As the Stalkers pressed on, the tunnels continued, the oppressive silence ever present as they went. There was no sign of Devo, nor was there any sign of whatever that might have caused the appearance of the tunnel.
Things quickly took a turn for the worst. The source of the silence soon became apparent: as the duo came across their first body ,one became two, two became four, and soon they were walking through the tunnels of home, strewn with the bodies of everyone they'd ever known. Everyone who'd ever called the Kladbishche home was lying dead before them.
Some bore the signs of combat. Bullet wounds, other injuries, others swung by their necks from ropes. The illusion, if it was one, was as vivid as it was gruesome... and maybe it wasn't an illusion...
Krevik held on to his laspistol so tightly the ridges cut into his palm, knuckles white and grip shaking. He knew it wasn't real, yet it looked so real, it couldn't be real, but it-
Without warning, Korramyn turned and knocked him lightly on the head.
"Kid," he said softly. "We're halfway across the land from our home. This place is fucking with us. Don't let it." The last few words were said as much to himself as to the him, Krevik noted.
"Keep an eye out. Anything claims to be something it's not, shoot it. You hear me? And-" Korramyn nearly tripped over the still corpse of Hoyk. "If you see 'me' or 'you', ask a trick question."
"Yes, sir." He felt slightly better, but the dread and overwhelming fear maintained their icy vicegrip on his heart. "Sir, what - what if we see Devo?"
"She gets one chance to prove herself real."
He gulped and steeled himself.
"Let's move, kid. Don't look at the bodies."
"What black heart could possibly make such a thing?"
"You will find out," Korramyn growled, "When I rip it from our enemy's chest."
The further the Stalkers went, the more gruesome the deaths became. Bullet wounds transformed to visceral injuries. The kinds of things only the Dark Eldar could ever inflict upon a person.
The brutality of it all reached a climax as the Stalkers came upon a man sitting atop a pile of corpses. He was unremarkable, average in every way, and yet there was a definite sense of danger about him. Even though they had no way of knowing, both Stalkers were certain this was the man who had killed their comrades. Or, at least, the cause of the carnage about them.
"You there!" Korramyn barked.
"You there." The figure said in unison with Korramyn his voice a deadpan that carried a chilling wrongness to it.
Korramyn raised his pistol and fired a single, unerring shot at the man's head.
If the figure was fazed by the shot, it made no show of it, simply standing on the pile of corpses. It began descending toward Korramyn and Krevik.
"You shouldn't have done that." The figure said as it neared them. As it got closer to the pair, they both began to feel fatigue setting in, an unnatural fatigue unlike anything they'd experienced before. Even standing there, surrounded by the bodies of their comrades and with such a dangerous entity so close, they found it a struggle to keep their eyes open.
"Go to sleep," The figure intoned as it drew close. "Go... to..."
It stopped suddenly and screeched. The tunnels of the Kladbishche melted away in an instant and the pair found themselves lying on the ground staring at the ceiling of the tunnel. Devo stood over them, her weapon firing and raining brass shell casings down on the pair.
She shouted incoherently, kicking Korramyn in the ribs in an attempt to wake the Stalker up faster. She stepped back, guttural roars echoed around the tunnel, two shimmers moving around as Devo fired. Suddenly, one of the shimmers charged her.
She emptied what was left of her magazine into the form. It shimmered into the visible spectrum, a massive, white skinned brute. It towered, twice the size of the seeker shooting it as it rushed forward, ripping the gun from Devo's hand with one swing of its arms, and sending the woman flying across the room with a second.
Korramyn jerked and came to, his laspistol coming free for real this time, and flung himself backward while blasting off a series of point-blank shots into the hazy figure. As he moved, he grabbed the boy by his jacket coat and yanked him from the same stupor that nearly claimed them earlier - Krevik shouted in shock and confusion as he drew his weapon and fired as well, instinctively snatching his sword, however small it was against the beast, from his scabbard -
The beast roared again and retreated into the shadows where it melted away. Devo painfully pushed herself to her feet, one of the lenses on her mask cracked. She retrieved her weapon and swapped out magazines before moving toward the two Stalkers.
They were being toyed with. The mutants were circling them still, their presence clear from the noises they made in the darkness. If they stayed here they were dead. They needed to move. She tapped Korramyn on the shoulder and motioned toward the end of the tunnel opposite from where they'd entered.
"Of course we need to go through," Korramyn mumbled to himself, somewhat sarcastically. At least bandits didn't utilise mind-altering chemicals. "Let's go, kid."
Krevik nodded firmly.
Devo kept looking back at the shimmers as they backed up occasionally firing off a couple rounds to keep them at bay. The mutants seemingly became less interested in them once more returning to the delicious prey that had lured them here and stalking off with several loud roars.
Devo took the lead again and moments later brought the group to halt as she slowly pushed open another door. The light on the other side still worked and the scene it illuminated was a chilling one. Dozens of the white skinned mutants were crowded around, sleeping by the look of it.
Holding one finger to where her mouth would be, she signalled the other two to keep quiet as she stepped into the room.
There hadn't been this many last time... but then there hadn't been a lot of things last time. All the Hellhole seemed to do was get more and more dangerous.
Korramyn and Krevik inched after her, their footsteps as silent as the sleeping forms around them, daggers and pistols at the ready.
They reached the end of the room, and once more Devo pushed the door open. They were greeted by a ladder, which Devo climbed quickly and quietly, helping the two Stalkers up before closing the hatch behind them.
Day had changed to night, prompting the question of just how long they'd been down there... or to be more precise, how long they'd been under the influence of... whatever had given them those hallucinations. With a loud bark, Redrick emerged from the brush and bounded toward Devo, jumping up and planting two paws on her chest as he licked at her face. The woman chuckled, rubbing his head enthusiastically before pushing him off.
Warehouse 32 loomed up before them, and Devo led them in to the cacophony, pulling off her gasmask as she did so. They were here.
"Stay close." Korramyn tightened his mask, and so did Krevik; two faceless Ghosts in a land full of killers. They followed Devo quietly, their footsteps padded in the soft, marshy ground as they ignored the stares and whispers. Few Ghosts ever appeared in this area, and fewer still bothered to come this far. Then again, none of them had received a pretty little letter as invitation, or were dragging around a snot-nosed baby -
No. Krevik was calm, collected and ready. There was fear in his eyes, but the boy had reacted flawlessly to each order and had yet to collapse into the 'new blues' that hit several Stalkers unused to the outside world. Grudgingly, he had to admit Krevik was exceeding his expectations at every turn.
Devo led the Stalkers through the warehouse. The Anarchists eyed them wearily as they passed, fingers straying toward triggers while the aggressive, distorted guitar riffs continued to blast away over the loud speakers. The Anarchists knew what fellow Seekers looked like and the two Stalkers weren't it.
They were here for something else. Though what, neither could say for certain.
Devo climbed a set of stairs moving into a room off the side of the main walkway. Inside a woman with a blue mohawk was arguing with another Anarchist.
"...I don't give a fuck what he said Shilov, unless you got something useful to say keep the fuck off the vox channel, it's bad enough we have to deal with the bandits trolling all over the channels, I don't need your bullshit adding to that."
She turned around, fixing her purple eyes on the two Stalkers. She scowled and folded her arms across her chest.
"Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my shop?" She growled.
"Actually it's my shop." Shilov said standing. "And they're my guests. I invited them here."
"Did you." The woman said fixing him with a withering glare. "And you didn't consult with me beforehand because...?"
"You gave me free reign over the business." Shilov said with a shrug. The woman's scowl deepened.
"We'll finish this later. See to your... guests." Without another word she pushed out past the two Stalkers.
"Apologies," Shilov said. "Two-Hands can be... abrasive. I see Devo saw you here safely. The trip was... uneventful I hope?"
"Unfortunately, no," Korramyn looked at the boy, who gave him a weak grin.
"You are Shilov," he said, sizing the man up. It was not a question. "I am Korramyn, from the western barrens - your letter reached us mostly by luck." He extracted the white envelope, clean and nearly unblemished, from a pocket. "Usually, I skip the pleasantries, but I think the evening warrants a drink of some sort, no?"
Krevik shuddered inwardly; the ohx was still giving him a migraine, and it had been two days. The elder Stalker, however, pulled out a tumbler and a small glass from who knew where and sat heavily on a chair. Pouring himself a generous dose of the irradiated poison, Korramyn threw down a shot before offering the boy one. Krevik shook his head violently.
"Baby," he muttered, swallowing another mouthful of ohx. The kid sat down on the floor next to him.
"Oh?" Shilov said. "That bad hmm? Well, I'd imagine your guide would appreciate a drink." He could smell the strength of the alcohol even from this distance. He'd always been a lightweight, so he doubted that indulging himself would be a good idea. Two-Hands though... bah, that could wait.
"I'm afraid my alcohol stores are limited." Shilov said with a sigh. "The Seekers you saw out there buy up most of it. Two-Hands has a stash of some very good stuff. Pre-Blackout stuff. But you'll have to convince her to part with it."
Shilov pushed away from the counter on his rolling chair, heading toward a closet near the back of the shop.
"One of my buyers out in the villages just brought this in," He said pulling a fragrant box from within the closet. "It's some high class herb, and my friend, it will get you higher than high... if you are interested? If not, we may skip straight to business."
Korramyn stared at it disdainfully. "No, thank you." He got up and put away the tumbler.
"May I see your 'products'?"
"Yes of course," Shilov said, returning the box to the closet before standing. "Come, follow me."
He led the Stalkers through the warehouse down, a set of stairs and into a darkened room.
"Just give me a moment here..." He muttered fumbling in the dakness for a moment before a set of flourescent lumens clicked on above them. They were in a large open space, additional storage space before the war, and spread out before them were shelves upon shelves of weapons.
Shilov turned to the Stalkers.
"Well then, would you like the tour?"
"Take it away," Korramyn said, noting Krevik's awestruck expression.
Shilov nodded and began leading the Stalkers through the racks of weapons. He stopped to pull one autogun off the shelf, tossing it to Korramyn.
"That," He began "Is the Praven-pattern assault rifle. An elegantly simple nine-pound amagalmation of forged steel and plywood. The most second most reliable pattern I've ever seen. This thing doesn't break, jam, or overheat. It will fire whether covered in mud, or filled with sand. It's so simple a child could use it."
He continued on, pausing now and again to introduce this weapon and that weapon. The M40 Armageddon pattern, the Sub-Compact autopistol, the SA32 Bullpup pattern. Assault rifles of every shape and caliber, shotguns, pistols, SMGs, lasguns, the Anarchists even had a few heavy bolters (although Shilov was adamant that those were not for sale).
"And we have this," Shilov said as they reached the back of the warehouse. Hung upon the walls was a series of sniper rifles, each sleek black, and each bearing the golden aquilla of the Imperium.
"This is the Absolution-pattern sniper rifle." Shilov explained, taking one down from the wall. "Five round box magazine, in-bult sound supression and recoil compensation system, accurate up to five thousand meters, although a skilled marksman could kill something much further away."
He patted the weapon affectionately before leaning against the wall.
"It's the last thing you'll never see." He said with a shrug. "So then, what catches your fancy?"
"Give me a minute," Korramyn said distractedly, picking up the Absolution off the wall. The weight felt foreign, but good in his hands. He unslung his Strelok and unwrapped it lovingly, placing the two on a table side by side.
He compared them, putting their rounds side by side - almost the same, except the Strelok's bullet was intricately carved with lines and patterns unique to each Stalker - lifted each one repeatedly and looked down their sights, balanced them on his shoulders. Krevik and Shilov watched this strange act play out before them for a while.
Finally, Korramyn put down the Absolution and rewrapped his rifle carefully. Sighing, he turned to the trader.
"This gun interests me greatly," he said, patting the sleek black rifle in question, "But I cannot find much difference between this and my own, which I built with my own two hands. We all have one. If I didn't know better, I'd say that this was copied off our design, or vice versa. "
"Perhaps you have ammunition variants for this gun? Currently, we use this." He placed a large bullet the length of a man's hand, wrist to tip of middle finger, on the table. Its length was a swirling beauty of carved lines and letters, each a work of art and ballistic mathematics. "Solid-shot. I have a hollow-point variant and an armour-piercing explosive one, but that's about it."
"The Absolution is a pre-war Imperial design. I'd wager your rifle copied it." Shilov shrugged. "It's a good copy. As for ammunition, I've got more solid shot, hollow-points, man-stoppers... I've got incendiary rounds but Two-Hands wants them for our snipers."
The Stalker pursed his lips and put the Absolution back up on the wall, sliding his bullet back into a pouch.
"Krevik", he remembered suddenly. The boy jumped, "What were the rest looking for?"
"W-Well, old man Holyk asked for power weapons. Pietra requested a slug-type shotgun and a stub revolver, extended barrel." Krevik racked his brains. "Glaz asked for nightvision and auspex, but after he heard Pietra's list, he said he wanted a revolver too. Sick of laspistols, he said. Strom, uh, wanted the biggest dakka he can hold."
"That would be a cannon. We can't get that. What about Lhisa?"
"She wanted a light submachinegun with antipersonnel rounds. Hoyk wanted melta charges, if there were any."
"He wanted the strongest alcohol you could find."
"Typical drunken bastard," Korramyn muttered under his breath.
"People who find power weapons tend to hold on to them, so unless you want to go out on a deep raid searching for one I'm afraid you're out of luck there. I've got shotguns. You want a semi-auto or a pump action? The recoil on a semi can get a bit hard to deal with, but you can put more shots down range faster."
"My apologies for the high expectations; we've heard relatively little about the Foundry save for the fact that it is a deep cache of hidden treasures. My friend is quite strong and she can handle recoil, but it''s the slugs she's looking for, really. Also, what about bolt rounds? Any of those?"
"Yes, Two-Hands, she was the woman with the mohawk you met earlier, and our fearless leader. She's got a claim on all the bolt-pistol rounds that come through here for herself. You want those you'll have to talk to her. You want the strong alcohol you'll need to talk to her too."
He walked through the stacks, leading them to a variety of shotguns.
"Semi-auto you're going to want this for your lady friend," He said pulling down an Arbites combat shotgun. "The recoil will take some getting used to, but you'll get better range with solid slugs with this one than with the 15-B."
He continued through the racks leading them to the pistols.
"If you can pay for it..." He reached for the back of the rack and pulled out a revolver. It, like the lasgun they'd seen when they first entered the Foundry was more a work of art than a weapon. It was silver in colour, a flowing design lovingly etched along the barrel.
"Extended barrel, extra chambers, excellent recoil compensation, one of a kind." He put it back on the shelf.
"Which reminds me, you haven't named your price yet," Korramyn said.
"I do not know what you have to trade."
"I have a shipment of sealed rations and clean water, enough to feed seven hundred for three months, on average. Clearly it's not with me now, but if you would take it as payment, the cost of transport of those goods would be yours to bear." Korramyn thought for a while. "I can get it within a kilometre of the Bar without being spotted... in stages, of course. I understand it's a valuable commodity here. A sample is-"
He jacked his pockets. Krevik coughed lightly: the boy tossed him a small aluminium can labelled 'meat'. "Here you go."
Shilov took the can and turned it over in his hands.
"That's the stuff." He said with a shrug. After a bit of back-and-forth negotiation the price was decided on, the ornate revolver being by far the most expensive purchase.
"Now then, if you're interested in bolt rounds and alcohol you'll have to talk to Two-Hands." Shilov said handing the Stalkers some of their guns.
Half now, half when he was paid. That was the deal... and of course the cheaper guns went in the 'half now'.
Korramyn checked out the submachine-gun, aiming down its sights. "I'll get that girl an assault rifle next time..." He threw it and the shotgun to Krevik, nearly dislocating the boy's shoulder.
"Mister Historyk, I'm not your baggage handler."
"Call me Korramyn, and yes, you are. Now that our business is concluded, I must say that it's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Shilov. So, where can I find this... Two-Hands?"
"Upstairs somewhere," Shilov said turning off the lights and returning to his - her - shop. "She'll probably be in the main room drinking or harassing independent Seekers to join up with her. Might have gone on a raid, but... no, probably not."
The main room of Warehouse 32 was as lively as it had been when the Stalkers first entered. This time no one spared them a second glance. Two-Hands was on the opposite side, seemingly arguing with a group of Anarchists. Devo was nearby lying on one of the couches scattered around the open space. Somehow, despite the cacophony, the Seeker had managed to fall asleep, Redrick nestled beside her, also sleeping.
"Well, if it isn't Shilov's guests," Two-Hands said as they approached. "What do you want?"
"Evening, lady. I'm here to politely request a few bolt rounds, and the strongest possible drink you have," Korramyn sized the woman up, his affected accent dripping with sarcasm.
Two-Hands folded her arms across her chest.
"And why would I give either of them to you?"
"Because..." Fuck. He glanced at Krevik, who shrugged. Well, no two ways about it. "I heard you're the toughest pair of tits in this shithole, and I'm going to test that."
He lifted a large cup from his bag and slammed it on the table. "Drink-a-thon, lady. First to pass out loses and hands over the good stuff; in your case, that would be bolt rounds and a nice case of whatever it is passes or liquour 'round these parts."
"And when you lose I get what exactly?" Two-Hands said leaning against the warehouse wall. A few of the nearby Anarchists were watching, their poker game having abruptly paused to watch the confrontation.
Korramyn turned to the boy. "You get this kid. Fair trade, I say! So, what'll it be?"
Krevik's face changed colours faster than a Lorensian camo-beetle. "Are you joking?"
"I haven't decided yet, boy!" The elder Stalker threw back his head and laughed a great, booming laugh. "Now, watch the pros in action!"
Two-Hands smirked at the shade of red the boy turned and shook her head.
"What are the bolt rounds for exactly?" She pressed. "Not about to gamble away shit like that without knowing exactly where it's going."
"Far away from here, that's what."
"That's not an answer." Two-Hands replied. "Since you want something from me, I'm pretty sure that means you play by my rules."
"Very well then. I'm having a shortage of bolt rounds, and I need some more. To shoot. At things. Obviously not you, your Seekers, or myself, but I live in a place where sixteen metres is the average height of a mutant. Does that answer your question?"
Two-Hands frowned and motioned Krevik over as the Anarchists started to circle around them, muttering among themselves and already taking bets.
"How long I get the kid for?" Two-Hands asked, casting a second glance his way. "And how old is he?"
"No idea. Kid, how-"
"I'm fifteen," Krevik mumbled sullenly. "You'd better not lose, Mister Historyk."
"I won't, boy!" Korramyn slapped him on his back and pulled over a chair.
"Hm." Two-Hands said. She pushed herself off the wall and stepped toward him, walking around him in a full circle. She stopped in front of him, looking him over once more before turning around and grabbing hold of Korramyn. She pulled him in and planted her lips squarely on his for a long moment amidst the raucous cheers of the other Anarchists.
"I win, I get you." She said.
The poker players had cleared off their table and Two-Hands sat down motioning for Korramyn to take a seat across from her.
"What are we drinking tonight, rookie?"
Reaching into his pack, Korramyn withdrew a canister full of sloshing, clear liquid.
The first dose was poured into two prepared mugs. He raised his and toasted the woman. "To glorious victory, and Arkangel! To infinity, and beyond!"
"Hm," She said picking up the mug. "Whatever."
She sniffed at the liquid experimentally. It smelled strong... probably as strong as the stuff her father used to make back home... maybe stronger. But home was miles away, and she had a bet to win.
She knocked back the first drink and slammed down the mug amidst the cheers of the Anarchists. She smirked and put her feet up on the table.
"You've got no idea who you're messing with, dude."
Korramyn was too busy pouring the next shot to answer. As Krevik watched, he was becoming more and more convinced that the man was more interested in drinking than he was in winning the bet.
Three hours later
Disbelief was etched on only two sober faces. Most of the others had either fallen asleep or gave up waiting for the pitched battle to end, but it didn't seem to be even close to a conclusion. The only ones remaining by the table were Krevik and Devo, who had awoken to the gradually declining festivities.
"You.... you's one tough bitch, woman," Korramyn slurred. Two-Hands giggled and slowly downed another shot, nearly sending alcohol out her nose as she giggled more and more.
"Fu'in right I am." She managed, more or less dropping the mug on the table. Devo sighed and turned away. Redrick was circling restlessly. About time she did something about that.
Redrick needs a walk, she wrote on her pad of paper, showing it to Krevik. You want to come?
Korramyn pitched his empty mug at the far wall and thumped the table. "Kid! Get.. get murh ohx... this i'nt ovuh..."
The boy looked at the living legends disgustedly. "What are we going to do about these two clowns here?"
Let them sort themselves out. Anarchists get drunk a lot... there's gotta be some kind of 'protocol' by now.
She shrugged as she finished writing and made for the doorway to the warehouse, Redrick excitedly running ahead of her. Sparing the wasted duo another glance, Krevik sighed and followed her out. "Not for ohx, there isn't."
The next morning
Two-Hands opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn't. The light streaming in through the broken roof only made her massive hangover about a thousand times worse.
"What the fuck..." She moaned, looking around her. She wasn't in Warehouse 32 anymore, that was for sure. She was somewhere else... a derelict building of some kind. The floor was littered with shell casings, and the walls, ceiling, derelict machinery, and everything else for that matter, was riddled with bullet holes. She put a hand down beside her and... yep, there was a heavy stubber. Not one of Shilov's by the look of it. Where had she even gotten it?
Fuck it. She wanted to sleep more. She closed her eyes and lay back down, snuggling closer to the warmth next to her with another moan.
Wait a second.
Her eyes snapped open, and sure enough there was Korramyn, naked as the day he'd been born, and sharing the meagre blankets with her. She became acutely aware of her own nakedness as well and moaned all over again.
"What. The fuck."
Korramyn awoke a second later, his head screaming in splitting pain, like a mutant bear just cleaved it apart and tried to stitch it back together with broken glass. Hangovers were not new to him, but this one took the cake. Well, at least it couldn't get any worse than-
As his eyes unglued themselves, he found himself staring at a familiar face.
Groaning, he turned away, then turned around again to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Nope. Nope nope nope. Nope nope nope nope nope nope nope nope. Wellp, too late for that now, might as well accept death face to face.
"Enjoy your night, Mister Historyk?"
That voice. It hadn't even cracked yet.
Before he had a chance to piece the mystery together, the pair were accosted by Redrick, who first ripped away the thin blanket covering them before assaulting their faces with his tongue.
"Oh, fuck off Devo!" Two-Hands snapped, pushing the mutant dog away. "Pass me my clothes."
You and Korramyn burnt your clothes last night. Devo wrote, tossing the whole pad at them, hitting Korramyn in the head.
He stumbled as he tried in vain to get to his feet. "Krevik." He massaged his temples with grimy, slightly scented hands. "Did... did I win?"
The boy facepalmed.
You won. Devo wrote. Or was it Two-Hands? I don't remember. It was quite dark, and I'm not sure who passed out first.
"Does this mean we get the bolt rounds?" Krevik asked hopefully, attempting to salvage the situation.
"Fuck no." Two-Hands muttered slowly pushing herself up and trying in vain to preserve her modesty. "Headache..." She muttered. "Devo, you got painkillers?" The scarlet haired Seeker only shrugged and tossed another piece of meat to Redrick, who devoured it enthusiastically.
"Fine, I don't need your stupid bol- ow." Korramyn clutched his head.
Krevik tossed a pile of jackets at the man he idolised. "From my pack. They're too big, anyway."
"Thanks," Korramyn mumbled, struggling into a pair of trousers. The kid was only slightly shorter than he was, and within a painful minute, he was fully dressed and heaving his pack onto his shoulder. It fell off. "Damn it."
"Did you bring me clothes, Devo?" The Seeker shrugged. "Fuck you." She turned to Krevik and held out a hand.
"Give me a shirt, kid."
"Nope, all out."
"Unless...." Korramyn turned around, his eyes coming back into focus and glee turning the edges of his mouth. "You have something I need? Starts with a 'B' and ends with 'Rounds'?"
If looks could kill.
"I'm going to find you." Two-Hands growled. "I'm going to find you, and fucking stab you to death with a rusty spoon."
That doesn't seem like a very effective - Devo began writing. Two-Hands kicked the pad of paper out of her hands with a snarl.
"Shut the fuck up, Devo!"
"Listen to the lady," the Stalker reached instinctively for his bottle, then reconsidered it.
"Are you sure it's a good idea to piss off a naked woman, Mister Historyk?" Krevik scratched his smooth chin thoughtfully.
"Not when I'm in an advantageous position, boy."
"I'm pretty sure you occupied a few advantageous positions last night."
"Shut up." The boy was getting more mouthy and comfortable around him, and was displaying an impressively wide grin.
"Shut the fuck up, both of you!" Two-Hands snapped. "I give you one magazine, you give me a shirt."
"What can I get for pants?"
"You can keep your balls." Two-Hands hissed. "That good enough?"
"Well, not really. In that case, good luck wandering the Foundry with your lady bits hanging out. See ya." Korramyn turned to leave.
"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. FUCK YOU!" Two-Hands shouted. "I'll give you half a mag for fucking boxers you piece of shit!"
"Can I have two? Saves you the trouble of unloadi-"
"No." She was about to explode. "You get one and a half or I knock you out and just take your clothes."
"Look at it this way, Two-Hands: what if I gave you half a pair of boxers?"
"Two magazines." She was glaring bloody murder. "Not a fucking bolt shell more."
"Deal!" Whirling around, Korramyn missed a step and mashed his outstreched hand into her chest. There was a very loud smacking sound.
In one swift motion, Two-Hands grabbed his hand, and with a sickening crunch, dislocated all the man's fingers. She grabbed the shirt Krevik offered her and pulled it on, the boxers too a moment later. It was all way to large for her but she didn't seem to care.
"Your families are dead tonight." She growled. "And your little dog too, Devo!"
Devo shrugged. Death threats in the Foundry didn't usually amount to much.
Setting his fingers back painfully, Korramyn smiled through the agony. Working through the hangover, his unhurt arm shot out and wrapped around the woman's waist, yanking her towards him.
The kiss was deep and long.
"I win," Korramyn whispered.
Then he was gone. Krevik looked around, half-confused, then scurried off as well. Devo cast one last glance at Two-Hands before following after the pair. Between the kid and the hangover, they'd both end up dead if she didn't show them the way back to Ground Zero.