Talen's breaking of Party Software allowed for a keyword flag on their target's name. It seemed that the Vanguardists were more interested in policing their own ranks than anything else. Barely a minute of after leaving the hangar she would get a notification, a certain Louis Dubois had checked into the Velours Noir Gentlemen's Club.
At the same time, the Y-1000 suddenly receives a transmission. A series of random numbers and symbols. Anyone who glanced at it would have ignored it. In a city as polluted with signals and communications it wasn't uncommon for signals to bounce off smokestacks or the upper layer of smog multiple times to the point they transformed into illegible messes. But this one is different because the code cylinder Suhara had given immediately latched onto it, translating the nonsense into a single sentence that the freighter forwards to Kyric and Kas as they walk:
"Level Minus Thirty. Eastern quarter of former Carmaux Fabrication Plant. Make sure you aren't followed."
Catarina Talen
Raylin Fall
The upper layers of Rougneux are one single colossal, contiguous organism. A creature whose skin is brick and steel, rivets and brass. Piping the diameter of ancient trees and walkways acts like blood vessels, feeding fuel and flesh into the ever ravenous organs of this durasteel beast. Steam hisses from vents like exhaled breath. The constant sound of clashing pistons and hammers in the forges below thumps in the rhythm of a heartbeat. An iron forest of smokestacks, chimneys, ducts, and towers stretches into the black void above. Brief breaks in the polluted smog revealed the shuddering frames of the highest spires.
On the top floor of second tallest steeple is the Velours Noir Gentlemen's Club.
Admiral Mahuat sighed as the doors opened and flooded the elevator with an aroma so sweet that it almost made her sick. Her boots echoed off the the polished obsidian floor as she stepped lightly into the entry atrium. Almost immediately a a servant droid decorated in silks drifts forward on a single whisper-quiet repulsorlift cell.
"May I take your cloak," it cooed in a voice filtered through delicate synth-organs. Mahuat waves it away. She makes little effort to disguise her discomfort. They didn't need to give it flesh just to speak. But since the import cost for such components to be delivered from Bakura was so high, they couldn't resist the exclusivity.
The droid leads her into the main hall. Chandeliers of exotic crystal bathe the room in soft crimson and violet hues. Deep maroon velvet drapes framed massive windows overlooking Rougneux's infernal nightscape. The noise of laughter, music, and debauchery is deafening. Industrial barons devour bottle after bottle champagne as lavishly dressed men and women fawn over them while the nouveau riche make a fool of themselves on the dance floor. There's no end to the onslaught on the senses here.
She holds her nose and pushes past the crowd. She passes by a businesswoman from Hapan who has four droids hovering around her just to mist her skin with rejuvenation serums; she has to excuse herself so she can squeeze between two oligarchs in the middle of boasting about the size of their staryachts; she ducks under a dancer's terrace where a Kathar acrobat somersaultes above a field of antigrav lilies to the tune of a Ortolan playing a red ball jett organ.
Mahuat would hurl every single one of these pompus bastards through the windows if she could. She knows that she'll smile as they plunge down the thousand stories to the bottom. But the alliance between the party and capital was needed to make Chantemer strong. At least that's what Olivier said. She always thought that if her Supreme Leader had one flaw it was his tolerance towards these fat lards.
The fact had leave her beloved flagship to deal with one of these fat lards doesn't make her mood any better.
She finally finds him on one of the few empty patios. His back is turned to her to his to shield the tip of his tabac pipe from the wind as he held a lit match towards it. He takes a deep labored breath of the stimulant before letting the rolling green mist pass his lips. It doesn't seem to steady his trembling hand that he tries to hide by stuffing it into his pocket of his tunic, made from the finest shimmersilk.
"Your majordomo said you would be here."
"Admiral." Louis Dubois absently glances back.
"You're behind on schedule."
Kyric
Kas Larsen
The ground below trembles as a grav-train thunders by on the overpass. The soot-encrusted windows of nearby habitation units shiver and clatter in their frames. A fine layer of black-green ooze seems to cover every exposed layer here. Running your exposed finger through the muck causes a dreadful burning sensation.
The humidity here in the lower levels was especially awful. Leaky and rusty pipes dribble moisture everywhere. The narrow stifling alleyways barely wide enough to let two men pass shoulder-to-shoulder make it worse. No sunlight made it down here. When factories and foundries went bust anything valuable was sold off and the empty shell locked up to be forgotten. A hundred years of this cycle repeating again and again had left anything below level level minus ten nothing more than masses of rusting and decaying industrial halls.
This were where invalids and cripples went to die if they didn't have the skills to justify a replacement limb or their overseer needed to cut costs to meet the upcoming quarterly goals. Without a job they'd fall overdue on their rent. Eventually the security forces would tire of their panhandling and whining; hurling them into the lower passageways before locking the door. Out of sight. Out of mind.
The few that had managed make a living scrounging in the derelict halls had reverted into an almost feral state. They bolted rusted pipes onto their limbless stumps and used boiler plating as makeshift armor. Whenever the security forces tried to go on patrol on the lower levels they found themselves constantly ambushed by these savages who were eager for retribution. Eventually security forces just wrote the region off and falsified patrol reports to central command.
Which made it perfect for Degaré and his band of former workers to set up shop. Other than hiding from the occasional crack unit, they could operate unhindered. Life still wasn't easy - having to deal with roving bands of carnivorous rust-monsters didn't make for a particularly luxurious experience - but it was better than the slave-like conditions of the mines.
It was hard to believe that three years ago it had just been him, lost and hungry in the dark. Now there were fifty of them. Most of them he had rescued during his daring raids on the penal convoys. Most of them still bore the scars of shackles around their wrists and ankles. All of them would die before letting steel mark their flesh again.
He'd have continued with his usual raids and heists on the swine above, so busy gorging themselves to notice the rodents gnawing the fat off their hooves, but a recent transmission from the CPLA made him change his routine.
What was he now? A tour leader?
Degaré plays with the cylinder slugthrower revolver in his fist before snapping it shut. He shoves the improvised weapon into his holster before clambering onto a crate, his bellowing voice silencing all others.
"Alright, boys and girls. Let's go give our guests a good and hearty welcome!" 
