[@agentmanatee] Horatio Drake, the noble son of a noble son, had no need to hear the sigh that would had signalled both the Navigators dislike for him, and his obvious frustration at the situation he now found himself in; this Rogue Trader may be self-absorbed, indulgent, quick to mock others and generally lazy, but to one born into a life within the class of the Terran nobility he or she need only look upon the other person to strip away everything and reveal their true selves. 

Indeed, the entirety of the Terran aristocracy played such a game from the moment they were old enough to fool another person. The peacock fashions and clothing, the clipped accents and use of High Gothic in every day conversation, the almost emotionless way in which they held themselves - all were merely tools in a full box of tricks designed to allow the user to live one more day in such a grouping.

For all this he was still a very superstitious man, and whatever Gravius might have to say about the Emperor's Tarot was surely something that he would want to hear.

Moments passed, seconds ticking away, before he gave a nod of curt acquiescence, “I would hear it,” he yelled into his comm-bead, “what does the tarot say?”

All the while they drew closer to Outpost Fifty-Seven, and it would not be long now before both Drake and Gravius would get what they wanted; one to surround himself with the extraordinary and the unusual, and the other to get off the shuttle and away from him.


[hr]


[center][h2]The Bloodied Fist Hab-Slums/Gang Crossroads/The Trade Market/Broken Exhaust[/h2][/center]


[@Pripovednik][@Hank][@Kingfisher][@Lone Wanderer][@Peik]Dagmar probably considered himself quite smart after his little stunt, pulling one gang into a fire-fight with another in order to save his own life, probably pretty smug...what he seemed not to understand, but what he should have, was that the ecosystem of Outpost Fifty-Seven was like any other when it was disturbed, and he had just riled up a hornets nest.

The [i]Bloodied Fist[/i] owned these slums, their boss Almano Jigandi was feared across the station for his ruthlessness and his willingness to kill anyone and everyone. Gangsters, drug-dealers, pimps and owners of seemingly harmless establishments had all suffered when they had signed a deal with this particular Devil. Now [i]the Dagger[/i] had bought death to an entire crew of this gang, [b]this[/b] boss, and news spread like a conflagration from one end of the Outpost to the other.

All across the station comms and radios crackled to life, otherwise unoccupied persons suddenly picking up weapons – either hidden or at least nearby – finding them loaded and awaiting the signal of Mr Jigandi to execute his will on not only the persecutor of this heinous assault, but also the gang that was now known to have assisted him.

In the Trade Market stalls were suddenly closing, only outsiders and the stupid keeping their livelihoods open, previously unseen groups of dispersed lowlifes – ex Guard, criminals, hired guns and others – gathering together to form the lowest tier of the [i]Fists[/i] army on the ground.

From the better quarters, such as where the [i]Broken Exhaust[/i] was situated, came the men that would lead these hoodlums and toughs into the fray; former officers of the Navy and Guard, experienced scrappers and knife fighters, and aristocrats without a throne to their name.

Others were mobilising, of course, for Outpost Fifty-Seven was a much divided patch of floating metal. Several families were tied to Jigandi by various machinations, their own bruisers and throat-slitters slithering off to find the nearest allied group, while over a dozen others simply holed up in their own headquarters and prepared to wait it out.

The gang to which Ego had belonged before his death, the [i]Blue Virus[/i] lorded over by a former raider and pirate known as Black John, gathered all their forces to the crossroads. Now that Agmar and his cronies were out of the way, they had come to take over his hab-slums and fight to keep them if it came to it; several dozen blue-haired fighters, tooled up with anything they could find or carry, made their presence known at the crossroads where Dagmar was now more-or-less alone.

There would soon be an explosion of violence, and the fuse to the keg was already lit; would those lost individuals band together? Would they head for the port and hope to find a way off the station before it imploded on itself? Would they call in contacts of their own? Who could know?

Their lives, their choices, and hopefully they would make the right one.



[hider=Summary]So, yea. 

All across the station I.E. Wherever your character is, they will see signs of preparation for gang warfare. Whether from members of the Bloodied Fist or others is up to you to decide, as is what your character is going to do now that soon people are going to start dying in the streets.

Of course, there is no way that Dagmar could have known what his actions would do, and yet it had now happened.

Will you team up, fight back, call on others to rally to your cause? Will you try to escape by any means possible? Whatever you do, it is up to you.

The gangs are not yet fully organised, so it will take a couple of hours or more for full-scale violence to break out – though there may be a couple of skirmishes between gangs living pretty close to one another.[/hider]