Week 11 Post Battle
Adept Chumlee B-Vor, 2nd junior deputy to the 3rd secretary to the CCCP vice reg-arch for Corpse Town, sighed. He had never liked squats. Some might accept them as a legitimate part of Necromunda and, by extension, mankind’s glorious empire, but if he were Reg-Arch of Corpse Town he would hound the little blighters into the sump. What was worse than a squat though, was an irate, carapace-plated squat bearing bounty hunter credentials who threw urine-soaked rags onto the desk of hard-working CCCP adepts.
Said squat was now, thankfully, gone. But the rag remained. Chumlee gave a cautious sniff. For all the airs and graces he assumed as 2nd junior deputy to the 3rd secretary to the CCCP vice reg-arch for Corpse Town, all Necromundans recognised the smell of giant rat piss. It was the way it made the eyes water, the throat burn, and the stomach heave all at once. It was the way it seemed to linger no matter how thoroughly it was scrubbed away - the stuff could probably stain diamond. Right now it was staining his desk and, according to the dearly departed squat, staining the boundary markers of Corpse Town.
He understood, or was aware of at least, the complaints of the Lost. Were they not to be condemned without thought of mercy as heretics, traitors, and wielders of rats, he might even have some sympathy: Who would not wish to live his life in his own way? Who would not resent his hab being destroyed? Who would not fight for land he considered his own? But they had taken things too far, undermined their own cause, lost any moral righteousness or recourse to justice they might have deserved. The gunfights, the sabotage, the assassinations he could accept. It was Necromunda. But the rat piss! The squats! This was taking things too far.
Adept Chumlee B-Vor sighed again. The Lost. If it were not for the Lost, all would be well in his world. Were it not for the Lost, Corpse Town would be profitable and acceptably peaceful (by Necromundan standards at least). Were it not for the Lost, angry squats would not be stomping into his office. Were it not for the Lost, rat piss would not be stinging at his eyes and nostrils. Were it not for the Lost, he would not be having to entrust the local gangs, who were inherently untrustworthy, with high explosives. It was time to show these vagabonds how the righteous behaved.
Far from the CCCP headquarters, the high council of the Lost finished the chanting. No one would dare say it out loud again, not after what had just happened to Brother Gaspard before the chant started, but the ‘assistance’ of the gods had been a disappointment. Doc Keets had promised they would make blood would rain from the high places, eyes boil with pestilence, the twisted machinations of their foes explode from their skulls, and make the Lost experience exquisite ecstasy as their enemies tore themselves to piece in the throes of unbearable agony. None of those things had happened.
What had happened was a whole lot of fighting to basically no end. They had not regained their territory. Fighters had been set on fire. Fighters had gone insane. A rat had pissed on a border marker. But the Lost and their allies had done all that themselves with no evident divine assistance. Could the gods do any of the things they promised? Even one?
Well, the state of Brother Gaspard proved that they could – every single one of them - to one man at least. After that and at Doc Keets’ urging, the whole council (minus one) had started chanting, appealing to the gods for more assistance in the next stage of their glorious revolution. Apparently the gods particularly liked chanting.
The head of the council was chanting and praying with voluble enthusiasm. But he was also scheming. Ordinarily he would have picked Brother Gaspard’s brains about this sort of strategic thinking, but they were on another level now and the stairs looked lethally slippery now, dripping in red. Instead, he delicately picked Brother Gaspard’s nose out of his beard, flicked his ear off his knee, and shook his hand off his boot. He would have to think this one up on his own.
He decided it was time for the Lost to step things up - They would carry on with the praying and the chanting. They would carry on doing what Doc Keets asked. But they would also do things their own way. Divine assistance would be nice, but what they really needed was high explosives. It was time to show the oppressors how the righteous behaved.