Taras woke slowly, blinking against the dim light filtering through the slatted walls of his makeshift quarters. His first night in the Warhammer universe had been surprisingly restful, though he suspected his Ogryn body's sheer resilience had something to do with it. The rough pallet he'd thrown together from scraps might as well have been a luxury bed compared to what he'd expected in the grimdark underhive.
Pushing himself up, he stretched, his massive frame creaking as it adjusted to wakefulness. The Bounty Hunter System's interface flickered into view, its crisp, mechanical text overlaying his vision.
[Rewards Available for Claim:
1x Agripinaa Mk. I (Ogryn) Autogun
1x Armor Repair Kit
1x Weapon Repair Kit
2x Autogun Ammo Box
2x Ripper Gun Ammo Box
3x Militarum-Grade Medical Kit
5x Delicious MRE (Ogryn Version)]
The list scrolled past, and Taras nodded, his broad features settling into a thoughtful expression. These rewards seemed tailored to his new Ogryn body, and the implications weren't lost on him. This system was equipping him for survival in ways that aligned with the brutal reality of his surroundings.
They were being given quite generously, and that meant there was going to be hard fighting up ahead. This was loads better than having meager rewards that would barely make up for any fights in the future and scrape by pitifully.
He selected Claim with a mental command, feeling the faint, almost imperceptible weight shift in his system inventory as the items materialized there. Next, he opened the system store, curious to see what else it offered.
The store's inventory was expansive, but the items he'd unlocked as rewards and from looting the gangers now appeared with purchase options purchasable by throne gelts. The system's explanation flashed across his vision:
[Area Items looted in sufficient quantities (20x or more) unlock for sale or blueprint production.]
Taras leaned back against the wall, digesting the information. A smile tugged at his lips. So this market system wasn't going to hand everything in a platter then, or have some OP WTF items from the get go, it was more of a scalable system that rewarded diligence and foresight. He'd have to think carefully about what he prioritized for looting and what he left behind.
He'd have to be a loot goblin with some foresight to get a steady supply of items and take more bounty missions. To get those popular lasguns he'd either have to fight or steal from foes armed with such weaponry like, say, established large gangs or even the local planetary government and the military.
Those were chancy propositions and he was not eager to fuck around and find out.
For now, though, breakfast called. Selecting one of the Ogryn MREs from his inventory, he examined the surprisingly professional packaging. The label read: "24-Hour Field Ration Pack: Chili Beef, Chocolate Drink, Fresh Mineral Water (3L)."
His stomach rumbled as he tore open the pack. Thanks to watching MRE eating videos (and those seemed like years ago now to be honest) he had extra water to pour into the flameless ration heater to heat the chili beef and mix the chocolate powder in its pouch before putting it into the pouch and waiting for the heat to boil it.
Checking the rest of the MRE pouch revealed quite the mundane but fresh selection of lunch and dinner: candied fruits, two energy fruit juice packs, a pecan brownie bar, caramel chocolate cake slice, rice pilaf for lunch, beef stew for dinner, and various miscellaneous items like moist towelettes. Laxative chewing gums, various jams and hot sauce and eating utensils.
He then did a quick check of his present equipment and inspected them for any damage or scratches. Good so far.
Then the smell of heated rations hit his nose and it was chow time.
The chili beef was rich and hearty, the spices hitting just the right balance, while the chocolate drink was sweet and smooth, a rare treat in any universe. Taras paused halfway through, savoring the flavors. For someone who'd been plucked from his old world and thrown into this one, he resolved never to take decent food for granted again.
Once his breakfast portion was finished, he sealed the rest and returned it to his inventory. The water, he noted, was equally refreshing, crisp and clean in a way the underhive's recycled water could never hope to replicate (and he would hold on for long against drinking). With a satisfied sigh, he geared up, slinging his Ripper Gun over one shoulder and securing his newly acquired Autogun back into the system inventory.
Fuck, just for doing bounty missions he would go for clean water and delicious food as the real rewards.
The settlement was already stirring when Taras emerged from his quarters, the low hum of activity permeating the air. Settlers moved about, sorting supplies from the crates he'd brought the day before, their expressions a mix of gratitude and determination.
Jeri was waiting for him near the settlement's ramshackle central square, his cane tapping rhythmically against the metal floor as he approached.
"Mornin', big guy," Jeri greeted, his gruff voice carrying a hint of humor. "Sleep well?"
"Good sleep," Taras replied simply, his deep voice resonating in the quiet. "You say there are more bounties. Want to finish."
Jeri chuckled, shaking his head. "Straight to business, huh? Can't say I blame you. Come on, then. Let's see what we've got."
The old man led Taras to a crude bulletin board fashioned from scrap metal, where two notices were prominently displayed.
Taras stood before the crude bounty board, his massive hand brushing against the edges of the flimsily tacked-up notices. His eyes scanned the scrawled text detailing the two tasks at hand. One described rats infesting the settlement's food stores which were a nuisance but he was not going to go there first, not until he had a lot of fire to deal with those bastards. The other, however, caught his attention:
"Ferals at the Sludge Pump. Dangerous. Possible Cannibals. Proof Required."
He tapped the ferals' notice with a thick finger and turned to Jeri, who was nearby, sorting a bundle of wires into vaguely organized piles.
"These ferals," Taras rumbled, his deep voice drawing a few wary glances from settlers passing by. "Why are they trouble?"
Jeri sighed, straightening up and leaning on his cane. His lined face creased further as he rubbed his temple, clearly not relishing the explanation.
"The sludge pump," Jeri began, gesturing with his cane in the general direction of the settlement's outskirts, "ain't just a collection point for the sewers. It's a filter, been workin' longer than anyone remembers. Keeps the sludge out of the drinking water, separates waste from what's... usable. It's why we can stay here without dying of thirst or the rot."
Taras nodded, his expression thoughtful. "It works without maintenance?"
"Somehow, yeah," Jeri replied. "Blessed tech, maybe. Or just good old-fashioned Mechanicus engineering. Either way, it keeps us alive. But lately..."
Jeri's voice trailed off, and a dark look crossed his face. He spat onto the ground before continuing. "These ferals showed up not long ago. Started skulkin' around the pump. First, it was just noises—strange sounds in the night, things moving where they shouldn't be. Then... salvage runners started disappearin'."
Taras frowned. "Disappear how?"
"Like they were swallowed up," Jeri said grimly. "No trace except for a few bloodstains and a lot of bad guesses. Some folks say it's mutants, others say it's just ferals gone bad. But me?" He fixed Taras with a hard stare. "I reckon they're cannibals. Seen it before in other places when the food runs out and desperation sets in. These types... they don't think twice about carving up their own, let alone outsiders."
Taras felt his stomach churn, though whether it was disgust or a reaction from his Ogryn physiology, he couldn't tell. He shifted his weight, the Ripper Gun slung across his back clicking softly against his armor.
"What proof do you need?" he asked.
Jeri's expression darkened further. "Bring me their ears. And if you can, find somethin' to show they're eatin' people—bones, flesh, somethin'. That'll be enough to convince Tinkertown we've got a real problem down here. I'll use that to get you a pass into the town. You take care of this for us, and you'll be more than welcome to work there."
Taras asked the obvious follow up. "What's Tinkertown?"
Jeri hummed, gathering his thoughts to explain. "One of the biggest pockets of stability here this deep in the underhive. This is more like the furthest reach of an official imperial presence here if you don't count the various missionaries that come and go. It's an outpost of the cogboys before headin' deeper, because of treasure and ancient tech or somethin'. Of course being full of people that can't be frakked with, a settlement sprung up for safety and doing their own scavenge runs to the cogboys."
Taras considered the offer, his brow furrowing as he stared at the notice again. Cannibal ferals haunting a vital piece of infrastructure sounded like the kind of problem that would only get worse if left unchecked. And the promise of entry into a larger settlement like Tinkertown was an opportunity he couldn't afford to pass up.
"All right," he said at last, his voice steady. "I'll handle it."
Jeri gave him a nod, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. "Good. I'll get someone to guide you partway to the pump. From there, you're on your own."
"I do need a guide," Taras replied with a faint grin. "Just have them point me in the right direction."
Jeri chuckled dryly. "Fair enough, big guy. Fair enough. Just don't get yourself killed. We're countin' on you."
Taras turned, his massive frame moving with surprising ease as he made his way back to his gear. As he checked his weapons and loaded his inventory with essentials, his mind focused on the task ahead.
[Bounty obtained: Feral Cannibals!]
[A group of feral cannibals have moved into the sludge pump that filters the local areas drinkable water and are up to no good, they must be dealt with. Medium reward.]
And the mission objective all but spelled it out they were lovers of long pork.
'Well,' Taras thought grimly, checking the sharp edge of his cleaver, 'they'd find out the hard way that this Ogryn wasn't on the menu.'
Taras's guide, a wiry man named Lenton led him through the twisting, oppressive corridors of the underhive with the kind of ease that came from years of navigating its labyrinthine pathways. Though he kept his distance from the hulking Ogryn, Lenton spoke enough to ensure Taras didn't miss any crucial turns or hidden routes. Still, his nervous glances over his shoulder betrayed how unsettling Taras's size and presence were, even to someone supposedly on his side.
After what felt like hours of walking through narrow passageways, precarious walkways, and damp, decaying tunnels, they reached the outskirts of the sludge pump. Here, the air grew thick with the stench of rot and chemicals, and the steady thrum of ancient machinery echoed through the tunnels. Lenton stopped abruptly, his pale face set with grim determination.
"This is as far as I go," Lenton said, his voice low but firm. "The pump's just up ahead. Big open space, can't miss it. Once you're done or if you're still alive, give me a shout, and I'll come get you."
Taras gave the man a nod, his deep voice rumbling. "Stay close enough to hear me. Won't be long."
Lenton nodded quickly, retreating into the shadows like a wraith. Taras watched him vanish, then turned and hefted his Ripper Gun, checking its readiness. His cleaver hung at his side, sharp and eager.
The sludge pump's basin opened up ahead, its industrial bulk rising like a mechanical monolith in the gloom. Taras stepped cautiously, his heavy boots crunching on loose rubble and rusted metal fragments. The area surrounding the pump was surprisingly large as it was an open space dotted with broken-down equipment, heaps of scrap, and pools of stagnant water that gleamed faintly under the dim, flickering lights.
What caught his attention immediately, though, were the structures the ferals had built or rather, cobbled together. Ramshackle huts made from scavenged sheet metal and plastic stood haphazardly around the pump's perimeter. The ferals had turned this place into a settlement of their own, complete with crude defenses in the form of barricades and spike-filled ditches.
But it was the totems that truly confirmed Jeri's suspicions.
Scattered around the area, fresh bones lashed together with wire or sinew jutted from the ground, their jagged ends pointing skyward. Strips of meat still clung to some of them, glistening in the low light, and the air reeked of decay. Taras's lip curled in disgust as he recognized the unmistakable signs of cannibalism. The bones couldn't just be from livestock as too many were clearly human, or close enough to it to make his stomach churn.
"Yup," Taras muttered under his breath, his deep voice barely audible over the ambient noise. "Cannibals."
He crouched behind a rusting water tank, taking a moment to assess the situation. Through gaps in the makeshift defenses, he could see the ferals themselves.
There were at least a dozen of them, maybe more, moving through the camp with a mixture of purpose and primal intensity. They were thin, their skin pale and scarred, with wild hair and jagged tattoos marking their bodies. Most wore little more than rags, but a few had bits of armor cobbled together from scavenged materials.
Their weapons were as crude as their defenses—sharpened pipes, spiked clubs, and what looked like repurposed industrial tools. A few carried firearms, though they appeared rusted and unreliable at best. Despite their ragged appearance, the ferals moved with a predatory awareness, their eyes darting constantly as if expecting danger at any moment.
Taras counted three totems near the center of the camp, and his jaw tightened as he noted the freshly stripped bones piled at their bases. Nearby, a large firepit smoldered, the faint smell of burnt flesh wafting toward him.
He gritted his teeth, his massive hands tightening on his weapon.
Taras ducked lower, scanning the camp for weak points. The barricades would be a problem if he tried a frontal assault, and the ferals' numbers made sneaking in almost impossible. But Taras wasn't here to play fair.
Reaching into his inventory, he retrieved one of the firebombs he'd looted from the gangers earlier. He weighed it in his hand, a grin spreading across his face.
"Let's see how you like a little light," he muttered, standing up just enough to line up his throw.
He lobbed the firebomb toward the nearest totem, watching as it sailed through the air and shattered against the bone structure. Flames erupted instantly, licking up the totem and spreading across the nearby ground.
The ferals reacted with wild cries, some rushing toward the fire to put it out, others scrambling to grab their weapons. Taras didn't give them the chance to organize.
Rising to his full height, he leveled his Ripper Gun and opened fire. The weapon roared, its heavy shells tearing through the flimsy structures and ripping into the ferals with brutal efficiency.
Chaos erupted in the camp as the ferals scattered, their shouts mingling with the deafening reports of Taras's weapon. He moved forward, methodically firing into clusters of enemies and using his cleaver to finish off any that got too close.
The ferals' initial disarray didn't last long. Their primal instincts kicked in, and they began to rally. Taras, still towering amidst the flames and chaos, recognized the shift immediately. What had been a scattered group of shrieking cannibals was now transforming into a pack of cornered predators.
From the shadows of the ramshackle huts, they emerged—at least a dozen, likely more. Their wild eyes gleamed with malice, and their jagged weapons caught the flickering firelight as they surged toward him.
Taras braced himself, his Ripper Gun roaring as he squeezed the trigger. The heavy shells tore through the first wave, the ferals' fragile, malnourished bodies no match for the weapon's brutal firepower. Two, three, four of them crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood and shredded rags.
But they kept coming.
A feral armed with a rusted fire axe charged from Taras's left, screaming incoherently. Taras swung his cleaver in a wide arc, the blade catching the man mid-torso and sending him flying into a heap of bones. A second feral tried to close in from behind, but Taras spun, bringing his Ripper Gun down like a club. The weapon's heavy stock connected with a sickening crunch, and the feral dropped without a sound.
More ferals poured into the fray, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm him. Taras backpedaled, firing in short bursts to conserve ammo. Each shot was precise, tearing through the ferals' makeshift armor and dropping them like flies.
One of them, a wiry woman wielding a spiked chain dodged his fire and leapt at him, the chain whipping toward his face. Taras dodged it mid-swing and whipped his left arm out, his now free massive hand clamping down on the stretched chain like a vise. He yanked hard, pulling her off balance and straight into the bayonet of his Ripper Gun. The blade sank deep, and she collapsed in a heap at his feet.
Another feral, this one armed with a jagged metal spear, lunged at him. Taras sidestepped, the spear glancing off his armor, and delivered a brutal kick to the man's chest. The feral was launched backward, slamming into a barricade with enough force to crack wood and bone alike.
Despite his brutal efficiency, the ferals weren't giving up. They circled him like wolves, darting in and out of the shadows, testing his defenses. Taras could see their desperation and greedy hunger in their eyes—they were fighting for survival and to take him as their next meal.
One feral, clearly more cunning than the rest, barked out orders in a guttural voice. At his command, several of the cannibals began hurling debris available on the ground such as chunks of metal, broken tools, even bones at Taras to distract him. At the same time, three others rushed him from different angles.
Taras roared, the sound reverberating through the camp like a thunderclap. He swung his cleaver in a wide arc, catching one of the attackers in the neck and nearly decapitating him. The second managed to get close enough to land a blow with a rusted blade, the weapon glancing off Taras's shoulder armor. Taras responded with a savage headbutt, the force of which sent the feral sprawling.
The third attacker was smarter, circling around and aiming for Taras's exposed back. But Taras had seen the move coming. With a quick flick of his hand, he pulled one of the firebombs from his inventory and smashed it into the ground between them. Flames erupted, catching the feral and sending him screaming into the night.
The remaining ferals hesitated, their morale clearly shaken. Taras took the opportunity to press the attack, advancing on them with slow, deliberate steps. His Ripper Gun barked once, twice, three times, each shot finding its mark.
The ferals broke. Those who were still able to run fled into the shadows, their panicked cries echoing through the underhive. Taras didn't pursue. He stood in the center of the ruined camp, his chest heaving, the acrid smell of blood and fire filling the air.
Then he had three notifications pop up in his eyes that no one but him only saw.
[Bounty: Feral Cannibals complete! Check rewards in the system store. Area is now valid for looting.]
[Level three (3) reached. One (1) stat point provided. One (1) perk point provided. Financial currency rewards granted]
[Rewards: 1x Militarum-grade (Ogryn) Backpack, 1x Chrono/Wristwatch (Ogryn), 1x Respirator/GasMask (Ogryn), 1x Militarum-grade Dataslate (Ogryn), 2x Filtration Plug boxes, 2x Ripper Gun ammo box, 3x Militarum-grade medical kit and 5x Delicious MRE (Ogryn version), and claim them from the store as soon as possible.]
He willed them away to disappear quickly as he was in the danger zone, and did not need the distraction thank you very much.
Taras scanned the area, ensuring there were no survivors lying in wait. Satisfied, he began the grim task of collecting proof. He moved methodically, using his cleaver to sever the ears of the fallen. The task was unpleasant, but necessary.
As he worked, he took stock of his injuries. The blade that had struck his shoulder had left a dent in his armor but hadn't pierced it. A few scratches on the carapace armour were the worst he'd suffered, this carapace armour was quality stuff.
Once he'd finished, Taras stood and surveyed the wreckage. The totems had been reduced to ashes, the ferals' crude homes smashed and burned. The sludge pump itself still stood, its ancient machinery chugging away as if nothing had happened.
"Job's done," he muttered, slinging his Ripper Gun over his shoulder and stuffing the string of ears into his inventory.
Now it was time to call Lenton and report back to Jeri.
Taras bellowed out for Lenton, and to his surprise the man came in, with footsteps marking his entry. He had expected the man to slink into the shadows and not look back.
Then the guide took in the current sights.
Lenton's face was pale, eyes wide as he took in the horrors that surrounded him. The remnants of crude huts and bone totems smoldered under the fire Taras had set, but it was the charnel pit at the heart of the camp that drew his attention. The gruesome sight of gnawed bones and decayed remains turned his stomach, though he forced himself to approach.
Kneeling beside the pit, Lenton sifted through the grisly contents with trembling hands, muttering prayers to the Emperor under his breath. Despite the revulsion churning in his gut, he persisted, determined to honor those lost.
Bit by bit, he unearthed items that belonged to familiar faces now gone: a dented locket, a battered data-slate, a charm etched with a carved sign. These small keepsakes, though stained by the ferals' filth, were invaluable to the families and friends of the deceased.
Taras, towering silently nearby, watched the smaller man work. The Ogryn's expression was unreadable, though his shoulders slumped slightly as he glanced at the pit. He didn't know the pain in Lenton's movements, of the grief of someone forced to confirm the worst about those they had once known.
But he felt sad with him and kept his mouth shut than to offer trite condolences. Instead he went for something else.
"I'll help carry," Taras rumbled, his deep voice solemn. Without waiting for a response, he stepped forward, gathering a bundle of salvaged keepsakes in his massive hands. Lenton glanced up, gratitude flickering in his eyes, though his voice wavered when he spoke.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "These... they'll mean something to someone back at the settlement. A chance to mourn properly, maybe."
Once the keepsakes were secured, Taras and Lenton turned their attention to the rest of the feral camp. The Ogryn took no chances, systematically setting fire to anything that wasn't part of the sludge pump. His logic was straightforward: if the ferals had touched it, it was tainted. He doused the remaining structures with fuel, ensuring the flames burned hot enough to leave no trace of the horrors they had wrought.
And that included the bodies also. The smell of meat being roasted and charred in the air churned both men's stomachs and Lenton let it all out on the floor while Taras was made of sterner stuff as he powered through the job.
As they continued their dirty but necessary work, Lenton noticed Taras avoiding to pocket the scattered remains of the ferals' belongings. Tools, crude weapons, and bits of scavenged material were left untouched, despite the potential utility some might have held. Instead he was bringing them with a grimace on his face to fuel the burning pyres.
Lenton frowned, curiosity getting the better of him.
"You're not taking anything from them?" he asked.
Taras shook his head firmly. "Tainted," he said simply. "Don't trust it. Don't want it."
The response was as blunt as it was final, but Lenton understood. After what they'd seen, after what the ferals had done, taking anything from their camp felt... wrong.
Even if the system Taras carried would have allowed it, the human-turned-Ogryn wanted no part of it.
Here they kept the fire and the burning materials away from the pump.
The pump itself stood apart, its ancient machinery steadfast and untouched by the ferals' filth. Taras had inspected it earlier, marveling at its durability despite the lack of maintenance. Now, he ensured the flames stayed far from its rusted but functional pipes, muttering a silent promise to preserve it for the sake of the settlement and the local area it serviced.
As the last of the flames began to die down, Lenton and Taras stood side by side, their faces illuminated by the flickering light. Lenton held the bundle of keepsakes close, while Taras adjusted the strap of his Ripper Gun, his gaze fixed on the distant shadows of the underhive.
"Nothing left to taint the water," Taras said at last, his voice heavy with finality. "It's clean now."
Lenton nodded, though his face was still drawn with tension. "Let's hope Jeri agrees. And Tinkertown. The pass they promised... it could mean a lot."
Taras grunted, a sound that could have been agreement. He looked back at the ruins one last time before gesturing toward the path they'd come. "Let's get moving. The sooner we're out of here, the better."
By the time they reached the edge of the settlement, the fires of the feral camp were no longer visible, though the faint scent of smoke lingered on their clothes. The sight of the keepsakes in Lenton's hands and the grim determination on Taras's face silenced any questions the sentries might have had.
Jeri was waiting when they arrived, his expression grim as he took in their burden. The elder didn't speak immediately, letting the weight of what they carried settle over the gathered onlookers.
"Proof," Taras said, holding out the string of severed ears. His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes carried a hint of something deeper than disgust maybe, or weariness.
Jeri took the grim trophy with a nod, though his attention lingered on the keepsakes Lenton held. "And these?"
"Belongings," Lenton said softly. "From the meat pit of the cannibals. People we've lost."
The elder's face tightened, but he nodded again. "You've done well," he said. "Both of you. I'll send word to Tinkertown. You'll have your pass, Taras. And... the settlement owes you another debt."
Taras shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. As far as he was concerned, he'd just done what needed doing.
God, his appetite was ruined and tonight was going to be a shitty and restless night.
To be continued…
