The bulletproof glass blocked out the nauseating burnt smell of the Underhive, but it could not stop the vibrations coming from under the hood.
The car cabin was as silent as an iron coffin.
Cyril leaned back into the leather seat, eyes closed, his breathing somewhat heavy. Two ribs were broken. With every bump of the vehicle, his lungs felt as if they were being harshly ground by sandpaper. He did not make a sound, merely resting his grease-stained hand on his knee, his fingertips tapping the fabric rhythmically.
Morozha sat opposite him.
The boss of the Black Hand Gang gripped his gold-inlaid cane, his thumb repeatedly rubbing the ruby on the head with such force it seemed he might crush it. The hydraulic lines on his half-metal face emitted a faint hissing sound, a sign of his cybernetics running at overload.
Outside the window, continuous slums spread across the wasteland like festering sores. Occasionally, a few scantily clad scavengers poked their heads out, watching the aggressive motorcade with eyes flashing with a mixture of greed and fear.
Thump.
Morozha finally could not hold back, slamming his cane heavily onto the alloy floor. The dull impact made Cyril's eyelid twitch.
"Explain."
Morozha's voice sounded as if it were ground out of that half-iron mouth, carrying a metallic coldness. "That purple light illuminated half the Underhive. Cyril, what I wanted was a few clues, not to turn my territory into a firing range for the Inquisition."
He leaned forward, his single eye staring fixedly at Cyril. "If those madmen in power armor come down tomorrow to purge the Underhive, what do you plan to use to plug their Bolters?"
Cyril slowly opened his eyes.
There was not a hint of panic in those black pupils. They even held a trace of post-sleep lethargy. He reached into his coat with slow, deliberate movements, as if pulling out a pocket watch.
Click.
A black, charred lump of metal was tossed onto the small table between them.
It was a badge, pitted and pockmarked by strong acid. The originally exquisite skull relief had only half an eye socket left, and the "I" pattern symbolizing the Inquisition's authority was burnt black, still bearing a few drops of uncleaned purple slime.
Morozha's pupils instantly shrank to the size of pinpricks.
He had served in the Astra Militarum and recognized this object. Even burnt into scrap metal, that silhouette was etched into his nightmares.
A rosette.
An Inquisitor's identification.
"Do you think they care?" Cyril curled his lip, revealing a mocking smile. "Or rather, do you think the Inquisition would specifically come down to write an investigation report over the lives of a few pieces of Underhive trash?"
He extended a finger and tapped the damaged badge.
"I helped them clear out a gestating Slaanesh cult. This badge is the proof. It blocked a Warp psychic shock for me. Otherwise, what you'd be seeing now is a corpse twisted into a pretzel."
Morozha stared at the badge, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Fear extinguished his anger like ice water. Someone who could possess such a thing and survive a Warp shock...
"Put away your curiosity, Morozha."
Cyril closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the seat.
"In some matters, the less you know, the longer you live. Now shut up and let me sleep for a while."
The cabin fell back into a dead silence.
Only the damaged rosette lay quietly on the table, radiating a suffocating sense of pressure.
...
Black Hand Gang Headquarters.
This was a fortress converted from an abandoned foundry. Giant gears hung from the ceiling, and rusted iron chains dangled down like a forest of steel.
As Cyril pushed open the heavy iron door, a thick smell of low-grade tobacco mixed with the stench of engine oil rushed at him.
The long conference table was cobbled together from the side panels of armored vehicles, covered in the marks of knives and axes. Around the table sat a dozen or so people, each looking fierce and bearing a wide variety of cybernetic augmentations.
The originally noisy hall fell silent the moment Cyril stepped over the threshold.
A dozen pairs of eyes stared at him as if looking at a dead man.
"Is this the troublemaker?"
A sinister voice broke the silence.
The speaker was a tall, thin man sitting in the first seat on the left. His bare upper body was covered in black skull tattoos, and a flamboyantly styled skinning knife was tucked into his waist, its handle fashioned from several pale human finger bones.
Iron Hook the Third, Quasimodo. The maddest dog of the Black Hand Gang.
Quasimodo stood up abruptly, his chair flipping over with a loud crash. He stepped one foot onto the table, the finger-bone hilt pointing directly at Cyril's nose.
"Boss Morozha, this kid blew half the Iron Crow Gang to the heavens! That commotion even alerted the patrols in the Upper Nest! Do you want us all to be buried with him?"
His spittle flew far, and the veins on his neck writhed like earthworms.
Several surrounding cadres joined in the clamor.
"Exactly! We've been in the Underhive for twenty years by staying low-key and following the rules!" Judiel, the logistics manager, was a fat man fiddling with a brass abacus, his beady eyes darting over Cyril. "Making such a big scene, do we still want to do business?"
Nedun, who was in charge of munitions, directly pulled out a large-caliber revolver and slammed it onto the table with a thwack, the muzzle intentionally or unintentionally aimed at the door.
"Boss, give us an explanation. Either make him get out, or let him die here."
The air was as tense as a fully drawn bowstring.
Morozha leaned on his cane and slowly walked to the head seat to sit down. He did not speak, his mechanical eye flickering with red light, seemingly waiting for a good show.
He was testing him.
Using his subordinates' anger to weigh exactly how much this Undertaker was worth.
Cyril stood at the door, covered in mud with several bloody gashes on his face. But he did not look at the shouting thugs. He did not even lift an eyelid.
He walked straight to the table and pulled out an empty chair.
Screech—!!
The sound of iron legs scraping against the floor was sharp and piercing, making everyone's teeth ache.
Cyril plopped down, slumping into the chair and propping his mud-caked feet onto the table, directly facing Iron Hook the Third's distorted face.
He grabbed a handful of shriveled nuts from a fruit plate on the table, tossing them into his mouth and chewing with a loud crunch.
Pui.
He spat out a piece of shell, which landed right on Third Brother's expensive leather boots.
"So noisy." Cyril picked at his ear, his impatience like he was shooing away a few buzzing flies. "Morozha, are your dogs all this undisciplined? Since when do they get to bark before the master has even spoken?"
Total silence.
Iron Hook the Third was stunned. In all his years, he had never seen a commoner dare to be so arrogant at the Black Hand Gang headquarters.
"You're looking for death!"
Third Brother roared, drawing his skinning knife as he charged forward.