Corporations operating with people in every fething hole in Verdan. Long was the time since you could tell a Slav from his armband, or a Kretch from the two vertical scars below his eyes.
Swinging his mind down from the idling motions of his lonely thoughts, he also swung his booted feet down from the highest rung of the silo, gripping with one hand tentatively at first; his rifle held in his other gloved digits. Slipping down gently like a cat upon a Deck 1 Merchant’s ornate rug, he swung his weapon again over his shoulder, and approached the bodies.

They lay crumpled next to each other. The woman was going fast, her eyes staring through the metre thick steel, miles into the infinite space beyond her darkling dreams. Her lower eyelids twitched in some grisly semblance of a blink, and then she laid still, her last exhalation rattling through the blasted and shattered wreckage of her lower jaw. Her tongue lolled, blood staining her virulently green linen shirt, displayed below her blazer. Seth did not enjoy this, but it was his work. It was how he paid his way, how he got by. This was one, out of a thousand more jobs. Reaching down, he pulled apart the staining blazer with ease, gloved hands delving between the soiled and expensive fabrics. Normally, mercenary companies supplied their employees with ID tags – simple, scratch tags showing that they belonged, often with digital signatures, to the corporations running everything from the water supply to terrorist bombing. With eyes averted from the gruesome scene of the woman’s taut face, he found what he was looking for. A square inch of steel, with a tell-tale embossed ring in the middle – a ring chip. Manufactured in the billions for small data storage for the Administratum, the chips were universally used in the underground for transaction of accounts, trade records, bounties, contracts, and in this case, identification. You only needed a tiny, cobbled together magnetic reader and an output screen to do the business: to trade lives or combat enhancing pharmaceuticals.
He pocketed the ring, ripping it off a leather band secured to the inside of the blazer. Rolling the body over with his foot, he pushed it aside, and off his next prey. This one was still alive.

A very good job.