Visibility in the acid swamp was less than ten meters.
The air was saturated with high concentrations of sulfides, and the jeep's paint was bubbling and peeling off at a visible rate. The windshield wipers let out a tortured screech, scraping away layer after layer of yellow, oily slime.
"This place is so wretched, even a dog wouldn't come here," Andy grumbled, though he didn't dare stop. The roadbed consisted of soft, rotting humus; if he stopped, the wheels would sink, and the chassis would be slowly digested by the acid.
The sewers of Forge-7 had been soaking in waste for thousands of years. The wastewater, heavy metals, and organic solvents from countless factories converged here, combined with the extreme temperature fluctuations of the Underhive to form a massive biochemical reaction pit. While this environment was unsuitable for humans, it was a paradise for certain specialized organisms and viruses.
This was precisely why the "Beak Doctors" had chosen this place as their base. No other faction was willing to stay in a location where going outside required wearing three layers of hazmat gear.
Ahead, a rusted iron bridge appeared, spanning a river that bubbled with green gas. This was the agreed meeting point. On the other side of the bridge, three heavily modified black ambulances were parked. They were called ambulances, but in reality, they were black-painted armored transports with white beaks painted on the sides. Gas sprayers were mounted on the roofs, and all windows had been replaced with bulletproof glass.
A dozen figures in black hazmat suits stood before the vehicles. They wore the signature beak masks, the long beaks filled with spices and activated carbon to filter the toxic air. Beside them crouched four massive monsters.
Andy stood 2.3 meters tall, but these creatures exceeded three meters. Their muscles bulged like tumors, their skin was an unhealthy purplish-red, and their bodies were covered in thick surgical sutures and metal bolts.
"Flesh Golems"—the masterpieces of the Beak Doctors. They were typically created using strong gang members or mutants as templates, catalyzed by massive injections of steroids, growth hormones, and frenzy chemicals. To control these monsters that possessed only killing instincts, the doctors would lobotomize them and implant simple control chips. In Underhive melee combat, they were practically invincible.
Andy hit the brakes, and the jeep screeched to a steady halt at the bridgehead. He pushed the door open, carrying the cryo-chest full of hearts in one hand while shouldering the heavy stubber with the other.
The crowd opposite him immediately grew restless. Usually, the one delivering the goods was "Vulture" from the Skinner gang—a scarred, screaming lunatic. But today... who was this guy? Wrapped in an ochre hazmat suit like a mummy and lugging heavy weaponry. A new face?
The crowd parted as a man wearing a gold-trimmed beak mask stepped forward. His black leather trench coat was well-tailored, carrying a certain eerie elegance. The "beaks" called him the "Chief Surgeon," the head of this branch.
"Where is Vulture?" The Chief Surgeon's voice came through a voice modulator inside his mask, echoing with a muffled, unpleasantly effeminate tone. "Why didn't he come?"
"He retired," Andy replied.
The Chief Surgeon immediately followed up: "And Blood-Fang?"
"Also retired."
"..."
Andy's voice, processed through his external speakers, was a cold, emotionless electronic synthesis. "I've taken over the business in this sector from now on."
The Chief Surgeon's beak tilted slightly, clearly scrutinizing Andy. In the Underhive, gang wars and leadership changes were common. For the doctors, as long as the supply of "raw materials" was constant, it didn't matter who was in charge. A newcomer might even be better—perhaps they could drive the price down.
"Did you bring the cargo?" The Chief Surgeon didn't dwell on Blood-Fang's fate and got straight to the point.
Andy tossed the cryo-chest forward.
CLANG.
The box slid to the doctor's feet. A subordinate wearing a standard mask stepped forward and flipped the lid. As the white cold air cleared, the neatly arranged organs were revealed. The subordinate inspected one incision and used a portable device to test its vitality.
"Top quality," the subordinate nodded to the Chief Surgeon. "Much better than the rotten meat we used to get. Professionally cut."
The Chief Surgeon nodded in satisfaction. "Very well." He waved a hand. Two subordinates immediately rolled forward several barrels marked with hazard symbols. "Here are the acid, saltpeter, and analgesics you requested." His tone carried a hint of condescension. "Since you are a new partner, I'll throw in an extra crate of anti-radiation drugs."
According to the old rules, the trade was over. Cash for goods—no further interference. But Andy didn't move. He stood there like a yellow statue.
"What is it?" The Chief Surgeon grew impatient. "Not enough?"
"It's not that it's too little," Andy began. "I just think these things are boring." He gestured toward the barrels of acid. "This low-grade raw material, I can get that myself. I want something else."
The Chief Surgeon's eyes turned cold. "What do you want?"
"I want antibiotics." Andy raised a finger wrapped in a thick glove. "Not just the finished product. I want the formulas, the calibration procedures, and the raw materials for an entire fermentation system. If possible, I'll take a copy of the core chip for your production line as well."
A deathly silence followed. The Chief Surgeon looked at Andy as if he were an idiot.
What kind of interstellar joke is this?
In the Underhive, a box of potent antibiotics could trade for ten lives or a truckload of munitions. The reason the Beak Doctors could navigate between major gangs without being touched was precisely because they held a monopoly on antibiotic production technology. Now, this reckless newcomer was asking for their lifeblood?
"Hehehe..." The Chief Surgeon let out a shrill laugh, like nails scraping a chalkboard. "Interesting. Very interesting. That moron Blood-Fang was crazy, but at least he knew the rules. You aren't just breaking the rules—you're looking for death."
The Chief Surgeon took a step back, his elegance vanishing instantly, replaced by a savage killing intent. "Chop him into pieces. His organs should fetch a good price too."
As soon as he spoke, the four Flesh Golems that had been crouching let out deafening roars. They lunged to their feet, their massive presence feeling like four mountains of meat. With heavy strides, they swung fists the size of millstones and charged at Andy.
At the same time, the other dozen doctors weren't idle. They pulled green glass bottles from their pouches and smashed them toward Andy's area.
Smash! Smash! Smash!
The bottles shattered, and thick yellow-green smoke exploded instantly. It was a high-concentration mixture of mustard gas and neurotoxins. Even in a hazmat suit, a single leak would result in the gas corroding skin and paralyzing nerves, leading to a death of extreme agony and suffocation.
The Chief Surgeon stood back, watching coldly as the toxic mist swallowed Andy. They had used this combo many times and had never failed. Weaken them with gas, then crush them with the golems. Even a Space Marine in power armor would have to kneel if they weren't wearing a gas mask.
However, from within the yellow toxic cloud, the sound of mechanical operation suddenly emerged.
Whirrr—
It was the sound of a heavy weapon pre-heating. Then:
THUD! THUD! THUD! THUD!
A dull roar tore through the mist. A massive hole exploded in the chest of the foremost Flesh Golem. Flesh flew everywhere, and purplish-red organs sprayed out like rain. But the monster felt no pain; even with its chest hollowed out, it continued to charge.
THUD! THUD!
Two more shots. This time, aimed at the knees. The golem's thick thighs shattered instantly. Its massive frame lost balance and slammed into the ground, sliding for several meters before stopping. The second Flesh Golem didn't even reach him before its head was vaporized.
Andy stepped out of the yellow mist. The surface of his ochre hazmat suit was sizzling—the toxic gas was corroding the rubber layer. But Andy was perfectly fine. This weapon designed for carbon-based life was harmless to a silicon-based entity like him, aside from some minor paint damage.
"That's it?"
Andy fired as he walked. The arm holding the heavy stubber was steady as a rock. The third and fourth golems were turned into piles of shredded meat within seconds.
The doctors, who had been throwing gas bottles, were dumbstruck. This wasn't how the script was supposed to go! Why wasn't he falling? Why wasn't he coughing?? Why were his movements not slowed in the slightest?!
"Fire! Use your guns!" the Chief Surgeon screamed, fear finally entering his voice. The doctors scrambled to draw their pistols and short-barreled shotguns. But under the suppression of the heavy stubber, this resistance was laughable.
Andy didn't even bother dodging. Most bullets had their kinetic energy absorbed by the suit; the rest hit the metal armor beneath, leaving only faint white marks. He approached step by step, like a yellow ghost that ignored death.
Andy didn't kill everyone. With precise shots, he shattered the legs of the few doctors attempting to flee, then charged directly at the Chief Surgeon. The Surgeon tried to pull a polymer dagger in a desperate act of resistance.
Andy simply slapped him.
SLAP!
With terrifying force, the exquisite gold-trimmed beak mask shattered, and several teeth flew out. The Chief Surgeon was sent flying two meters away, sliding down the side of an ambulance. Before he could crawl up, a foot was planted on his chest.
CRUNCH.
The sound of ribs snapping was clearly audible. Andy leaned down, his cold hand grasping the doctor's neck, lifting him into the air like a dead chicken.
"Cough... let... let go..." The Surgeon's face turned a deep purple, his legs kicking wildly.
Andy looked into those eyes filled with terror, his tone hauntingly calm. "Now, can we discuss business again? Regarding the antibiotic production line."
The Chief Surgeon nodded frantically, tears, snot, and blood streaming down his face. "Give it... I'll give it all to you..."
"Very well." Andy released his grip, letting the doctor crash to the ground. "Lead the way. To your lab. And don't try anything. As you can see, I'm 'allergic' to toxic gas—as soon as I smell it, I can't help but tear people into pieces."
The Chief Surgeon scrambled up, clutching his chest, and pointed toward a faintly visible spire deep in the swamp. "The... there. All our equipment is there."
Andy was satisfied. This "physical negotiation" was indeed the most efficient way. It skipped all the hypocritical pleasantries and haggling, directly achieving a substantial win-win situation.
Long live efficiency!