Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium
Lower Hive — Zone Z
Gunfire, laser blasts, and screams filled the air. When Eric stepped off the main road into a narrow alley, neon bands of light streaked across the wet pavement. The smell of gunpowder mixed with oil and the rot from the drains, making his breath heavy. He pulled off his gas mask for a moment, rubbed his eyes to moisten them, then snapped the mask back on out of habit.
The image from earlier clung to his mind: soldiers in heavy armor with polished plates, a cog-and-copper-sword emblem on their chests, carrying weapons that spat red beams. They weren't the guns Eric remembered from the old world, but they looked "futuristic" mixed with something archaic — like medieval warriors holding laser rifles. He snorted softly at his own chaotic thoughts.
"Knights with laser rifles… right, Eric. You're going mad," he told himself, though that voice echoed as loudly as the real noise outside. In the Lower Hive nothing was truly beyond expectation; odd sights shouldn't calm him. Danger still lurked around every corner — gangs, mobs, lunatics, or three-armed bald mutants could spring out at any time.
Eric picked his way along familiar alleys, holding the paper bag with soap, shampoo, and the little things Raul had given him tightly. Numbers circled in his mind: the fine he had to pay, the savings he needed to reach the surface, and the sum the noble would pay when his stint as a model ended. Raul's words were clear — twenty percent commission. That cut would swallow a big chunk, but even after the cut it was still more worth than two years on the factory floor.
"Come on, Eric. It'll be worth it…" he told himself. He forced himself to think in terms of reason rather than the shame whispering in his chest. He used to be an office worker once; he knew wages and time were money. Trading some dignity, even if humiliating, might be the only way out of this rundown dwelling.
But beneath that reasoning was a sharp fear — of being taken as property, enslaved, or worse. He feared waking up one morning and not recognizing the reflection in the glass.
His feet carried him onward. The bodies from last night's fight he had helped make had not been cleared away; they lay to rot, and the horror prickled through his mind. He tried not to look. He had killed without hesitation lately, and it did not comfort him.
"Knights… probably House Guard or some kind of Arbites," he thought, forcing labels into his head to feel a sliver of control instead of letting fear rule him. Having a name for what he'd seen made things slightly more manageable.
Near his lodging he slowed, his breath shallower. One hand clutched the bag; the other went into his pocket to check the money left. The fine receipt felt like a brand — a binding obligation, but also the means to keep living.
He pushed open his metal door. It gave a weary screech and shut behind him. He set the bag on the battered table; the faint scent of soap displaced the oily smell for a moment. He leaned against the door, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.
Eric took the towel and wiped his face, brushing away dust from the walk. He glanced at the small cracked mirror on the wall — the reflection looked a touch cleaner, but the eyes were the same ones he knew. He pressed a hand to the glass; its coldness snapped him alert.
"Three days. Practice smiling. Practice posing… then find a way out," he rasped to himself. He began stripping carefully — filthy work clothes from the factory and alleys tossed onto the stained floor.
Finally down to a simple tee and loose trousers, he sat again on the same creaky metal chair. He unwrapped a stick of corp starch, peeled the plastic, and chewed it slowly.
As he chewed, he stared at the fabric and the items Raul had given him. The faint scent of soap and shampoo hit his nose. Shame about the modeling job lingered, but the bland taste and the odd texture of the corp starch soothed him a little. For a short while he allowed himself a pause from thinking about escape routes and looming risks.
He kept chewing and letting thoughts drift in the room's quiet — plans to get out of the Lower Hive, working with Raul, and the uncertainty ahead. He looked down at the bag of soap.
A thought occurred to him: he hadn't used soap in over a month. A real wash would feel good. As he stared, a knock sounded at the door. Instantly he snatched up his gun. Nobody else knew this route like he did — how did they find it? The door had been tried open a few times. He was about to pull the trigger when a voice called from beyond the door.
"Wait, Eric. You need to hurry — you've got to get to work. We can't stay here. I'm getting us out of here." Raul's voice came from behind the door, making Eric lower the gun, puzzled.
How the hell had Raul tracked him? Had Raul slipped a tracker on him? Eric rummaged through the bag Raul had given him and found a small device blinking red.
"You bastard, Raul — you slipped a tracker on me. I won't forgive you," Eric yelled in anger, hurriedly pulling clothes on. If anyone saw him like this, it would be bad.
"Okay, okay, I'll wait — but hurry up before we all die!!!" Raul shouted, frantic. Now dressed in a thick shirt, Eric asked, bewildered, "What the hell is happening outside?!"
"I don't know either, Eric! But there are fanatics — like Chaos cultists — and tons of three-armed bald mutants swarming everywhere!!!" Raul answered, breathless and urgent.