[center][h1][i]Bring us the girl, wipe away the debt...[/i][/h1][/center]

[hr]

	A shudder in the RamRail caused a shift in the boxes that awoke Marcus from a dreamless slumber. He'd been perched atop the precarious cargo for the last few hours and getting much needed rest for as long as he could manage, each one was packed with sardine packed supplies for the peripheral village of the Hierarchy and, despite this, there was just enough room left in each to allow shifting that caused the stacks to be unstable. Not so much as to ever risk losing the contents, but then these sorts of freight had never meant to have civilian passengers and so they were a death sentence if Marcus had got caught between two in motion. Additionally, boxes did not need to see and so all the lightning had been turned off to conserve power and he was forced to rely on the dirty light that could penetrate the mottled shielding around the doors. He had been trapped in this space for the last few days, the routine buzzing of the chrono on his wrist kept him conscious of the date and time, but the stifling heat from the engine beneath him and the danger of crates meant the entire journey was feeling more like a jail sentence than a job. He hadn't expected first class or a motorcade, of course, but he had hoped his bosses wouldn't have been so cheap as to pack him away like equipment. Yet here he was.

	Each box was stamped by the triangle pierced by a scroll of the Hierarchy and had stencilled into it the contents. All was probably quite inaccurate given the corruption of the bureaucracy - last calendar year there had been over six thousand executions in the finance department alone - and especially as Marcus had looted from one damaged crate a replacement grapple and line to replace the older model he had had. Stretching to the left with a crack, and then to the right, Marcus could barely himself think over the rattle of the carts on the rails and the buzz of generators directing power to whatever subsystems were meant to keep the place habitable to inanimate objects. They seemed to suck all of the moisture out of the air and replace it with an intolerable heat. Chapped lips were a worry of a past, replaced by genuine fear of dehydration followed by delirious gratitude to his Ma for teaching him to make hydration tablets on a shoe string budget. But even those were running out and they were no replacement for a cool glass of water. Marcus had heard there was a lake near the village and he fully intended to dunk his whole head under before he got to work looking for anyone whatsoever. 

	Skintails, rats that seemed to thrive on waste into nasty, brutish and wretched versions of themselves, occasionally became visible from the glimmer of their eyes but quickly darted back out of sight. At first a small gaggle had tried to nibble at Marcus whilst he slept, but the slash of his knife and a few shots quickly asserted his pre-eminence over the pack in the train. Now they were a helpful reminder of his fate if he failed this mission. The powers that be were never a forgiving sort and his was a long line of debts to payback for. Most not of his own creation, but then debt forgiveness upon the death of a parent had been rescinded long ago. Now, caught in the web of indebtedness and oaths, Marcus was looking for the final piece to unlock his lifelong puzzle. Suddenly, a screech of metal on metal broke his thoughts and Marcus ducked into a crevice built into a wall section and braced himself. The screeching got louder and then the train shook as a new cart rammed into the back and immediately joined the growing convoy of freight.

	RamRail, so named for the technology that made it useful, functioned cheaply by having engines run twenty four seven up and down the lines, with stations collecting cargo along the route and firing full carts into the back, known as Ramming, to connect up and be carried along the line until disengaging and diverting off the rails to their destination. It was fully automated, apart from some mechanics and maintenance engineers, and had made some very influential people very wealthy. As the cart returned to normalcy Marcus pulled himself up and felt out where his boxes now lay before finding a new position to lay down and try to get more rest. It would do his back and head no good to enforce this much sleep, but the alternative was even more miserable. It would be another two days before the cart he had boarded disengaged and rolled into the RamRail depot for Brightlingsea. Loaders and porters deactivated the shielding and hauled the locking restraints back, only to wretch at the stench of of man who stepped out with a wide, if weary, grin. Coated in grime that had been kicked up in the cart and stuck to his sweat soaked body and carrying a bag filled with his waste from along the route he must have seemed like a homeless ghoul to even these brutes. But he still managed a chipper nod and then hopped down, moving between the confused faces, and marched off on his way to the village which stood a few stories high the other side of the depot.

	His thick boots were steel capped and his clothes bulked to contain as much protection as he could afford, as well as conceal some of the more archeotech equipment he used to capture the very specific quarry that he hunted. Moving between the other carts being loaded and unloaded, Marcus hurled his waste behind one untouched structure for some unlucky soul to find and diverted for the gateway that led through the chain link topped with razorwire that acted as protection. One of the men on duty noticed him quickly and sniffed the air before his face split in disgust. [color=ec008c]"What the bloody hell are you, and why'd you stink? Homeless ain't allowed round here, how'd you get in?"[/color] Marcus noticed the worn Hierarchy overalls and the tremor of a drinking mans hand. This was hardly a patriot of the state.

	[color=662d91]"Got lost the other side of the rails, chum. Almost got taken out by the latest one coming in, just had time to dart over here before I was red paste on the tracks!"[/color]

	[color=ec008c]"You get what you deserve wanderin' 'round the tracks like that."[/color] The man sniffed, scratching a particularly flaky patch of skin on his chin.

	[color=662d91]"Ah, but then one of you would be in the dog house until you cleaned up my brain matter. I feel I saved you a job, didn't I?"[/color]

	[color=ec008c]"S'pose. Pretty well dressed for a bum, though. Where you from?"[/color]

	[color=662d91]"Oh, I travel about a bit. Find jobs wherever I can. Used to Sherriff up Routlidge way, that was until they closed the office."[/color] The employee kissed his teeth in sympathy of another stiffed worker and Marcus knew he was fine. "[color=662d91]"So, you think I could get into town? I'd really like a drink and a lie down."[/color] There was a nod and Marcus thanked the man before moving around the arm of the barrier on the tarmac road into the depot and out into the short distance between the outermost buildings of the village and the depot proper. Spring had just arrived and the crisp autumnal air was receding in favour of warmer, but that hadn't kept the edge of a chill from nipping at the flesh and forcing people into coats. Marcus was once again thankful for his thick working gear, and practically ecstatic for the freshness as compared to the 3recyled air of the rail cart. Now, where abouts was that lake...