"Sorry to pull you out of manufacturing duty, Ironhide," says Flint - third-in-command of G.I. Joe - "but I figure we need at least one technical expert on this."
"No worries, sir," you reply, "we've almost fully automated the process by now; we'll have enough built by the time the General needs them."
"Glad to hear it. We'll be meeting in room 1017F, I'll be there in a bit."
"Just got there," you say, entering the room and turning on the light-
JESUS BASE-JUMPING CHRIST!
So, this guy was already there. Sitting in one of the chairs.
In the dark. Silently.
You catch your breath, your heart beating faster than strictly necessary.
"Hi, Low-Light," you manage to say.
"Hi," says the world's deadliest sniper, and G.I. Joe's night operation specialist.
"Why were you…" you stare at the switch. "Why do you like the dark so much?"
"I don't," he answers in his usual monotone. "Always hated it. So I decided to become the scariest thing in the dark."
Mission fucking accomplished - from what you've heard, Cobra were more scared of Low-Light than any other Joe.
You don't blame them one bit. Dude, without raising his voice, just
drips menace.
Also he can shoot your head off from miles away.
Also, one time, Doctor Mindbender built some kind of long-range brainwave device that could inflict night-terrors on everyone in a designated area, and tried to use it to remotely inflict sleep deprivation on G.I. Joe (which
sounds like a ridiculous plan… if you don't know anyone who suffers from chronic night terrors and/or sleep deprivation). Low-Light? Low-Light apparently found those artificially-induced nightmares
relaxing compared to what his brain
usually hit him with.
Snake-Eyes. Commando. Ninja. One of the deadliest men in the world. You've never seen his face, but rumors has it he was horribly disfigured in the same incident that took away his voice.
Also he has a pet wolf called Timber. Aw, look at the not-so-wittle pupper!
Lifeline. Dyed-in-the-wool pacifist (you're not sure if for religious reasons or not) who refuses to carry a weapon. You doubt he's thrown a punch in his life.
Being unarmed doesn't stop him from running headlong into danger in his role as field medic.
Lady Jaye
and Flint are both on this mission? Well, guess there'll be some flirting on the comm channel. Marriage doesn't seem to have doused the flames between those two.
But hey, considering where you're going, she's definitely someone you're glad to have on the team.
And, among
newer faces… Well, yourself. But also Brimstone, who is officially the regimental priest, and Striker, the cocky kid with the parkour moves and martial arts.
"Everyone," Flint says, "we have more intel on where Bishop-Praetor Cortez is planning to launch his pogrom. Our mission is to do reconnaissance ahead of time - get a clearer view of the underhive so that, when the actual assault is launched, we can execute General Hawk's plan as intended.
"Any questions?"
"Have we been looking into Cortez's finances?" you ask. "I mean, I assumed he must have moved around significant funds to get this pogrom started."
"Unfortunately," Lady Jaye replies, "Cortez can get a lot of doors to open just by dint of his position - the Imperium's not very keen on separation of Church and State, and there are people taking their marching orders
from the people taking their marching orders from Cortez who have enough authority to burn people at the stake - an authority they are quite eager to use. Besides, between both voluntary donations and the actual legal taxes the Ecclesiarchy gets to levy, the good Bishop is obscenely wealthy. Our financial analysts estimate that in terms of the American economy, he's effectively a multi-trillionaire."
"Trillio-" you begin shouting, then remind yourself that this planet has close to two hundred billion people in it. Even if the GDP
per capita is closer to Bangladesh than the USA, anyone who gets a significant share is gonna be richer than Croesus. "OK, different question then. Should we be expecting hostile? What happens if we
do run into cultists of the Ruinous Powers, and it's not just the Bishop's hot air?"
"Hope for the best and prepare for the worst," says Flint. "We're not gonna assume we're safe at any point down there - all intelligence suggests that life in the underhive is brutal, short, and cheap. The team's authorized to do whatever is necessary in self-defense."
Striker cocks an eyebrow in the direction of Lifeline, avowed pacifist, but keeps his thoughts to himself.
"Besides," Lady Jaye says, "let's not forget that all regimes tend to overestimate, or vastly exaggerate, the threat of internal traitors. America was seeing communist spies everywhere in the 50s, and California rounded up thousands of Japanese-American farmers in concentration camps while giving protection to the Cosa Nostra in exchange for its help hunting down imagined saboteurs back in World War Two."
"Well, the Japanese thing was mostly so their farms could be confiscated and sold for a penny on the dollar to the white farmers they were outcompeting," you point out, "which in turn led to the food shortages during the w-"
"My point is," Lady Jaye cuts in before you get too lost in your factoid ramble, "governments tend to view saboteurs everywhere, and it gets even worse in authoritarian societies, where the people in charge are always paranoid about the ones below them. No matter how bad the threat of cultists faced by the Imperium
ever gets… the image the Imperium will paint of it
will be worse."
"…Fair point. So you don't think there'll be cultists down there?"
"Who knows?" she shrugs. "It's tens of millions of people who have been effectively abandoned by society. We could find anything. But the organized, underhive-controlling, demon-worshiping cults the Bishop talks about have all the hallmarks of him trying to make a mountain out of a molehill for political gain."
"Frankly, I'm less concerned about the threat from the
people in the underhive, than the underhive
itself," says a new voice entering the room.
"Hello, Airtight."
Airtight is… curt. Terse. Doesn't bother with niceties, and as far as you can tell, couldn't possibly care less if either what he says or the way he says it rubs someone the wrong way.
He's also G.I. Joe's primary expert in Chemical-Bacteriological-Radiological-Nuclear warfare. The reason dozens of Joes and millions of civilians aren't dead or wishing they were.
Respect the CBRN specialist who was able to keep up with the worst that Cobra's research division could unleash on the world.
…Which is why you're not giving him flak for showing up after the meeting started. You assume he was doing important work and leave it at that.
"Below the spire itself," Airtight begins explaining, "every level of the hive uses recycled air from the levels above it. It shouldn't surprise you that this recycling process is imperfect; various forms of pollution filter down, including carbon dioxyde. Every report we've gathered from anyone who's ever descended into an underhive matches the symptoms of unhealthy amounts of atmospheric CO2.
"Throw in the industrial waste, lack of natural light, polluted water, malnutrition, and countless other factors, and we can expect the underhive itself to be a biohazard. Which is why everyone will be issued a special breather,
and a spare, with a few hours of autonomy."
"Also why everyone will be given a shot of immuno-boosters," says Lifeline, "and even then, if you're feeling any symptoms - itchiness, nausea, headaches - report them
immediately."
Ah, needles. How lovely.
Well, you've got your mission - underhive reconnaissance, get to know the area the Bishop is planning to unleash his pogrom upon.
Which leaves the question of what equipment you'll be taking with you, besides the CBRD kit…
Of all the rotten timing… You've been so busy with Hawk's project, you haven't had the time to handle weapon maintenance. The Hellgun you were hoping to take needs repairs… and so you stick to the regular Lasgun integrated into your armor.
Well, that and a nice, big toolbox. Because who the hell knows what you'll run into in need of repairs down there?
Because this is the upperhive, the PDF guards stationed around the elevator (more like a subway train that travels in three dimensions) are dressed in impeccable uniforms and are polite when your squad arrives.
Then they learn you're going to the underhive, and their eyes bulge. Several make the sign of the aquila.
Well, you're gonna see how this place actually is soon enough.
You were expecting to see more.
Joke's on you. With how little power this place gets, light is a
luxury.
The immediate area surrounding the elevator is fine-ish - it's basically a fortified PDF garrison guarding the access point, and they bring fuel cells and stuff with them. But everywhere else… at best, it's "a city at night", with dim electric lights. At worst, it's "a dense forest at night".
You're thankful Flint got you
all night-vision goggles.
You're even
more thankful for Airtight's breathers - you tried breathing without one, and that single breath gave you a coughing fit. The smell was worse than the worst public restroom you've ever been in. And even
with the breather, the air pollution is so bad your eyes are always on the verge of watering.
You
get why Snake-Eyes decided to leave Timber at the upperhive. No creature with such a strong sense of smell should
ever be subjected to this.
"You take me to the nicest places, Flint," Lady Jaye comments.
"They're the nicest by definition. Given your presence."
Striker mumbles something that kind of sounds like "get a room", but he's closer to you than to them and you doubt they heard him.
"Ambient pollution level could easily knock fifteen years from average life expectancy," Airtight says, eyes on his gear.
"I believe you," you say, looking around as your squad moves through the streets.
As bad as it is… people
live here.
There's people working.
There's people wallowing in despair (and possibly unemployment).
At least one child gets pulled out of the street by what you guess is a concerned parent as you move by.
"Most people seem to be carrying some kind of shiv, or in some cases actual knives," Lady Jaye notes. "A rare few have guns. As in, bullet-based ones."
You've seen some "classic" guns in the Imperial Guard and PDF. They understandably
prefer laser weapons - on Cavitus, bullets are what you shoot when you can't get anything better. (Or are an Ork.)
"I'd imagine bullets themselves are rare commodities around here," you say.
"Under different circumstances, I'd be very happy to hear that," Lifeline mutters.
Snake-Eyes and Low-Light are both very, very good at their job.
Good enough it takes you a while to even
notice they're not with your group.
Meaning, they're following
stealthily.
With that said… the occasional blood splotches aside… it doesn't take very long until you first encounter underhive violence. You encounter it in the form of two individuals - a man and a woman - holding their knives to some hapless guy (who, as far as you can tell, is trying to sell assorted junk in the street).
"It's not every three weeks, it's not every two weeks, it's
every week, shitbrain," says the girl mugger.
"Fuckin' straight," says her partner. "You pay, one way or the other. If you got nothing else, we take your hand as payment." He grins. "Please tell me you got nothing else!"
Their victim whimpers.
And then Flint and Lady Jaye are right behind them.
"Lady. Gentleman," Flint begins, "So very sorry to interrupt."
The two turn around and stare at your…
eclectic group. "…The fuck you upperpissers want?"
"For starters, for you to put these knives down."
"Fuck you-"
A few seconds and a little bit of escalation later, Lifeline is checking up on the two unconscious gangsters.
"You shouldn't have done that," the near-victim stares fearfully at the downed gangsters. "When Wreck hears they died, he'll get mad."
"They're not exactly dead," Flint counters. "So, who's this Wreck? Their boss?"
The man nods. "He and the Skullbreakers run this town. If they say jump, you say how high. Upperfolk soldiers avoid them and they avoid upperfolk soldiers, but everyone else…"
"Everyone else pays up and obeys?" you say.
"Exactly."
"So, these Skullbreakers. How many of them are there?"
He pauses. "Uh. Lots."
"Hundred? Thousand?"
"I don't know how much that is."
…OK, no formal schooling at the underhive. To be expected.
Come to think of it… you can't help but notice the way this man is nervously adjusting his hair. From the nervous glances… You think he really, really doesn't want you to see what's under that hair.
So you discreetly signal to the others.
Lady Jaye sits up on the counter, right next to the nervous merchant. "Do they treat mutants differently?"
He goes pale. "…They charge mutants extra to stay in town," he admits.
"Then why stay here?"
He sighs, parting his hair enough to show the extra pair of ears. "It's worse elsewhere. You go into Raw Rats territory, they enslave mutants. You go into Emperor's Guard territory, they
kill mutants. It's better
here - they even let mutants attend church."
"Church, you say," Brimstone raises an eyebrow.
The Imperium seems fond of its gothic churches and cathedrals.
The Church of the Master and Savior of Mankind is… well, it's more like a warehouse with pews and some religious art carved in whatever material people here could get.
Several hundreds of families currently attending a sermon. Looking around, you're seeing albinos, six-fingered people, and other such deformities among about one in eight, one in seven people.
…Wait, is that a family of
cat people? No, false alarm. It's
two families of cat people. How is that even a thing?
Most people are focused on the preacher's sermon, but the ones who notice your group entering are soon whispering to each other.
The preacher notices, and seems
concerned, but keeps his sermon going.
"…for greater than duty and greater than faith and greater than power is the love of the Emperor for humanity. His love for
all humanity. Say not that any is damned beyond redemption, for the Emperor loves all. He love the upperhiver and the underhiver alike. He loves the sinner, even as he breaks his commandments. He loves the mutant, deformed in body yet human in soul. He loves the heretic, fooled by false promises of those who love humanity not.
"The Emperor loves his children, with no exception. It is thus the duty of his children to love each other as well…"
Hm. "Doesn't sound like standard Ecclesiarchy doctrine to me," you whisper to Brimstone.
"The Ecclesiarchy tolerates some variations from world to world," Brimstone whispers back, "but this is probably
too far from the norm for them to tolerate. They're not exactly big on tolerance or brotherly love - it's more about everybody's duty to die for the Emperor."
"I've noticed," you say, looking around. Makes sense, in a way - the underhive has been more-or-less
abandoned by the rest of the world, so of course the powers that be pay less attention when it culturally deviates. Different areas of the underhive can develop vastly different cultures from each other.
If you're honest, the whole religious angle isn't where you're most comfortable. You'd rather not just sit in place for the entire sermon.
But, hey, why not make yourself useful? You're
supposed to play the part of a Tech-Priest. And from your understanding, Ad Mech visits to the underhive are few and far between.
So, mumbling a few "excuse me"s as you inconvenience as few people as possible, you head to the side, and the back, and go over what dilapidated pieces of technology this building has.
Hm. The lights mostly seem to come from candles, and you think the "wax" is recycled from chemical wastes. You don't know how hazardous to human health it is (though you could always ask Airtight), but it's certainly not great for the
eyes.
There are actual electric lights. They only require minimal repair - the problem is the lack of
power, since the hive's generators send none down here-
Oooooh. You're in luck. This building has a backup generator. It probably hasn't been used in a two-digit number of centuries, but you have brought with you all the right tools.
Some TLC and water-derived hydrogen later, the miniature fusion device begins chugging. Its output is measured in megawatts rather than gigawatts… but, you know, that's still damn impressive for something that could fit in a typical garage.
Well then, let there be light! …But not all at once. You don't want to interrupt the preacher's sermon, so you program the lights to gradually activate over the course of twenty minutes.
Next! Water. You've been seeing artisanal moisture reclamation devices all over the underhive, but you've also seen taps. Heck, this "church" (which you still think was originally a warehouse) has taps. Problem is, no water comes out of them.
When you repair them a bit and connect to the water grid, something
does come out. And it's slimy.
So you spend the next half-hour MacGyvering a system that microwaves the slime and passes the resulting steam through a filter until the end result is water that's
almost clean.
Then it occurs to you that you basically just created the equivalent of an oasis in the desert, so you spend the next half-hour MacGyvering a system to keep the tap always open and direct the recovered water into barrels while disposing of the slimy remains.
The sermon's still going, but people are
definitely aware of you. And how well-lit the church is. Well, you are not quite
done dispending miracles of science. There's another machine here that requires your attention.
To the untrained eye, it looks like an odd, rectangular thing attached to a wall.
To the late 20th century eye, it looks a lot like a vending machine.
To an engineer's eye, it looking a lot like a vending machine is a
problem, because there's no way to open it up and refill it with snacks. You have a
conjecture.
A few minutes of investigation later, your conjecture has been promoted to a hypothesis, then a proven theory: This ancient vending machine used to take in raw matter (carbon, oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen, mostly) and convert it into snacks.
The slime you get from the tap only contains limited amounts of the required elements, but the vending machine is good at filtering away junk. So it takes less than an hour before you get it working with a connection to the water and power systems.
Just in time, too - the priest appears to be done with what he was doing as he approaches you.
"Forgive me, brother, but… are you one of the fabled Tech-Priests of Mars?"
"I mean, I'm not from
Mars itself, but I'm a Tech-Priest," you say.
"And you have returned light to us?"
"All who have eyes deserve light." Ooh, good one. Pat yourself on the back later.
"And water?"
"Without water, there can be no life, and what right is more fundamental than life itself?"
"And…" he gestures at the vending machine, unsure of what it is.
"Oh, this? You just need to press here," you point at the button.
Because you've already hacked the on-board computer to always think enough currency has been inserted.
Wary, the preacher presses the button.
Something round and colorful falls through.
With a big smile, you gesture for him to pick it. Still hesitating, he does.
"What… is this thing?"
"Open it."
He struggles for a few seconds with the not-exactly-plastic wrapper, but manages to tear it open.
He stares at the colorful bar inside. "This is…"
"For all who hunger," you reply.
He takes a bite.
Shouting ensues. The other locals who try it
agree with the shouting.
You try it yourself. Honestly, you think it's kind of bland. But compared to the protein starch anyone below the upperhive eats, much less what passes for food in the underhive, this is probably a taste of heaven.
"Praise the Emperor!
Praise the Emperor!"
"Emperor bless you! Emperor
bless you!"
…There's something a little depressing about seeing people cry tears of joy over the vending machine being fixed. Really drives home what a post-apocalyptic hellhole the underhive is.
"Words cannot express my gratitude, brother," the preacher says. "I have heard
tales of the red-robed machine-priests, but you are the first I ever see. Are you from above?"
"It's… complicated," you say. "But I do come from outside the underhive. So do my friends - we are all part of G.I. Joe, a regiment of the Imperial Guard."
"The Emperor's warriors," someone whispers.
The preacher nods. "Sometimes, soldiers leave the fortress and capture men and women to serve in the armed forces. Though some deliberately join them, in the hope of a life outside the underhive." His expression darkens. "I have only ever known a single man who came
back. He had served for decades in what he called the 'PDF' before being allowed to retire, and he came back in the hope of finding his family. He searched the underhive for them for the rest of his years."
You wince. Even if they
survived… the underhive is probably larger than Tokyo, Delhi and Shangai
combined.
Flint steps forward. "Pleased to meet you, father. G.I. Joe has sent us on a reconnaissance mission - we're here to get a lay of the land."
"Then I welcome you to this house of the Emperor," he gives a small bow. "His blessing upon you."
"Are you people going to protect this church? This town?" says an elderly-looking woman (though, given life conditions here, she might be in her twenties). "Once news spread of the miracles this church now houses, all the gang lords will seek to take it over!"
That… is a concern.
"The Emperor will not allow them!" a younger-looking man counters.
That… is not reliable.
The next couple hours prove busy.
You go around the neighborhood, escorted by Striker, fixing more utilities - best spread the light, after all, and there's more devices to fix.
Lifeline's setting up an impromptu clinic at the church, providing ad hoc medical treatment to a couple dozen people. (That's not a lot of time he can dedicate per person, but, well, it's
Lifeline.)
Flint, Lady Jaye and Brimstone are socializing at the church. By which you mean, gathering actionable intelligence.
Airtight is out and about, investigating the local biohazards.
Meanwhile, Snake Eyes and Low-Light are… doing their thing.
"I think that resistor is burned out," Striker says as you fiddle with a street-facing device.
"Good catch." He's been helpful with the tech stuff. "You're in engineering?"
"Nah, but I did great in shop class and my parents taught me how to fix electronics around the house," he grins. "I'm not a tech genius like you or Mainframe, but I got the basics."
You nod. "Well, I appreciate the help."
"Fair warning though, I think we've got company…"
And the company is taking the shape of seven individuals who look like they'd shiv you for a ration bar.
Three of them are carrying guns.
"Well, well. Look what we'z got here."
"Two upperfolk! Betcha they got nice, healthy organs!"
"Forget the organs - that's a laspistol on this one," one of the gangsters points at Striker. "That thing's worth a fortune. But the most valuable thing here is…" he points at you, "…the wizard who can bring machine magic. We bring Wreck thiz guy, the Skullbreakers gonna rule the goddamn world."
You assume he means the underhive, not Cavitus. But then, the underhive is probably their whole world.
Civilians are retreating… mostly. Except for a couple who are looking angry and trying to intervene. "This man is a holy servant of the Emperor! You scum will not touch him!"
Oh dear. You raise your palms. "My friends, I appreciate the support, but there is no need. My friend and I are not in danger."
"…You aren't?" says the civilian.
"…You aren't?" says one of the gangers.
You give the seven gangers a long, hard look.
Then you chuckle. "None
whatsoever."
"I dunno," says Striker, "if we're not careful, they might
bleed on us a little."
"Then by the grace of the God-Emperor, we shall
clean those stains!"
Well, that was enough to reassure the civilians, who hang back and let you handle this. Good.
It also seems to have actually intimidated a couple of the gangers, who take a step back.
"You think you're
tough, upperfolk?" one of the gun-wielders says. "Think you'll be tough when you're full of holes?"
"I've been shot at with a lot of guns," you reply. "And I'm still in one piece. With that said, there's no need for you to start a fight. We have water, we have food, and we're happy to share."
Some of the gangers cast a hopeful look at the one you guess is the leader. Their hopes are soon dashed.
"Wreck isn't big on sharing, metal face. Come along, or come get some."
Well, you tried.
With that said… you don't really know who among these guys are genuine scumbags, and who are just desperate folks trying to survive. Hm…
The three gangers with guns begin firing.
Well, two of them do. The third has his gun jam.
One aims at you, and…according to your evasive algorithm, you don't even need to dodge, which on one hand is kinda pathetic at this range… but on the other hand, when would these guys have been able to
practice their aim? Bullets must be pretty hard to come by in the underhive!
The other one, though… the other one, you get out of the way of.
A fourth and fifth ganger rush Striker with a knife and crowbar.
The sixth and seventh ganger hang back, not getting involved.
Your turn.
Striker turns his back to the two gangers charging him, and places his foot on the wall.
He then
launches himself in the air, backflipping above the two gangers.
Then, still in the air, he launches his feet at their heads, slamming them face-first into the wall while sending him several feet further up and back. Performing half a flip in the air, he arrives at the guy whose gun jammed; currently upside-down and still on a downward trajectory, he grabs the guy's shoulders and slam him with his inertia against the ground.
Showoff.
You, meanwhile, grab one of the exposed wires from the machine you were working on, pull it out, and throw it so its end is on the ground between the last two gunmen.
Then you throw your open water bottle.
Both of them get shocked and, after you cut the juice, are twitching on the ground.
You smile at the two gangers who hung back. "As I said, my friend and I are not in any danger. So how about you stay where you are while I go about my duty?"
"Yessir."
"Sure thing."
As the remaining conscious gangers fearfully observe (among with a number of civilians who come out now that the violence is over, and whisper about the very, very short fight), you complete your work here.
"It's a secondary air cleanser," you say as the machine begins humming. "It should be able to remove the excess CO2 in the area," (an area comparable to a couple dozen city blocks; in a range twice that great, CO2 levels will be at least
somewhat lower), "and reduce the presence of other pollutants in the air by about 30%, maybe 40," (in about a dozen city blocks, maybe a little less).
"Nice," says Striker. "So, place still sucks, but it's not actively trying to kill you."
You make a "so-so" gesture.
"…Fair," Striker concedes. "I mean, it's still basically New York City as in TMNT."
"TMNT?"
"I was referring to the videogame."
You pause and try to think. What videogame has those initials? "…Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?"
"Yeah, I used to play it a lot with my parents."
You pause. "…Isn't that game infamously hard?"
"Which is why I love speedrunning the whole thing!"
You give him a
look.
"Hey, man, if I wasn't into
challenges, I doubt I'd have ended up at G.I. Joe. Good reflexes and precise movements are where I shine."
"Fair, but I don't think precise movements in videogames usually translate into parkour moves and kung-fu."
"Savate, actually, but you're right. Luckily for me, I'm gifted in all of those-"
And then you hear the screams.
Followed by the roars.
"Oh shit," one of the gangers says.
"That sounds like a goblin," the other one adds.
"What's a goblin?" you ask, suspecting that it's not the ones from Tolkien's Legandarium.
"Big monster with way too many teeth. We gotta get out of here!"
"What, and abandon the locals to the creature's tender mercies? Perish the though-"
The roars are getting closer surprisingly
fast. This creature, about ten feet tall, with dark blue skin, vestigial arms, and a massive mouth with teeth like daggers, is surprisingly nimble for its size.
And then a shot of plasma goes through its head.
"Thanks, Low-Light," you mention off-handedly into your comm.
"Lots of pests in this town," you hear his monotone in reply.
You make sure to take pictures and organic samples of the creature.
"So these things are common around here?" Striker casually asks the two upright gangsters.
"Yeah. Goblins. And shadowcats. And venomscales. Lots of things in the underhive will eat you if you're not well-armed. Is it…
different, in the upper world?"
"I mean, I've never seen a goblin," Striker shrugs, "but there
is a war going on with the Orks right now." He pauses. "Still,
up definitely has cleaner air, cleaner water, more light, more food."
************************************
"I understand that you had to defend yourself from these Skullbreakers," the preacher stares uneasily at the gangsters - the two you
didn't knock out helped carry the five you did - "but what are we to
do with them?"
"Right. No prisons, no police, no justice system in the underhive, are there?" says Flint.
"There are…
tales," the preacher says, "of times that one underhive kingdom or another established its own justice, but those never last. A particularly bad month can lead to everyone turning on each other for food and water, a pack of beasts wanders in and is too deadly for people to stick around, a toxic cloud emerges… not to mention that at the end of the day, too much power lies in the hands of whoever possesses the most powerful weapons."
He looks glum, and stares at you. "And you, Tech-Priest… in less than a day, you have given us light, water, mana, and the most vital-full air we have ever breathed -
before considering the dead monsters whose flesh will feed thousands this week. Seeing the miracles you have brought to this town, I must question whether I have ever done anything worthwhile in my time."
"Don't say that." You're not religious - not even a little - but fuck, you like this guy's credo waaay more than anything you've heard from any Ecclesiarchy-approved priest. "I can make machines work. That's where
I shine. But it wasn't me telling these people for years to treat each other with brotherly love. It wasn't me telling them that the Emperor loves everyone - not everyone except the downtrodden, not everyone except the sinners, not everyone except the mutants,
everyone." You point at him. "
You shouldered that burden. Without love and without hope, no machine can save mankind - power without righteous intent is no savior, it's just power."
"Our Mechanicus colleague speaks truth, my brother," says Brimstone. "The brotherhood you've created there could put many upperhive churches to shame. Take pride in having done right by your brothers and sisters."
"I… you're right. I apologize for this moment of self-pity," the priest stands back up. "But, to get back to my question…" he glances at the gangers.
"Historically, a huge driver of conflict and instability has been scarcity," says Flint. "The underhive, where resources are the scarcest, inevitably maintaining any sort of order is challenging at best.
"If any order is to be established, the first step is to take down the gangs that rule though unaccountable violence," he goes on, which doesn't make the gangers any less scared.
"My good man," the priest says, concerned, "I do not know if you have the power to take on the Skullbreakers, but even if you do, please understand that many young men and women only join them out of desperation. I do not seek to excuse their deeds, but the Emperor commands mercy, does he not?"
"We'll try to avoid lethal violence," Flint says, "but you misunderstand me. The goal isn't to defeat the Skullbreakers and confiscate every weapon better than a knife they have.
"It's to defeat and disarm the Skullbreakers, the Survivors,
and the Throatslicers. Not much point in taking out one gang only for its rivals to immediately move in, after all."
The priest's eyes bulge. You, meanwhile, mostly wonder what Flint's goal is - after all, you're setting up the terrain for General Hawk's plan.
Flint, Lady Jaye and Brimstone have penciled a tentative map of the area based on what people at the church have told them.
"…and that's the gist of it," Flint concludes. "To pull off Hawk's plan, we'll need to control the territory held by each gang - some of it to evacuate the people out of the pogrom's path, some of it to hold the actual fighting in when the pogrom starts."
"Clever," Striker nods. "So now we just need to take out several groups of hundreds of violent thugs each."
"We'll be splitting into three teams for this," Flint resumes. "Lady Jaye, Brimstone and I will handle the Skullbreakers. Snake Eyes, Low-Light and Airtight will deal with the Survivors. Lifeline, Ironhide and Striker will take care of the Throatslicers. Lethal force is permitted, but not encouraged. Airtight, Ironhide, you will lead your respective groups."
"Consider it done," says Airtight.
Flint looks at you. "Ironhide?"
"Hm?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Oh, sorry," you say. "I apologize, I've just been… thinking." You pause. "In just a couple hours, I was able to vastly improve the standards of living of thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people. If I had a
year in the underhive…"
"Then you'd be helping millions," Flint says, "which would still only be a small part of the underive, which is still only one of over two hundred underhives on this planet, Ironhide. Believe me," he says with sympathy, "I
understand the desire to help these people. But if we don't focus right now on derailing Cortez's plans, they will all be burned to death by an army of fanatics. If we don't win the war for Cavitus, they will be massacred by Orks. And if we don't keep scoring victories for the Imperial Guard, the Earth will be scoured by the Imperium.
"We do what good we can on the way, Ironhide, but the mission must come first."
"I know," you sigh. "So… take out the gang living out of an ancient, no-longer-functional factory, huh." Yeah, definitely the job for you.
Gotta take down a violent gang that has hundreds, perhaps over a thousand members. No biggie.
Being in
charge of a mission for the first time in your life?
Terrifying. The only thing helping you calm down is that the only people you're in charge of are Striker (who's even younger than you) and Lifeline (who is… well, seven different kinds of amazing, but also one of the least
intimidating members of G.I. Joe).
"So… pacifist, right?" Striker makes conversation while the three of you head toward the Thoatslicers' territory.
"I am, yes," Lifeline says.
"So, no guns, no swords, not even
punching even though that's not lethal as long as you know what you're doing…"
"Concussions are not a joke," Lifeline counters, "no matter how harmless Hollywood makes blows to the head look. And no, I will not engage in violence, no matter what."
"Cool, cool, but… I mean, this means you're not going to be helping in this fight?"
"Of course I'll help!" Lifeline counters. "I'll be the one providing those people with medical care to ensure they don't die!"
"Ah, silly me," Striker chuckles. "So, in essence, you're the boxing gloves we'll be wearing." He pauses. "But seriously, Ironhide, we need a plan. I can kick people in the head for a while, but even I'll get
tired before I get even close to knocking them all out. I'm
guessing if we want to take these fuckers out, we need to use the environment?"
"My thoughts exactly," you nod.
"Or maybe win
without fighting," Lifeline suggests. "Diplomacy is worth trying, no?"
"Dude," Striker counters, "lots of these guys are murderers and rapists. The ones in charge
definitely are. I don't think they'll just accept a polite request to evacuate their territory."
"A lot of them joined the gang out of desperation," Lifeline points out. "If you get half of them, or even a
quarter of them, to not fight you, isn't that a big step in the right direction?"
Well. No superior to defer to this time. The decision of how to handle these guys is up to you.
Oh, zero chance this doesn't involve
some fighting - gotta be realistic - but, could diplomacy play a role in this…?
"We'll try to talk as many of them out of this as possible," you concede, "but I don't believe for a moment this won't involve a lot of fighting. Up to us to ensure we
win."
"Si vis pacem, para bellum," Striker quips.
"Didn't think you were a Latin buff."
"I'm not, but c'mon, everyone knows
some quotes."
"Ubi solitudinem faciunt pacem appellant," Lifeline quips.
"…Dude, you're a bit of a downer," Striker says.
"People live or die based on our actions. It's a serious matter," Lifeline says unapologetically.
*********************************
This place was clearly a massive industrial complex in its heyday. No wonder - the lower hive is filled with such complexes, and the underhive is just the part of the lower hive that official authorities have abandoned to fend on their own. What did it manufacture back in the day? Who knows. Possibly many other things. But right now, it doesn't even have enough power to keep the lights on. The only sources of light are a handful of electric torches carried by some of the gangers (and such devices are luxury items in the underhives) and a number of lamps that burn the same probably-very-unhealthy "wax" as in the church.
Of course, the three of you have night-vision goggles. That's both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing, because you can see far, far better than the gangers.
A curse, because you can see a number of human remains, and the various slaves they keep running around camp. Most of said slaves are female, malnourished, and terrified. And naked - from the intel you've gathered, people the Throatslicers take as prisoners are not allowed any sort of property.
"…Well on the plus side," Striker mutters, "their slaves are too thin for cannibalism."
Lifeline observes via binoculars. "Looking at the human remains… I'm guessing they died fighting."
"Ganger-on-ganger violence?" Striker suggests.
"Might be," you sigh.
"I'm gonna need time inside the factory complex to actually rig everything. A few hours," you admit. "Problem if we run into people and start a fight before I have everything ready."
"There's way too many of these guys for anyone to know everyone," Striker points out. "We ambush three of them, quietly knock them out, steal their clothes, and infiltrate the compound looking like Throatslicers!"
"Another possibility:" Lifeline speaks up, "Striker and I approach the Throatslicers openly, under the white flag of truce. We talk to them, and while we do that, distracting them, you go in and handle the technical work."
"You
heard me say this would take hours, yes?"
"I did."
Striker chuckles. "I can keep Lifeline safe for a few hours, if he can keep them talking for a few hours. I still vote for my plan as the simpler one."
"Infiltration is never simple," Lifeline argues.
Striker and Lifeline are confident. You should trust in the self-confidence of your fellow Joes.
"All right. You two approach them under… what counts as a white flag in the underhive?"
"Both hands raised, palms facing forward, is pretty universal," says Lifeline. "…At least, among humans and Cybertronians. Probably not among species that don't have a humanoid shape."
"Well, I'm seeing some mutants, but I think we're good," Striker chuckles.
And so, the two of them step forward.
While you take off the red cowl (even in the dark, it's not the stealthiest color), Lifeline begins talking.
"Hello ladies and gentlemen. Nice day we're having."
"The fuck?"
"Who's the upperfolkster?!"
"Get him!"
You put the cowl in a bag while Striker jumps down from a roof, kicking one assailant in the head, springing from a handspring to kick a second one in the head, and then, grabbing a third by the chin, sweeping his legs to slam his head against the ground.
"Well, it
was a nice day," says Lifeline. "Then you chose violence. It still
can be a nice day! How about we talk a little? As soon as I check these three."
"Hey! Don't loot their corpses!"
"Don't call them corpses, they are still breathing. A few broken noses, though. Easy enough to fix - oh, dear. That's a lot of lice he has - that they all have. Is that common?"
"Well, yeah-"
"Well, luckily I have something for that."
"The hell's that thing?"
"It's a simple antiparasitical tool. The electric vibrations are set to kill off the lice without hurting the person they're cleansing. Do you want me to get rid of yours after I help these three?"
"Er…"
"If you'd rather get knocked out first, you can fight my friend, but I prefer if people stay conscious. I did come to
talk, and people who got knocked in the head make for poor conversation."
Looks like he's got thing well in hand. Soon enough, gangers are leaving the complex by the hundreds and assembling around Lifeline and Striker, leaving you ample berth to enter the factory.
OK. Looking at the backup generator this factory complex has… it's not
quite as salvageable as the one in the church/warehouse. You suspect people kept it working for much longer before it finally gave up the ghost. Your improvised repairs will only be good for a short duration.
Now you just need to repair bits and pieces of factory you can
weaponize.
And there's a lot of factory.
Control over the lights seems like a no-brainer. You make sure to send Striker and Lifeline text messages informing them to set their night-vision to not
blind them when the lights go on.
"…and that should do it for the lice, but don't think I didn't notice those bleeding gums! Several of you are displaying symptoms of scurvy. Ideally you can solve that with very minor adjustments to your diet - iron rat flesh alone would do wonders - but for now, take these vitamin C pills…"
While Lifeline is doing his thing, you discover a massive supply of ball bearings… and better yet, machinery to move them around.
"…You're in luck, this infection is bacterial in nature. A simple antibiotic shot-"
You're not sure what this room was meant for, but you suspect some kind of chemicals that could only exist at very low temperatures. Like, not "liquid nitrogen" low, but fairly close to "dry ice" low. And with some tweaks…
"…not actually broken, just dislocated. Striker, hold his arm for a bit…"
Huh. The PA system isn't just audio, it actually generates holograms. You're not sure if you can get it to work, though…
OK, looks like the hologram projector is irrecoverable. Dang shame, you had
ideas.
On the other hand, the audio part of the PA system is still working.
Could you…?
….
OK, you definitely
could.
Should you?
G.I. Joe rules say nothing against doing things with
pizazz. So what if it's a bit silly?
Dare you?
Screw it - you'll hate yourself forever if you don't take this opportunity.
Let's see… what's the best choice… Oooh. Metal Man. Definitely Metal Man.
Striker will appreciate it. You think. And you already have lyrics handy.
************************************
"…and that's the long and short of it," Lifeline explains. "Madmen from above will burn everything and everyone here soon. G.I. Joe wants to save the people of this underhive region, and to accomplish that, we need this complex."
"Feh! You fancy upperfolk think we're gonna fall for
that?!"
"Ah dunnoz, Blackteeth… This red dude's done right by us."
"And he can
keep doing that… in the slave pen!"
"You can't throw Lifeline in the slave pen! He done so much for us!"
"Sorry, didja just say I
couldn't?"
"Whoa, whoa, put that fancy stubber away, Blackteeth, buddy, best pal," comes Striker's voice. "Truth is, it doesn't really
matter if you go along with it or not. See, Lifeline here, he wants everyone spared, even gangers. That's why we're here, talking to you, trying to get you to cooperate willingly. He'll be happier the more of you survive! But if you or any of your buddies want to make it a fight, well, we already have a buddy inside the complex taking it over."
"WHAT?!"
"Also, smoke bomb. Bye!"
There's some coughing. Striker and Lifeline get to you long before the screaming horde of gangers (which you do note leaves out several hundreds of them who are electing to stay outside) reaches the complex.
"The floor is yours, Ironhide," Striker grins.
You put on the red cowl. "
Showtime."
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UABgDcJRooc
Blackteeth noted, with growing rage, that less than half his gang had actually followed him. He'd kill a few to make examples later - for now, the priority was to take back their fort from those uppity upperfolk. Bastards thought they could show up in the underhive and dazzle his men with fancy moves and medicine? They were nothing. Blackteeth, commander of a gang that owned dozens of stubbers, was the real power in this world.
But as they rushed through their fortress, their first sign of something being horribly wrong was the strange music in the air, coming from no visible instrument.
And then their enemy started singing.
"You step onto the scene
Disrupting the routine
Only to find that in the grind you're a cog in the machine!
And now before you stands
The future in his hands
Paragon of Organitron I am the metal man!
My industry and production
Are hidden from the light of day
With creation comes destruction
I have the strength to terminate
So listen, hear the grind of all the hungry metal blades
The hammers pound in time another industry upgrades
With war machines designed to make sure villains are all slain
Let's go! Tonight we've got a score to settle
Now taste the metal!"
The strange music and singing were bad enough, but then, suddenly…
LIGHT.
So much light. He had no idea such bright light was even possible. His eyes hurt. He couldn't see.
But he could hear the sound of fighting. Briefly, he wondered how much of that was the upperfolk, and how much was his blinded men striking each other.
"Titanium and steel
Will grind you under heel
I wield the best inventions since mankind thought up the wheel!
Conveyors belt begin
My servos start to spin
Some are designed with tasks in mind but I've designed to win!
My industry and production
Are hidden from the light of day
With creation comes destruction
I have the strength to terminate
So listen, hear the grind of all the hungry metal blades
The hammers pound in time another industry upgrades
With war machines designed to make sure villains are all slain
Let's go! Tonight we've got a score to settle
Now taste the metal!"
His eyes had finally started adjusting to the unnatural brightness when he heard a rumbling sound.
And then metal balls suddenly flooded the room.
Gangers falling.
Gangers struggling to get up.
Bits and pieces of their fortress moving around of their own will, knocking his men like so many toys while they were unable to so much as dodge.
"We are the flames lighting up the city
Carved up a pie and took a slice
Right now this factory may look gritty
But I'll build a modern paradise!
Future belongs to the masters of metal
Future belongs to the masters of metal
I am the evolution
I control the daily grind
Iron and steel solutions
Pinnacled in my designs
So listen, hear the grind of all the hungry metal blades
The hammers pound in time another industry upgrades
With war machines designed to make sure villains are all slain
Let's go! Tonight we've got a score to settle
Now taste the metal!
Upon this factory floor
The engineer of war
Prepared to slice and dice before you jump right through my door
This factory tonight
Plays host to our fight
State of the art, I'll take apart each villain and each blight!"
He saw the man in red.
The one who was singing.
"I'll kill you, you piece of-"
But before he could aim his stubber, white fog suddenly overcame them.
And all of a sudden, he was cold. Colder than he had ever been.
The stubber fell from his hand, his fingers too numb to hold it.
"A wonder of automation
Put in place by metal hands
Steel and iron foundations
Wielded by the metal man
So listen, hear the grind of all the hungry metal blades
The hammers pound in time another industry upgrades
With war machines designed to make sure villains are all slain
Let's go! Tonight we've got a score to settle
Now taste the metal!
Now all the parts align
My paragon design
The best of all the rest to master the assembly line!
Serrated saws will slice
With cuts clean and precise
To take apart the old and build a modern paradise!"
He recognized the one called Striker, moving around, beating the crap out of his helpless men.
That piece of shit called Lifeline, having the fucking gall to heal his men! Without his permission!
And that red fucker, singing, singing, even as he worked his magic on his fortress!
He blew some warmth on his hands, fumbling with the stubber.
"A wonder of automation
Put in place by metal hands
Steel and iron foundations
Wielded by the metal man
So listen, hear the grind of all the hungry metal blades
The hammers pound in time another industry upgrades
With war machines designed to make sure villains are all slain
Let's go! Tonight we've got a score to settle
Now taste the metal!
We are the industrial revolution
We are the modern institution
We are the future's execution
And I am the evolution!
Future belongs to the masters of metal
Future belongs to the masters of metal
I am the evolution
I control the daily grind
Iron and steel solutions
Pinnacled in my design"
He aimed at the red metal man.
And the metal man, still singing, threw some piece of machinery at his head.
His ears ringing, his consciousness fading, his sole consolation was that he wouldn't have to hear more of that damn song.
"So listen, hear the grind of all the hungry metal blades
The hammers pound in time another industry upgrades
With war machines designed to make sure villains are all slain
Let's go! Tonight we've got a score to settle
Now taste the metal!"
*******************************************
"OK, consider me wowed by the sheer chutzpah," Striker says as you help Lifeline with first aid, "but I'm begging: Learn to sing before you do this again."
"You're just jealous," you chuckle, while Lifeline coordinates the majority of gangers who
didn't assault the compound in carrying the ones that did.
By the time you get back to the church, the other teams look like they've been there for a while.
"…so the laws within the bill of rights are sacred and immutable, guaranteeing basic protections to everyone," Flint is explaining to a rapt audience, "protections that cannot be overruled, even by majority votes. All other laws come down to votes, and can be changed by the will of the people."
The crowd in this area is much thicker than before - the lights of the church have attracted more people, and they're being distributed food and water.
You see the CBRN expert working on his laptop. "Hey Airtight. How did it go?"
"Objectives were met," he reply without looking away from his work. "Additionally, I was able to identify the primary source of radiations and several significant sources of toxins in the region. The presence of multiple chemical teratogens explains the high rate of mutation among the population. I have safely disposed of a few toxin sources, and left the locals instruction for mitigating the others, but pathogens and excess carbon dioxyde are going to remain major issues."
"I've fixed an air recycler, but that'll only cover a limited area," you admit. "Is there anything we can do about diseases?"
"I've given a lot of people antibiotics, the clean water will help, and so will guidelines about hygiene," Lifeline says, "but there's only so much we can do without a long-term clinic located here. The underhive is a big enough place to develop its own ecosystem and pathogens, and any germs that evolve on the higher levels of the hive eventually come down here via recycled air. Properly treating them all would require dedicating time and personnel that G.I. Joe doesn't have," he says, his fist clenched.
"…Well, better food and air should at least make people healthier in general," you sigh.
"Meanwhile, Flint's giving them advice on how to run a simple government," Lady Jaye steps in, "and Brimstone," she points to the man, who is engaged in conversation with the preacher and several more people, "is having an impromptu ecumenical council with all local spiritual leaders."
"There's more than one?"
Lady Jaye chuckles. "There's a five-digit, maybe six-digit number of people in the relevant area, and almost no social structure. Various belief systems have emerged over the generations. There's a polytheistic faith that believes in a pantheon of five gods - the Emperor, Sanguinal, Mother Dark, Father Light, and Tempestus - an air deity."
"Huh."
"But my point is," she resumes, "we're doing what we can to help, but none of it will matter if Cortez burns down this whole chunk of underhive. Which is why our top priority is to lay the groundwork for Hawk's plan."
Right. Meaning two things:
One, get the population to clear the area and go hide far enough from the entry point of the pogrom crusaders.
Second, set up a perimeter where the crusaders will come… And you know what to
do with said perimeter.
It's why you had to perform all these community service miracles - it got people to listen to you. It's why you had to take down the gangers - it gave you control over the territory.
"We've got a few hours left, though," Lady Jaye says. "So if you want to do some more good for these people, now's your chance."
Hours of looking for another water source you can resurrect don't yield a lucky find - everything you come across is simply too damaged, and would require special parts and/or days of hard work.
If you had a week, you could turn this chunk of the underhive into… well, not a
nice place to live, but at least closer to the lower hive than to a concentration camp where it's always midnight and never Christmas. But you don't
have a week.
So, instead, you improvise.
People here have largely been making do with moisture traps that recover (tiny amounts of) water from the air. And guess what:
A lot of air goes through the air filter system you repaired earlier.
And you found some industrial-grade cooling systems in the factory complex.
From there, it becomes trivial (for a tech genius who once repaired an Imperial Knight with junk that was lying around) to rig together a system that recovers over a liter of water every second - a huge bounty for a town like this. All the more so when the water is relatively clean.
**************************************
"You two are looking pretty glum for the end of a successful mission," Flint tells Lifeline and you as you all head back to the "elevator".
"I mean, I'm glad we succeeded, and I'm glad we helped," you say, "but… it feels like an incomplete job. Those people are still stuck in that hellhole," which no doubt will attract a lot of attention from adjacent sections of the underhive… though the weapons confiscated from the gangs will hopefully keep it safe, relatively speaking. "There are tens of millions in the underhive, and we helped, what, a thousandth of them? Less than a hundredth." You sigh. "And that was just
one hive-city! This planet probably has over ten
billion underhivers!" And the Imperium at large, far, far more.
"I know G.I. Joe can't solve everything that's wrong with the world, much less the galaxy," Lifeline adds. "I just hate knowing so many people will keep suffering and dying."
"I hate it too," Flint says. "Unfortunately, the Imperium's problems are structural. Unless the
actual power structures decide to fix the underhives, they're going to remain as they are." He pauses, then allows a small smile to reach his face. "But you've given light, food, water, air, a semblance of safety, and even
hope to tens of thousands of the worst-off people in the galaxy. I'd say you made a pretty big difference to
them."
And in the hell that is this galaxy of war, you suppose you have to take what you can get.
"OK, so they have drinking water, and maybe enough leftover for hygiene," Menlo says after you sum things up for her. "Hm. You know, maybe what the underhive needs is
terraforming."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Think about it. All that excess CO2, lots of dangerous chemicals. If you introduced certain kinds of lichens, they could consume the excess CO2 and produce organic matter that could be converted into something useful." She pauses. "Um. Obviously it wouldn't be, er, simple…"
"Ecosystems rarely are, but…" You like to think the problem
has a solution.
But for now… you, Menlo, and the rest of the technicians have other things to worry about.
Gotta get everything ready for Hawk's plan - the assault on the underhive starts in less than 48 hours.
The plan has much better odds of working if certain people aren't
present at the actual assault.
Rolande's easy enough. She's not gonna be bringing a
Knight into the cramped underhive.
Sean Kaltberg and Almadero's PDF unit is not exactly invited. Not a problem.
The two Commissars… well, you understand some strings were pulled behind the scenes to ensure they'd be busy that day with social obligations. In the Spire.
And then there's the Sisters Of Battle…
You make a couple stops by the underhive to help set everything up for the plan.
And then, eventually, the day comes.
Which, weirdly enough, begins with your first visit to the actual
spire.
Holy SHIT.
This is…
Every single building here looks like a palace.
There's a
park! With trees, and flowers!
And the air is clean!
Everywhere you look, you see futuristic technology married to the luxury of Versailles. Compared to the dystopian squalor of the underhive, the contrast is absolutely
jarring.
Ahem. Focus. G.I. Joe is expected to perform a parade march, which you suppose will be good practice for the parade at the medal ceremony a few days from now.
And so, you all march like good little soldiers, before a…
Wow.
This… is a BIG cathedral.
Are all those statues made of gold, or just gold-plated? It's the Imperium, so you have no idea. Regardless, this thing dwarves the Vatican.
And in front of it, G.I. Joe meets up with the private army of Viscount Aragon. Well, "private army" - it's largely funded by the Ecclesiarchy, and the Arco-Flagellants…
You suppress a shudder at the sight of the hundreds of Arco-Flagellants in Viscount Aragon's army. It's like the Battle Servitors but even
worse, somehow.
And then, Bishop-Praetor Cortez steps onto the Cathedral's crowd-facing balcony, to
thundering applause.
Well, less "applause" than "religious fervor", but you stand by the thundering. This man holds
a lot of power. Unfortunately.
The Bishop-Praetor - flanked by a pair of Adepta Sororitas, and (according to your sensors) protected by a force-field - begins talking, his voice amplified.
"Brave defenders of the faith! Devoted servants of the God-Emperor! Cavitus is in dire need of your zeal!
"It is said: Thou shalt hate the alien. It is said: Thou shalt hate the mutant. It is said: Thou shalt hate the heretic. Of all commandments handed to us by the God-Emperor Of Man, the commandments of hatred are the holiest of all."
…Yeah, you don't think this guy would get along well with the nice preacher you met in the underhive. Just saying.
"Cavitus, in these dark days, has received a stark reminder of its duty to hate the alien. For every day, these abominations are befouling this world, butchering the God-Emperor's flock. Every day, the ever-loyal forces of the Imperial Guard perform their holy duty to purge the xenos… even as the majority of the PDF stays holed up in the relative safety of the hive-cities."
…Huh. Is he taking a swing at the King here? Well… you suppose that the Ecclesiarchy is one of the few major forces on the planet that can actually get away with calling the King out on his crap, since
their treasury isn't dependent on the interstellar trade he controls.
"Yet, righteous and holy hatred for the alien must not make us forget our other duties: To hate the mutant and the heretic. And these duties, alas, Cavitus may forget at its own peril.
"For in the heart of darkness, in the faithless labyrinths of the underhive where the scum thrives, mutation and heresy have risen to power - and their power is dark indeed! There, where the light of the God-Emperor is denied, the servants of the Ruinous Powers gather, to summon daemonic forces and sacrifice all of Cavitus to their unholy masters! To devour the very
souls of the flock!
"This threat, greater even than the threat of the alien, has been ignored for too long by secular authorities. But you!
You have heard my call!
You were moved by zeal!
You must head down to the dark pit of heresy, and
destroy those who have betrayed the God-Emperor!
"You shall descend into the faithless abyss, brave warriors of faith. There, you will bring the light of the God-Emperor as you purge the underhive in glorious fire! And once the mutant and the heretic are naught but cinders, all of Cavitus will know it owes you their very souls!"
At that, cheers erupt.
Eugh. You thought Cobra Commander and Serpentor's speeches were sickening, but
this made your skin crawl.
Viscount Aragon, meanwhile… seems to be soaking it all in, even shedding tears as he boisterously pledges to do his duty to the Ecclesiarchy and the God-Emperor. As far as you can tell, the man's a true believer.
Blessings are handed out for over an hour. Hundreds of Arco-Flaggelants and dozens of well-armed priests join your forces.
…You're gonna be honest: You're not super-impressed with the private army Viscount Aragon has put together.
Oh, they are decently armed, with lasguns and lots and lots of flamers. They're eager, certainly.
But that eagerness is all they have. They lack discipline. They
obviously aren't a well-trained military force (hell, trigger discipline alone makes it a miracle no stray shot interrupted the ceremony). They're looking more and more like a glorified lynch mob.
That's actually a good thing. Last thing you need is a
competent pogrom.
Helps that none of the Sisters Of Battle are coming along. You know that's not how it was originally planned…
Slowly, you shift your position to get close to one of the Arco-Flagellants. In some ways, it's like the Battle Servitors. In other ways… The weapons are all melee, and you think they're designed less for efficiency than for terror. There's no pretension of creating a genuine military force with these things the way Magos Gamma does with his Battle Servitors.
But mostly, you're paying attention to the mind-control helmet, and comparing it to similar tech used by Cobra.
The more you look at it… the less you think there's hope of recovery for these poor sods. The best they can hope for is being put out of their misery.
All of which confirms what you'd heard from other Joes, but… verify, verify, verify, as they say.
"Is there a problem, Martian?" says the flagellant's handler, not
quite hiding his hostile tone.
"None at all," you assure him. "Just admiring the craftsmanship. I've worked on Servitors myself."
"Servitors - bah!
This is a chance at redemption! This heretic questioned the very
existence of the Master Of Mankind; his life and soul would normally be forfeit, but by the grace of the Ecclesiarchy, he was granted a chance at redemption - and in the ten years since, there has been not a thought in his mind save for thoughts of holiness!"
Ten years.
This guy doesn't look to you like he's in his thirties.
Fffffu get a hold of yourself.
Just… just nod.
Your eyes wander to the comm system shared between the mind-control helmet and the controller carried by the handler.
Hm. Probably won't come to anything, but… you never know.
At long last, the tedious, overdrawn ceremony concludes, and your force - G.I. Joe and the twenty thousand-strong mob under Viscount Aragon's control - finally take the elevators to the underhive.
On the way down below, you can overhear the crusaders talking to each other about how they're going to burn heretics and mutants.
Viscount Aragon, meanwhile, is talking to General Hawk. "To be entirely frank, General, I do not believe the presence of your regiment is entirely
necessary - this is a battle that will be won by faith, not mere martial might. Nonetheless, when you and your mean reach the Golden Gates and are welcomed into the Emperor's bosom, I have no doubt that he shall look favorably upon the souls of everyone who fought today."
"I go where I am told, your lordship," General Hawk replies evenly.
*****************************
Eventually, you reach the underhive, following the predetermined path this pogrom has been planning to take for a while.
A path from which you have evacuated all the civilians (gangers included) preemptively.
But…
…That doesn't mean the place is empty.
"What in the Emperor's name…" Viscount Aragon barely has the time to register his surprise.
"HUMIES! GET DEM ZOGGIN' GITS!"
"Take cover!" General Hawk shouts.
And then the fighting begins.
This wasn't easy to set up! So many hours spent by G.I. Joe's technicians in the
Flag's factory facility, putting together
thousands of synthoids designed to impersonate Orks.
And it's not
just making them look and sound convincing that made it a difficult task.
You also had to program them to put up a convincing fight,
without actually massacring Aragon's men. A task accomplished, in large part, by outfitting them with special guns that shoot electric blasts - debilitating, but nonlethal.
And if that doesn't sound like credible Ork behavior… well,
yeah.
You also put a lot of effort into making the self-destruct systems perfect. But that won't come into play until later.
For now, Aragon's men find themselves in a bizarre firefight in semi-darkness. And you… well. Not for the first time, you're shooting at Ork-impersonating synthoids.
"KILL DA HUMIES! FOR WARBOSS CORTOBAN!"
"ZOG THAT! KILL DA HUMIES! FOR WARBOSS CORTEZ!"
Yeah, Viscount Aragon is having a somewhat surreal day.
"This makes no sense! This makes no sense
at all!" he says in half-panic as he shoots his fancy, gold-plated Hellgun from behind a corner. "There are not supposed to be any Orks within thousands and thousands of miles from here!"
"Well begging your pardon, your lordship, they sure look like they're here to me!" Duke says, punching a synthoid charging at him in melee and then shooting another.
This is a more chaotic battlefield than your usual - it's intended to be. This whole episode is meant to be confusing. Aragon's men have a terrifying fight against Orks that have no possible way of being here, and miraculously, all of them or nearly so survive.
Well, except for the Arco-Flagellants.
G.I. Joe's leaders have agreed that it would be
entirely fine for the Arco-Flagellants to not survive this battle and the Ecclesiarchy prolong their suffering for years to come.
Well. You just gotta find your niche in this battle and fill it.
The damage done to the minds of the Ecclesiarchy's victims is horrific. Everything about the Arco-Flagellants is.
Including how
bad their cybersecurity is.
It only takes a few minutes of listening in on the radio signals their handlers use to control them, combined with your observations from earlier, before you know how to send them bogus orders.
Bogus orders with which you send twenty Arco-Flagellants charging into the biggest nearby concentrations of "Orks".
A different signal sent to the synthoids, and they proceed to cut the Arco-Flagellants to ribbons, forgoing the nonlethal tactics used on Aragon's men. They take extra care to destroy the mind-control helmets in the process.
You send signals to the rest of the Joe technicians, telling them exactly how you pulled it off.
No Arco-Flagellant is to survive this battle. Not
one.
A Ministorum priest screams in frothing hatred as he uses an oversized chainsword to cleave "Orks".
Roadblock lays down heavy laser fire that destroys a couple dozen synthoids.
Moonboot jumps down from a rooftop, destroying five "Orks" with a quick series of kicks.
You "save" a pinned trio of Aragon's men by throwing a grenade at the Orks shooting at them.
Finally, after a whirlwind of brutality, not a single synthoid is left standing.
And half of Viscount Aragon's army, shell-shocked and running low on ammunition, is carrying the other half, unconscious.
It's only once you're all in the elevators that the self-destruct signal is sent, causing all the synthoids and their weapons to melt and evaporate.
*****************************
Bishop-Praetor Cortez gave them a flat look. "Orks. In the hive-city. A hive-city close to the South Pole."
"Your holiness," Viscount Aragon said apologetically, "I, I know what I saw! My, my men fought bravely…"
"Your men have suffered a fatality rate below 0.1%!"
"It… It was the grace of the God-Emperor!"
"Then where are the Orks?! You told me, you told everyone, that you didn't have their corpses burned so that everyone could see the evidence!"
"Someone must have destroyed them after we left!"
"Someone destroyed the corpses of tens of thousands of Orks who somehow infiltrated the capital hive-city, who fought you without killing? Viscount, no-one is going to believe this story! I'm already hearing rumors that you sold the Arco-Flagellants to a rogue trader!" Or a Duke, or a rival Bishop, or King Cortoban. Planting those rumors had been just a small part of G.I. Joe's plan.
"I would never!" Viscount Aragon said, incensed. Then he formed himself to calm down. "…Your holiness, perhaps it's not all bad. I don't care if the people of the spire think I am a madman, a fool, a thief, or all three. All that matters is that the will of the Emperor was done!"
"You should care!" the Bishop-Praetor roared. "If nobody believes you actually fought to defend the hive…" he stopped himself.
"…What of it?" the Viscount shrugged.
Cortez ignored him, turning his attention to Hawk. "…General, you were there. If you support the Viscount's… allegations…"
"With all due respect, your holiness," General Hawk stopped him, "I've been a soldier long enough to know a losing battle when I see one. No-one will believe me if I tell them this strange Ork story."
Cortez collapsed in his jewel-studded chair, contemplating the ruins of his plans.
General Hawk politely excused himself, managing not to smile on the way out.
