Agatha was an old widower, who spent most of her time down by the estuary washing the clothes for the tenants of the Dawn apartment complex. Her hands, riddled with arthritis, never stopped as she dragged the assortment of multi coloured rags over her beaten washboard. Even as the morning faded away and the afternoon rolled in, her hands moved unceasingly. She wore an old black dress, with carnation prints that had long since faded and been restitched.
Her husband died in the bombing raids years ago, and left her eyesight was slowly leaving her too. Cloudy eyes that never seemed to move, yet never missed the stains that seeped into the clothes she vowed to wash.
"I won't hear another word of it." She said, her waning voice said sternly. "I've had enough of you meddling types - and your questions."
"Ma'am, the more information you can give me the more help I can provide- pro bono." Urukh sighed, stomping out the smouldering remains of his cigarette.
"What do you hope to find, bothering this old lady?" Her eyes never left her washboard.
"Your grandaughter. That's what I do."
She sighed, and didn't speak for some time.
"Meghan. That's her name. She got caught up with those ruffians. Insists she found 'the one'. God, I don't know what she was thinking."
Urukh scribbled into his notepad.
"'The one'. Any names?"
"No. I don't know and even if I did I wouldn't tell you. You have no idea what you lot put us through - sticking your nose in any dumpster fire you come across." She scrubbed at the cloth in her hands furiously.
"Thank you. I'll see what I can do." Urukh sighed, pulling out a carton from his coat pocket. Almost empty, save for one last crumpled, overturned cigarette.
"Yeah yeah, you got what you wanted. Now go do whatever you're going to do. But don't you get my Meghan in trouble, hear?"
Urukh said nothing, placing his notepad into his pocket and making his way up the embankment. He felt a great deal of pity for the old lady, and couldn't suppress the guilt of pouring salt in an open wound. He reasoned it to be a necassary evil; how else was he to find the poor girl? Whether or not that was just a poor excuse, he was unsure.
Either way, he has what he wanted, All he had to do now was dig around. The Red Dragon was the perfect mud pile to root around in. Plenty of veterans meant plenty of help for a fellow comrade. His valour didn't mean much these days, but he made sure to pull that card whenever necessary.
As he crested the embankment, he was met with the familiar sight of St James cathedral. He used to frequent here in search of solace and redemption, some time ago. Mass hadn't been held there in a long time, not since the pastor went off to fight in the war.
Navigating the narrow alleys of the East Borough, Urukh stopped at a small convenience to stock up on his trusty Stanford reds. He quickly lit one up, and replaced the cigarette with the crumpled stick before throwing away the old carton.
The pub's interior was thick with the stench of stale beer, and the floorboards clung to Urukh's boots. Barflies made idle chatter as they drank their sorrows down deep into the pits of their stomachs. The hum of their voices formed a symphony; the disappointment that runs through all of Swallow made manifest.
Nursing his drink at the bar was an old compatriot of Urukh's, an ex brigadier of the Dominion's army - Peter Sanfield. He was a fierce patriot of the Dominion, and a proud New Sanceister loyalist. Before the war, he was a gang member and sidewinder. The only change war brought him was a fierce sense of loyalty, nationalism, and an itch for violence that permeated the ranks of his 'Brigade' - mostly comprised of ex-military thugs.
He still wore his old uniform with great pride, showing off his medals to any willing to look. He had a nose and ears like cauliflowers, sunken eyes and a permanent scowl. His hair was shaven into a greasy flat top that accentuated his rugged, brick shaped head.
Urukh sat at the bar next to him, and gave Peter a slight nod.
"Urukh! Nice to see you still know how to break bread with your comrades - Even if all they serve now is this coalition piss." Peter bellowed, giving Urukh a hearty slap on the back.
"Likewise, but I'm here for business not pleasure." Urukh's eyes met Peter's.
"Still on that private detective shit? Tsk, Shouldnt have expected any less from Mr Goody-two-shoes." Peter clicked his tongue, and spat into his beer. "You're gonna get yourself in some real big trouble if you keep digging around in shit that ain't your business. You're lucky youve got me looking out for you. Us Sunrise boys gotta stick together, after all."
Urukh couldn't help but feel contempt upon hearing Peter's words. It was Dominion warmongers like him that caused the war, under the impression that the world was theirs to conquer. Now that their beloved Dominion was in tatters, they lick their wounded ego and spit at the mere thought of assimilating with the rest of the world outside of Swallow.
"I can handle myself. Takes more than knife wielding thugs to kill an Orc." Urukh responded, "I wanted to talk to you about disappearences in the East borough. Specifically, Meghan - a young lass who disappeared just last Sunday."
"Disappearances? Can't be - not 'round here. We look after our folk, do what those fuckers masquerading as Justiciars refuse to do. Probably just skipped town. These youngsters don't know the meaning of loyalty no more. Not like us Sunrise folk. We were raised right - with morals. Not this liberal coalition bullshit turning their brains to mush.", Peter grumbled incessantly.
"Apparently she was involved with a member of a street gang - the Bombshells."
At the mention of the Bombshells, Peter remained silenced for some time, and the chatter around them hushed slightly.
"Those fucking little shits. Too big for their fucking boots. They've been annexing territory - attacking my men out on the street like fucking savages. No sense of tactics or military prowess - just fucking stabbings and shootings. Apparently they've got some backers from the North borough - those dirty fucking coward bureaucrats. Traitors to the good people of Sunrise."
Urukh scribbled into his notepad "They have help from the North? How'd you come to that?"
"Tsk, those little shits usually just acts as thugs for the bigger players in the city. As of recent, some of the other smaller gangs got busted by the Justiciars. Conveniently enough, the Bombshells were left unscathed. Not to mention their weapons. They have semi-automatic pistols. Not like those single shot pepper boxes we had back in the war. Even my boys can only get their hands on a few, and they had one each."
Urukh frowned, and scribbled into his notepad. Justiciars haven't been known to make moves on gangs as of recent, seeing as the large gangs manage to keep some twisted form of order.
"These kids don't know what they're getting themselves into." Peter gripped his drink hard and took a swig. "You ought to be careful if you're going after them. Those dipshits have no dignity - no honour."
"Sure. Know where I can find them?", Irukh nodded.
"They hang around the old warehouses in the East - like fucking bums. Just don't end up in a body bag. "
Urukh didn't hang around. The mention of the Bombshells seemed to draw eyes from the people around him.
Walking out into the street, he attempted to organise his thoughts. Firstly, he had a two major questions:
Did Meghan simply run away, or was she taken?
How did the bombshells convince the Justiciars to help them?
Even if Meghan did run away, it didn't explain that this had clearly happened to multiple people. What was even stranger is why hadn't he heard of this sooner?
In regards to the Justiciars, he was even more confused. The Justiciars made a habit of inaction, leaving keeping order to the local gangs that operated within the boroughs. Most citizens have begun to even treat them as the local law, opting to circumvent reporting crimes to the law entirely. He couldn't even remember the last time he saw a Justiciar on patrol, so what reason did they have to help the Bombshells?
Urukh lit up a cigarette as he pondered, watching the smoke rise up into the glow of the setting sun.
"Oi, Greenie."
A voice from behind him interrupted his thoughts as he passed into a nearby alleyway. Urukh immediately felt a burning rage well up inside him, before forcibly reigning it in. He kept moving, ignoring the call.
"Dickhead, You deaf? We're talking to you."
The man grabbed Urukh's shoulder from behind and attempted to turn him forcibly. While the strength of the pull was insufficient, Urukh turned and met the man's eyes.
He was a young, no more than 25, man with greasy brown hair wearing dirty factory clothes. He seemed tall for a human, but was dwarfed by the 7 foot tall Orc.
He was flanked by two similarly dressed men. One was similar in height to the leader, while the other was significantly shorter and stockier - dignitary of a halfling or dwarf.
Urukh said nothing as he stared down at the man with his beady yellow eyes.
"Overheard you've been asking about us, Greenie. We Don't take too kindly to people digging around in our business. "
Urukh's rage boiled over, as his Orcish blood called for him to gut the men and paint the street with their blood. His powerful lungs inhaled on the cigarette, almost burning it through completely as he tried to calm himself down.
"You'd better fuck off, kid."
"Who do you think you're calling kid, greenie?" The man yelled, as veins bulged on his forehead. Reaching into the back of his overalls, he pulled out a sidearm and pointed it at Urukh.
Urukh recognised the pistol all too well. It was a Coalition 77 revolver, one of the many used to decimate the Sunrise Dominion's shitty pepperboxes many years ago.
Urukh's pupils displayed as his rage boiled up and took over. Without thinking, he let fly a devastating punch that struck the man in his chest. Ribs cracked as he doubled over, before being grabbed and hoisted by the neck in Urukh's meaty palm.
the other two retreated slightly and fumbled for their firearms, before letting fly a few shots in Urukh's direction.
Urukh exerted strength in his fingers and crushed the man's neck with ease. Euphoria rushed through his body and up his spine as he threw down the rag doll and rushed towards the larger of the two remaining thugs.
Shots flew in his direction, 3 of which striking his chest and stomach with another one grazing his shoulder. Urukh's Orcish fury numbed the pain, and he swiftly caught up and swung the man into the wall of the alley by his shoulder. Blood stained the wall as the man was quickly rendered unconscious.
The remaining thug looked on in horror as the Orc, over twice his size, gazed down at him. His Orcish heart pumped blood like crazy that gushed out of his wounds, staining his jacket.
Urukh struggled to swallow his rage, desperately reclaiming his agency.
"You'd better answer some questions, you little shit."
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