Promethium burned in the boilers, transforming into electrical current that illuminated the dim, yellow lights, shining upon the district shrouded by layers upon layers of towering buildings.
Wildly growing stalls narrowed the road, and slop, garbage, grease, and other waste invaded the thoroughfare. Alexander tried to avoid the filth, weaving his way through the stalls.
Cooking oil splattered in greasy, yellow stars. Sizzling meat skewers tumbled on the stove, and beside the stove sat lead canisters simmering with fat fruit, a product made from rendered fat that, despite containing chronic toxins, was one of the few sources of sweetness in the city.
Alexander bought only two greasy skewers of meat and stuffed them into his mouth. If one didn't scrutinize the origin of the meat, it was decent enough fare.
He pulled two cheap Lho sticks from his pocket and tossed them into a grease-caked can on the stall.
He then followed the narrow street westward, passed under an archway built from scrap iron, and walked through the crowded masses to a three-way intersection.
At the three corners of the intersection stood three towering statues carved from bluestone. They cut through the layers of crowded, chaotic buildings like three sharp blades cleaving the Hive City.
The identities of two of the statues had long been forgotten. Some said they were the first Ecclesiarchy missionaries to preach on Ashford Prime. Others claimed they were the two original Patriarchs of the Governor Vraks family.
But after the passage of countless years, neither claim could be substantiated. Neither missionaries nor governors could withstand the erosion of ten thousand years.
Only the third statue, the tallest and most sacred of them all, was recognized by every Imperial citizen at a single glance, who could then utter his divine name with deep reverence.
A faint, crimson sunlight spilled from above the statue, lighting upon its unfurled wings, the long spear in its hand, and its face, which held both benevolence and sternness.
Sanguinius, the Demigod Son of the Emperor, Lord of the Ninth Legion, the Archangel of the Imperium.
But Alexander wasn't here to admire the magnificent stature of Sanguinius; he was here for the small tavern beneath the tip of the spear.
At the exact location pointed to by Sanguinius's sharp spear stood a crude shack built with plaswood and quick-drying concrete. The sign hanging on the shack showed a cup filled with red liquid, and next to it was the tavern's name: The Speartip.
Before Alexander even reached the door, he heard a clamor of shouts and curses spill out from the tavern.
The wooden door was kicked open by a group of men wearing common Hive City worker clothes. They dragged a skinny man out, whose face was ugly and gray and marked with the rat-like tattoo of a local gang.
"Rag, did you frakking eat mutant shit?"
The leading worker cursed, his fists slamming repeatedly onto the ugly-faced gang member's head.
Alexander glanced at the scene and saw the gang member reaching out to him, crying, "Alexander, save me man!"
While begging for help, he still didn't forget to issue threats: "This is my brother Alexander! He's got pull with our gang boss! You're going to regret this!"
The workers stopped and all looked up at Alexander.
Alexander shrugged and kicked the gang member on the head.
"Beat him for my share too. I'll buy you all a drink later."
The workers cheered at the prospect of free drinks, and their blows landing on the gang member's head became more forceful.
Alexander pushed open the tavern door and walked up to the bar.
Behind the bar was the owner of The Speartip, a brawny, blind man. It was rumored that he had once gone to the Upper Hive and lost an eye there in some less-than-legal manner. Everyone nearby called him Old One-Eye.
That name always made Alexander think of the infamous Tyranid executioner.
"Smoke? Drink?" Old One-Eye asked, holding an Lho stick in his mouth.
Lho sticks weren't actual tobacco; they were a by-product of the Promethium industry, essentially an addictive narcotic containing tobacco essence, and excessive use could cause blindness.
However, the stuff was cheap and allowed people to temporarily forget their dark lives, helping Hive workers cope with unbearable, high-stress labor. Naturally, it became a necessity, even a form of currency, for many in the city.
Under Augustus Vraks' neglect, the order in the lower levels of the city had long collapsed, comparable to Gotham City's chaos. The only difference was that this Lord Governor, though also parentless early in life, wouldn't put on perverted tights to become a night vigilante.
In many cases, an Lho stick was more useful than the currency issued by the Governor.
So Alexander waved his hand, signaling Old One-Eye to serve him a drink.
Old One-Eye wiped a less-than-clean glass and pushed a liquid bubbling with a crimson foam toward Alexander.
This was certainly not expensive fine wine. It was just Old One-Eye's own homemade brew, fermented from Promethium industrial waste. It might also have had some strange, secret ingredients added, there could be any amount of bizarre or chemical additives in there.
But after all his time in the Hive, Alexander had learned the principle of "out of sight, out of mind."
As long as he didn't know the recipe, he could gulp down a large glass without blinking an eye or feeling uncomfortable.
"What bastardly, mutant-bred thing did Rag do this time?" Alexander asked, glancing at the gang member getting beaten up outside the door.
The man was Rag, a low-level member of the Under-Hive Rat Gang, and he was the one who had sold the location of that ruined district to Alexander.
"Who knows? He's always asking for it. Just another beating, I suppose," Old One-Eye said, puffing on his stick. "The God-Emperor taught us honesty, but he'll probably never learn."
Alexander nodded in profound agreement.
"Oh, any new news these past couple of days?" he asked after drinking half a glass of the crimson liquid.
"Something fresh. A scavenger found the abandoned Old District Eight." Old One-Eye replied. "Oh, and news from the next major district over: that new Ark Gang has taken it over in the last few years."
"The Ark Gang," Alexander muttered. He thought he remembered the Genestealer who was crushed into a 'bug-pancake' muttering that name.
So, Alexander recalled the information he knew about the Ark Gang.
It was a gang with religious undertones, only recently emerged. It had started far away from Alexander's district but had recently expanded nearby.
The gang leader was rumored to be a devout believer in the Emperor, claiming he delivered the Emperor's punishment upon evildoers.
He also claimed that the devils among the stars were about to extend their claws toward Ashford and devour the entire planet whole. Only by joining the Ark Gang and building an Ark to the stars could one ascend and find salvation when the devils arrived.
Wait a minute...
Alexander was momentarily stunned.
He carefully savored those words: Ark, Emperor's guidance, Day of Descent/Arrival, Ascension, and Salvation. This felt far too familiar.
Could this so-called Ark Gang be another mask for a Genestealer Cult?
Alexander's eye twitched slightly, and he immediately began contemplating packing up and moving.
Just then, a wail sounded from outside the door.
"Brother Alexander, why are you leaving me to die!"
Alexander punched the ugly face.
"That's what you get for almost getting me killed!"