[@agentmanatee]"I can speak only for myself Lord captain. I am prepared to go... but I must ask, for what reason do you insist that I accompany you to the cesspool of Outpost 57? Would I not be more useful to you here Lord captain?" A deliberate sneer stretched the thin lips of the Rogue Trader, twisting the corners into an expression that could be considered slightly manic, his eyes boring holes into those of the Navigator as his Armsmen filed into the shuttle and the pilots prepared the craft for launch. “My dear Gravius, I honestly do not trust you, nor do I think it would be wise to leave you aboard; I [b]know[/b] you are running from [i]something[/i], and I believe that bringing you with me would be the best course of action to take.” His expression changed to one of mock thoughtfulness, a thin hand gently stroking his hairless chin, “while it is true that, should you die, I would need to find another Navigator, it is a risk I am willing to take.” With another flash of a smile, this one more genuine than the last, he swanned up the boarding ramp and made his way toward the front of the vehicle. Though he would sit in the passenger compartment, he sat in front of all others as it should be. Soon enough the simple craft was in motion, rising from the deck and bursting out into the open nothingness of space, Drake's thoughts resting on the reason why Gravius Pemelton was there in the first place. Exactly what his crime may have been he did not know, but he had heard tell from over talkative deck-hands (those that were not brain-dead thralls) that the self-satisfied servant of House Pemelton was – much like himself – in exile from his true home; some said that he had murdered another Navigator in cold blood, others that he had gotten too close to the warp he studied, and others that he had partaken of human flesh. No doubt the last was a ridiculous claim, but the others... “Pilot,” barked Drake through an internal comm-bead, “how far to the stations port?” “Not far, lord,” came the clipped reply, the pilot far too busy to prattle with his superior, “about half-an-hour.” Oh God-Emperor, he was to be stuck in this flying coffin - accompanied by soldiers carrying munitions, weapons, and that three-eyed witch – for half of a Terran hour?! Well, may as well get some answers. “Navigator Gravius,” he half-shouted above the noise of the shuttles engines, knowing that the Navigator had his own comm-bead which he rarely took off when outside of his quarters, “tell me, for I can not be certain of the reasoning, but how came you to be in my service? I realise that I hired you, of course, but it was Mr Briggs who came to know your particulars. I would be equally interested to know.” Whether the mutant even replied meant little to Drake, but conversation distracted him from his worries and, since Mr Briggs [b]had[/b] hired him, he may as well find out more about him. They would be spending much time together, after all. [hr] [@Pripovednik]No one in the [i]Bloodied Fist[/i] really liked the man many hereabouts knew as 'the Dagger', a suitable moniker for one who walked about like a one-man armoury, blades festooning him from torso to toe – blades that, on this day, he had had the misfortune of leaving in his room. For some time now he had been renting a chamber from Agmar D'Etant, a snivelling weasel of a man, all rat-faced and bucktoothed, but a slum-lord who also happened to be a loyal servant of the head ganger of the Bloodied Fist. For weeks now he had kept tabs on Dagmar, covertly as it happens, reporting his findings to his boss whenever the opportunity arose and just waiting for the day when that angst-ridden fool would pay for the death of their agents at a certain celebratory meal. It was an event that some might have forgotten, but the Bloodied Fist never forgets a grudge, and Dagmar, by protecting Mathias, had dropped himself right in it. Now they waited for him outside the hab-slum, a seven-storey building housing over a dozen extended families in squalor and filth, at least eleven toughs of varying degrees of skill – each armed with a sidearm, from stubbers to ex-Guard laspistols, and preparing to end the life of this interfering fool once and for all. [hider=Options?]How will Dagmar respond to this? The area he has been renting is overcrowded, full of wretches and the most destitute on Outpost 57, one of the poorer parts of the station but with numerous alleyways and roads leading to more affluent sections. In the immediate area are more hab-slums of varying heights, some with their own security provided by other gangs, some where a man could disappear... As stated, there are eleven men (excluding Agmar – although he is there with them, but unarmed) each with some form of sidearm and a close-quarter weapon (mostly bats, knives etc) blocking the main entrance to Dagmars building; there is a back entrance, as well as a sewer entrance that comes up in the main lobby of the place, but there could well be more thugs there as well. What you do is ultimately up to you, but remember that every action has a consequence.[/hider] [hr] [@Kingfisher]There it was, the [i]Broken Exhaust[/i] – some would say the finest place in this part of town – and sitting inside that particular building was none other than fat Nisvillia Blissponis and her two favoured goons. Ralph the Shark, named such on account of his rows of sharpened teeth, could not quite believe his luck as he observed them from the comparative darkness and shadow of a nearby street corner; dressed in his favourite flak-vest and torn trousers, his feet as bare as the day he was born, he had not expected to find Nisvillia this quickly! True, it has been several days, but his employer was an impatient man...should he be able to complete his assignment, well, his employer would be very happy. Ever since her families fall she had been hunted, hunted by sharks like himself, and her very presence made her enemies of the larger gangs of the station. Emperor bear witness, his was not the only one willing to pay good thrones to see her life extinguished. Slowly, softly, he slid the muffled las-pistol from its holster – it was a custom model, made specially for a nice untroubled kill, the elongated muzzle ensuring as little sound escaped as possible when fired – taking a knee where he stood and resting the muzzle of the weapon on an upheld forearm. “One...two...” On the count of three he exhaled and squeezed the trigger of his weapon, a searing beam of laser speeding toward the window of the joint, the heat able to be felt by Nisvillia as the projectile missed her face by a mere inch; whatever chance the Shark might have had was now gone, whores letting up screams and drug-dealers scattering to the four winds, the corpse of a waitress draped almost elegantly across the table where Blissponis and her hired muscle had seated themselves. It was a botched job, and Ralph now knew his own life was forfeit, but if anyone thought this would be the last attempt on the life of this spoilt toad they were gravely mistaken.