Lorne had been inside Roe's chambers plenty of times before, but it still caught him off guard every damn time.
The rest of the Gunrunners lived in filth and grime, scraping by on whatever comforts they could afford. But Roe? Roe lived like a king.
Fine silks draped the walls, expensive carpets muffled footsteps, and an assortment of gold trinkets, rare artifacts, and stolen relics decorated every available surface. A throne of pillaged excess, built to remind everyone who walked through these doors that Roe was above them.
Lorne never liked it in here. It made his skin crawl.
Still, he knew better than to hesitate. He stepped inside and waited.
Roe was lounging in a high-backed leather chair, boot resting lazily on the edge of a polished wooden table, fingers spinning a dagger between them. The faint scent of smoke and whiskey clung to the air.
"Well?" Roe drawled, not even looking up.
Lorne clasped his hands behind his back. "The two newcomers handled the job. No issues."
Roe hummed, clearly bored.
Lorne hesitated before adding, "Noticed something else, though."
That got Roe's attention. He flicked his eyes up, lazy but sharp.
"Oh?"
Lorne shrugged. "Talia seemed real interested in the rat one."
Roe stopped spinning the dagger.
Lorne continued, his tone carefully casual. "Flirting with him. Almost like they had history."
A slow smirk curled across Roe's lips.
Of course, he knew Talia's history. He had personally poached her from her position as a scout, tore her away from past loyalties, and rebuilt her into what he needed.
But this? This was interesting.
Roe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "That so?"
Lorne nodded.
For a long moment, Roe was silent, tapping the hilt of his dagger against the wood. Then, he exhaled a slow, amused breath.
"Think I'd like to know more about that."
He turned the dagger once more between his fingers before slamming it down into the table, the tip sticking deep into the wood with a sharp thunk.
His gaze lifted, meeting Lorne's. "Thing is, Lorne… I don't like blind spots. And right now? That little rat of yours, Matias? He's sittin' in one."
Lorne inclined his head. "You want me to follow him?"
Roe shook his head. "Not yet. You know me, I want my information first. Background. Details. I don't make moves unless I know what the board looks like."
He stretched lazily. "There's folks in this city who keep records. Old names. Histories. People who don't exist on paper but still exist in someone's little book of secrets."
Lorne's ear twitched. "You saying there's some kinda historian somewhere?"
Roe smirked. "Somethin' like that."
Lorne crossed his arms. "You know where to find 'em?"
Roe snorted. "Now come on, you stupid asshole, don't you think I'd tell you if I knew? Go ask the damn Fence." Roe exhaled a slow breath, letting the weight of the conversation settle.
Lorne knew that meant he had to go see Vorrik, to go to The Fang.
The Rusted Fang, It wasn't just a bar, it was a den of survival, where drunken criminals, washed-up fighters, and back-alley dealers nursed their vices under flickering lantern light and it always smelled like vomit and regret.
Lorne pushed past the rowdy, half-conscious regulars, barely giving them a glance. He wasn't here for them.
He was here for Vorrik.
And, as expected, the Gunrunner fence was exactly where he always was, propped against the bar, a half-empty mug in one hand, his gold-ringed tail flicking lazily behind him.
The moment Vorrik spotted Lorne, his whiskers twitched, and a sharp-toothed grin spread across his face.
"Lorne!" he called, far too loud for the room. "Long time no see, buddy."
Then, without missing a beat:
"Murder anyone interesting lately?"
Lorne sighed. "Hey Vorrik."
"That's me!" Vorrik gestured grandly, nearly knocking over his drink. "Y'know, I was just saying to myself, 'Hey, it's been a while since someone came in here lookin' to start trouble.' And here you are! Fate's funny like that."
Lorne slid onto the stool next to him, motioning for the bartender. "I'm not here to start trouble."
Vorrik swirled his drink, his tail flicking lazily behind him. "Yeah, yeah, you never are. But you wouldn't be sittin' here if you didn't want something. So let's hear it. What's got you sniffing around tonight?"
Lorne leaned against the bar, keeping his posture easy, casual. "I'm looking for someone. A record-keeper. Someone who knows names, histories, people that ain't supposed to exist on paper but still do."
Vorrik arched a brow. "Ohhh, looking for secrets, are we? That's dangerous business, my friend. Dangerous business."
Lorne smirked. "So I'm in the right place."
Vorrik grinned, then took a slow sip of his drink. "Y'know, information like that ain't cheap."
Lorne let the silence settle, then nodded slightly. "I figured. The guy you sold that kind of information to last time, what did he pay?"
Vorrik chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh no, you're not gettin' me that easy."
Lorne took a lazy sip of his drink. "Didn't think so. But I do wonder, how does someone even get in touch with a guy like that? What's the process?"
Vorrik scoffed, swirling his drink. "Please. Like I'd tell you about him."
Lorne exhaled through his nose. "So it's by referral, then. That makes sense."
Vorrik froze, just for a split second. Not a full hesitation, but enough.
Lorne watched him, filing the reaction away. "Which means he doesn't take just anyone. Probably only works with people he trusts."
Vorrik lifted his mug to take a sip. "Mmh that's right."
Lorne leaned in slightly, keeping his voice casual. "Then that means you must know him pretty well, huh?"
Vorrik set his mug down, tapping his claws against the counter. "I know a lot of people."
Lorne hummed, then nodded toward the bartender. "Another round."
Vorrik chuckled. "Trying to get me drunk so I slip? That's cheap, Lorne."
Lorne smirked, shaking his head. "Not at all. I just think you deserve a drink, considering you've been so helpful."
Vorrik's tail flicked. "Oh yeah? And what exactly did I help you with?"
Lorne exhaled, stretching his fingers against the bar. Then, he looked at Vorrik.
"I was just wondering who in Rat City would even have access to those kinds of records. But you already confirmed it's a he before I even asked."
Vorrik's smirk faltered, just slightly.
Lorne continued. "And you said he only works with referrals. Which means he's careful. But you also know what he charges, which means you've worked with him before. More than once, I'd bet."
Vorrik's expression didn't change. But his tail flicked again.
Gotcha.
Lorne leaned back, taking another sip of his drink. "So really, I don't need you to tell me who he is."
He paused, watching Vorrik carefully.
"You already did."
A beat of silence.
Then, Vorrik sighed dramatically, rubbing his face.
"Damn it, yeah it's Gregor."
Lorne smirked, setting his glass down.
Vorrik gave him an incredulous look. "You set me up. That was a setup."
Lorne shrugged. "You just like to talk."
Vorrik groaned, waving him off. "I hate you. I really do."
Then, just as easily as he had been grinning before, Vorrik's expression shifted. His smirk remained, but his eyes darkened, sharp and predatory now, like he was deciding if he should be amused or pissed.
"Damn, Lorne, I swear I'm gunna kill you one of these days," he murmured, voice lowering as he leaned in slightly. "I'll wear your damn skin like a coat, okay buddy?"
Lorne met his gaze, unfazed. "What's the lining gonna be?"
A beat, then, Vorrik snorted.
And just like that, the tension snapped back into something playful. He burst into laughter, clapping Lorne hard on the back.
"See, that's why I like you, man. Always keepin' me entertained."
Lorne let him have his fun before steering things back to business. "Hey at least I bought you a drink, now, where do I find Gregor?"
Vorrik leaned on the bar, drumming his claws against the counter. "That's the trick, ain't it? Gregor don't like being found. But you? You're persistent. Check the lower tunnels, near the abandoned maintenance stations. Word is, he's been hiding out there."
Lorne finished his drink and stood. "Appreciate it."
Vorrik waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. Go bother someone else now."
Lorne turned to leave, but not before catching Vorrik's parting words.
"If you do find him, tell him Vorrik says hi. And that he still owes me for that game of dice."
Lorne smirked but didn't respond then he stepped out of The Rusted Fang, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind him. The muffled sounds of drunken conversations and clinking mugs faded as he moved further into the tunnels, swallowed by the humid, stale air of Rat City's underbelly.
Gregor was hiding in the lower tunnels, past the abandoned maintenance stations, which meant Lorne had a bit of a walk ahead of him.
And not the safe kind.
Lorne walked with purpose, boots silent against the damp stone, his ears tuned to every distant sound.
He knew this area well enough to know that no one came down here unless they had to.
The deeper he went, the more the lanterns lining the tunnels thinned out, their glow replaced by the faint hum of old, flickering electrical panels, remnants of a system that had been abandoned long before most of Rat City's current residents were even born.
The maintenance tunnels weren't officially dangerous, but everyone knew better than to linger.
As Lorne approached a junction where three tunnels met, he noticed something off.
A fresh smear of blood streaked across the stone wall, low to the ground, as if someone had been dragged.
Lorne's hand instinctively went to his sidearm as he crouched to inspect it.
The blood was still wet.
Which meant he wasn't alone down here.
His ears burned as he listened, nothing. Too quiet.
Lorne didn't like that.
He kept moving, staying close to the wall, eyes scanning the tunnels ahead. This area had its own kind of predators.
Not the organized ones, the Gunrunners, thieves, and traders who at least had rules.
No.
These tunnels belonged to the leftovers.
Scavengers. Tunnel-dwellers who had been cast out, or never belonged to begin with. People who had nothing to lose and no reason to let someone like Lorne walk through their territory unchallenged.
And right now?
He was being hunted.
The attack came fast.
A figure lunged from the shadows, swinging something heavy and jagged, a rusted pipe, maybe, or a torn-off chunk of metal.
Lorne barely twisted away in time, the weapon grazing his coat as he sidestepped, drawing his gun in a fluid motion.
He didn't even get a chance to fire before a second figure rushed from the opposite side, aiming low, trying to take out his legs.
Lorne let himself fall back instead, rolling with the momentum before coming up in a crouch. His gun was already up.
Bang.
The first attacker staggered back, a bullet tearing through his shoulder. He howled in pain, but Lorne was already moving.
The second one hesitated, too slow.
Lorne turned the gun on him, clicking his tongue.
"Walk away."
The man froze, eyes darting to his injured partner.
Lorne didn't repeat himself.
After a tense moment, the second scavenger grabbed the wounded one and hauled him backward, disappearing into the shadows.
Lorne didn't lower his weapon until their footsteps faded.
Lorne sighed, adjusting his coat.
The shot had been a warning, but it was still a wasted bullet.
Gregor better be worth it.
Lorne rounded the final bend of the maintenance tunnel, his heart rate finally settling after the ambush. The corridor opened into a large, dimly lit chamber, littered with discarded machinery, broken consoles, and rusted metal debris scattered across the floor.
It looked like a place no one had used in years, but appearances, Lorne knew, could be deceiving.
He stepped carefully, boots crunching quietly over broken glass and twisted metal. His eyes scanned the ceiling, walls, and corners, searching for any sign of movement or traps.
Then he saw it, a small, sleek black camera, lens glinting faintly in the dim, flickering lights. It rotated slowly, tracking his every step with silent precision.
Before Lorne could even consider what that meant, a soft whirring sound pulled his attention upward.
A hatch in the ceiling slid open, and from it emerged a gun—not some crude, jury-rigged weapon, but something sophisticated, polished, state-of-the-art. It pivoted smoothly, its movement fluid and exact, aiming squarely at Lorne's chest.
Lorne froze, hands slightly raised. He knew weapons. He'd seen plenty during his time in the military, but this? This was far beyond anything he'd expected to see in Rat City. It wasn't being controlled manually; its tracking was too precise, too flawless. It had to be heat-seeking, or perhaps motion-activated.
He swallowed, voice carefully measured. "Gregor?"
For a tense second, there was silence. Then a loud crackle of static cut through the air, and a voice echoed from a hidden speaker.
"That depends," the voice replied, cautious and wary. "Who's askin'?"
Lorne sighed, feeling the weight of exhaustion creep into his voice. He lowered his hands slightly, head tilting up toward the ceiling-mounted gun.
"Why the fuck do you live down here? I nearly died getting here, and your buddy Vorrik says you still owe him for that game of dice."
A beat of silence followed, long enough for Lorne to wonder if he'd made a mistake.
Then Gregor's voice returned, softer now, tinged with genuine surprise. "Oh, you know Vorrik?"
The tension broke, and Lorne watched as the sleek weapon slowly retracted into the ceiling, disappearing behind its hatch with a quiet click.
Lorne exhaled a slow, relieved breath.
Gregor's voice, now calm and mildly amused, echoed once more from the speaker.
"Alright, Gunrunner. You got my attention. Let's talk."
A hidden panel in the far wall slid open, revealing a passageway leading deeper into the station.
Lorne straightened his coat and stepped forward, deeper into the shadows, ready for whatever Gregor had in store.
Lorne moved cautiously toward the open passageway, stepping through the hidden door that slid shut quietly behind him. As he proceeded, the tunnels narrowed, lit only by a faint, flickering strip of yellowed lighting overhead. The air was heavy, damp, and carried the sharp tang of grease and metal.
The corridor opened into what must've once been a maintenance office, now repurposed into a strange blend of living quarters and archive. Lorne's eyes adjusted slowly to the low, amber glow of lanterns mounted along the walls, their soft light barely reaching the cluttered space.
Gregor's hideout was a portrait of meticulous chaos.
Piles of containers from food vendors across Rat City littered every available surface, stacked precariously high and overflowing onto the floor. Empty cartons of noodles, half-eaten skewers, crumpled boxes with faded logos from street-side stalls, evidence that Gregor rarely left this place. It wasn't just isolation; it was intentional reclusiveness, reinforced by years of cautious habit. Lorne wondered just how many delivery people must have died on the way here.
In one corner sat worn mismatched blankets. Beside it stood stacks of books and notebooks, their spines cracked and pages dog-eared from frequent use. Opposite that, a makeshift kitchen area sprawled haphazardly, cluttered with half-empty bottles, cracked cups, and stained utensils scattered over a small metal desk.
But the centerpiece of the room was the record-keeping area.
A long, cluttered desk stretched along the far wall, overflowing with countless pieces of parchment, journals, and hastily scrawled notes. Maps of Rat City hung haphazardly above it, marked in a rainbow of inks with circles, crosses, and scribbled annotations. Shelves lined the room, holding even more bound records and documents, clearly cataloged in some arcane system that only Gregor would understand.
The air was thick with the smell of paper, old ink, and mildew, tinted slightly by the pungent scent of discarded food.
Lorne took another cautious step forward, eyes scanning everything, memorizing the layout, noting the exits, the weapons that lay casually about, rusted pipes, knives, a dismantled pistol resting on a cluttered desk. Everything was meticulously placed, nothing was accidental.
It spoke volumes about Gregor: careful, meticulous, paranoid.
The air crackled again, Gregor's voice echoing out from somewhere deeper in the room.
"You done sightseeing yet, or should I give you a proper tour?"
Lorne turned sharply toward the source, a small speaker, hidden among the clutter.
"Come on, then," Gregor continued. "I don't bite."
A second panel opened along the far wall, revealing yet another hidden door. This one led deeper inside, toward a room illuminated by brighter lights, probably Gregor's actual workspace.
Lorne exhaled slowly, shaking his head in mild disbelief. This rat didn't just keep information, he lived and breathed it, made it his entire world. And he clearly didn't like visitors.
"Gotta say," Lorne muttered quietly, mostly to himself, stepping carefully over the discarded containers, "You've got a hell of a setup here."
Gregor chuckled softly over the intercom, clearly pleased by Lorne's reluctant admiration.
"Careful, Gunrunner. Flattery might actually get you somewhere."
Suppressing his irritation, Lorne stepped carefully over the scattered remains of Gregor's isolation and moved toward the newly opened passage.
He was getting close.
Now he just needed to ensure this meeting didn't turn into yet another complication.
Lorne stepped through the narrow opening, entering Gregor's inner sanctum. The room was even more cluttered than before, crammed with ancient ledgers, scattered notes, and half-empty bottles. At the center sat Gregor himself, a wiry rat hunched over a cluttered table, scratching something into a notebook with ink-stained claws.
Gregor didn't look up immediately, instead finishing his note before setting his pen aside. He tilted his head slightly, studying Lorne with dark, beady eyes.
"Well," Gregor finally said, leaning back in his creaking chair. "You've got my attention. Now tell me, what's so important that Vorrik decided to introduce you to me?"
Lorne leaned against a nearby table, careful not to disturb the delicate stacks of paper. "Information."
Gregor chuckled dryly. "Funny how it's always information. The question is, information on who, exactly?"
"Matias Greymire," Lorne said simply, watching Gregor closely. "I need everything you've got on him. Past assignments, loyalties… friendships."
Gregor's eyes glittered with interest. "Greymire, huh? Haven't heard that name in a while." His gaze sharpened. "Information like that won't come cheap."
"Name your price."
Gregor smiled, a tight, crafty expression. "I hear Roe's been importing something interesting lately,blue liquid, highly sought after. Let's say, a vial of that and we'll call it even."
Lorne's eyes narrowed. "That stuff's rare, Gregor. Expensive."
Gregor leaned forward, tapping his claws together thoughtfully. "And dangerous, I'm sure. But you wouldn't be here if the information wasn't valuable. You want something rare, you pay with something rare."
Lorne sighed, crossing his arms and meeting Gregor's gaze evenly. "Fine. You'll get your vial from the next shipment, but only if you tell me everything, and Roe never needs to find out you were hustling the gang for information."
Gregor hesitated, eyes glued to the Lorne before nodding sharply. "Deal. Just keep this between us."
Satisfied, Lorne nodded, waiting.
Gregor reached over and opened a battered ledger, pages yellowed and brittle. He flipped through it quickly, muttering to himself until he stopped abruptly, tapping one entry with a claw.
"Here we are." Gregor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read. "Matias. Former scout under the Rat King. Highly decorated, trusted enough to be promoted to captain of the guard. Took part in multiple scouting operations." Gregor paused dramatically, then looked up, meeting Lorne's gaze with sharp intensity.
"But you know, here's the funny thing. I've got records of promotions, awards, commendations... but nothing on him quitting." Gregor's whiskers twitched. "Far as my records go, he never officially stopped being captain."
Lorne's blood ran cold.
"He's still with the Rat King?" he murmured, realization dawning.
Gregor shrugged casually, leaning back and folding his paws behind his head. "That, my friend, sounds like your problem."
Lorne's jaw tightened. The pieces clicked into place: Matias, the newcomer Castin, Talia's sudden interest, she'd known him and the Gunrunners have been infiltrated.
They had a mole.
Or rather, two.
"You're welcome, Gunrunner," Gregor called after him sarcastically as Lorne turned toward the exit.
Lorne didn't respond, his mind already spinning through the possibilities, and consequences.
As he stepped back into the shadowed tunnels, one thing was clear:
The game had just gotten a hell of a lot more dangerous.