Alex had been standing in line for over half an hour, bouncing his leg nervously, until finally it was his turn.
The Water Guild clerk glared at him without saying a word, stretching out a hand for payment. Any hesitation beyond three seconds, and the security guards' stun batons would be activated.
Alex didn't waste a second. He pulled out a one-point Fertilizer Credit and handed it over.
Fertilizer Credits were the planet's unique currency. The Imperium was vast, spanning millions of worlds, each with its own monetary system. Interplanetary trade relied on barter, but within each world, local currency was standard. Some planets had metal coins, others paper bills, or even work-point tokens.
496b was an agricultural world. Everything revolved around farming, and fertilizer was essential—so Fertilizer Credits, redeemable for fertilizer, had become the de facto currency.
The clerk accepted the payment and pointed to a black steel-and-ceramic jug holding three liters of water. Alex grabbed it and walked off, already plotting how to build a water purifier. Queueing for water every time was far too slow.
Next, he queued for food. Hundreds of people still ahead. His impatience gnawed at him.
From afar, he spotted the Relief Bureau's food depot: gray ceramic barrels containing starchy mash. Potatoes, wheat, cornmeal, mixed vegetables, salt, and synthetic protein—enough for three days' sustenance for an adult—for just a single Fertilizer Credit.
Alex had eaten this many times. In a word: terrible. The upper-hive lords provided cheap rations to keep the underhive population alive, fed, and docile. Otherwise, the workers might revolt.
If not for concerns over wastage, even a single credit wouldn't have been charged.
Still, in the grim 40k universe, the fact that underhive scum on 496b could eat plant-based food was luxury—most Imperial citizens survived on corpse starch, far worse than this.
Twenty minutes passed. Only thirty people remained ahead. Alex was almost next.
Then—someone tried to cut in line.
Alex froze for a split second before anger flared. He tapped the man on the shoulder to confront him. The man spun around viciously, pressing a knife to Alex's neck.
"You little brat! Shut your mouth, or I'll gut you and shove your balls down your throat!"
The surrounding queue stepped back, wary but not leaving. Guild staff glanced once, then ignored the scuffle. In the underhive, as long as conflicts didn't touch them, a few thousand deaths were meaningless.
Alex felt the cold steel at his neck and blinked. The man thought he had intimidated him. Eyeing Alex, he pulled the knife back, only to have Alex suddenly explode into action—a punch straight into his gut!
With twelve points of strength—two above a normal human—Alex's blow knocked the man off balance. He collapsed to the ground, stunned.
The man, enraged and incredulous, lunged for his knife again. But before he could strike, Alex pressed a pistol to his head.
A 15mm improvised rebel pistol. Five-round preloaded magazine. Heavy, inaccurate, but devastating at close range—one shot could fell a bear. Alex had scavenged it from a previous battlefield.
Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger. Bang! The man's head exploded into a mess of brain and blood before he could even scream.
The queue flinched in shock for a heartbeat, then eerily returned to normal, eyes flicking toward the corpse as if it were a minor inconvenience.
Alex crouched, scavenged a crude knife, two Fertilizer Credits, and three water purification tablets from the body. Then he straightened and continued as if nothing had happened.
Later, several underhive scum stripped the corpse's clothing, then its shoes and undergarments. By the time Alex left with his rations, the body was gone—likely turned into kebabs. Some crouched nearby, licking the blood for precious salts and micronutrients. This was the grim ecosystem of 496b's underhive.
Next, Alex approached a boutique shop. The place was empty, no line at all. These were luxury goods, far beyond what ordinary underhive scum could afford.
"Give me a pack of incense, three cans of cooking oil, and a bottle of chili oil," Alex called lazily to the indifferent clerk.
The clerk sized him up, then said, "Fifty-five Fertilizer Credits."
Alex slapped sixty on the counter. Only then did the clerk smile, handing him the goods in plant-fibre bags.
Armed with his purchases, Alex trudged home, aware of shadowed eyes tracking him at every corner.
On 496b, a farmer earned roughly 150–200 Fertilizer Credits, while underhive scavengers scraped by on twenty. Luxury shops were reserved for gang bosses. Yet here was Alex, emerging with goods few in the underhive could dream of affording.
The followers stuck close, like starving wolves trailing fat prey.
Alex slipped from the crowded public sector into the deserted ventilation tunnels. Lighting a cigarette, he walked into the shadows, the faint glow illuminating his path.
The tailing figures hesitated, then, spotting the faint light, advanced with stones and metal rods.
Clangs and screams rang through the dark tunnels. Their overzealous swings snapped fingers and fractured bones.
One blindly groped the pipe wall, realizing his mistake too late.
Suddenly, a flashlight clicked on. Alex stood firm—pistol in his right hand, flashlight in his left.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The underhive thugs froze in terror under the light and the muzzle flash.