The Hideout was a scavenger's quiet haven—small, but his.
In the "Scout and Clear" System, the Hideout was the character's rest area, storage, workshop, and home. Here, resources could be stored, modules upgraded, and weapons, armor, medicae supplies, food, and drinks crafted.
The higher the build level, the more powerful the technologies. In Warhammer 40,000, it could even expand to the point of assembling power armour, energy swords, and even bolters. But for now, it was only a miserable little room beneath the Underhive.
There was enough space: about five hundred square meters in an old warehouse, with ceilings and walls of black metal and ceramite. The air was heavy, reeking of rust; the only light came from a few bubble-lamps with muted green glow. No water, no power.
But it was his home. Reliable. A steel door with a mechanical code lock completely sealed the room from the outside world.
Back inside, he collapsed onto his bed—just a piece of fabric on a hard floor. He slept until his stomach began to protest.
"If I keep sleeping on this floor, my spine is going to fold," he groaned, getting up.
After a short "morning" routine, which ended with jokes about the lack of a toilet, he ate, took one of the autoguns, and stepped closer to the lamp.
That bubble-lamp was part of the hive's infrastructure: green light meant the sector was functioning normally. If it ever turned red, something had broken above.
Under the dim light stood his workbench: a heavy cabinet assembled by hand. Tools lay on it. The System recognized it as a Level 1 crafting module.
He clamped the autogun in a vise, took a file, and with effort began grinding off the serial number and the Imperial Aquila.
Recipe Level 1 (manual).
Input: Standard PDF autogun ×1, file ×1.
Output: Illegal weapon (automatic rifle) ×1.
Crafting time: 10 minutes.
Metal screeched, sparks danced. Ten minutes later the file snapped in half, but the job was done—no markings remained. The spot shone with rough scratches. In the light appeared a clean "black" barrel, fit for sale in the Underhive.
Without this procedure, the Black Trader would pay only half. The upper levels didn't need scandals. They watched the provenance of goods, and down below the rule was simple—scrape the marks.
No wonder Li Qingyu had bought the file from the trader in advance and was now spending the effort just to claw back some profit. But steel in Warhammer proved too strong. Even small emblems took ten minutes to grind away. Better tools were needed.
"Time to upgrade the workbench to Level 2," he told himself.
He wrapped the finished weapon in cloth, shoved a pistol into his belt, opened the heavy door, and stepped outside.
Beyond the door stretched steel tunnels. Left—a route to the maps, through ventilation channels up to the surface; right—deeper down, toward the busy quarters of the Underhive.
The hive spanned kilometers up and down: above—aristocrats' gardens; mid-level—workshops and barracks; below—chaos. The rabble of criminals, mutants, rotting human refuse, and sometimes shadows from the Warp.
Lighting the way with his torch, Li Qingyu walked for about half an hour until a light appeared ahead—a great cavern seething with life. This was a fertilizer plant—a factory controlled by a gang, where slaves were forced to process organics into a valuable resource.
He grimaced at the stench but kept walking until he ran into two armed bandits. Homemade shotguns, wary eyes.
"Hold it. Who goes there?"
Li Qingyu pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket and handed one to each of them. The guards exchanged looks, took the treat, relaxed.
He lit one for himself with a flip-top lighter and said:
"To the Black Trader Nepal. Good merchandise."
Hearing the name Nepal, the bandits immediately stepped aside.
"Go on. Just no stupid tricks."
He tossed them the whole pack in thanks and went inside.
On an agri-world, tobacco was easy to come by, but on nearby forge worlds it was replaced with суррогate—a byproduct of metallurgy. That was true filth.
Inside the trading rooms grown into walls of steel and ceramite, chaos reigned: scrap metal, chemicals, spare parts, air heavy with oil. But anything could be bought—if you had the money.
The Black Trader Nepal turned out to be a pale, thin man with a stretched smile.
"Greetings, good customer. Buying or selling?"
Li Qingyu untied the bundle and laid the weapon on the table.
"Selling first. Then buying."
Nepal licked his lips, took the autogun, quickly stripped it and checked the parts. Peering down the barrel, he nodded.
"Standard PDF autogun, eighty percent condition, markings removed. Price—two thousand seven hundred fertilizer coupons."
Li Qingyu set a magazine with thirty rounds on the table.
"With that included. And if you take it all, round it to three-four hundred. I need to buy a few things."
The trader thought, then said:
"Three two hundred. But you spend them here."
"Deal."
Nepal waved to a lackey to take the weapon away and asked:
"What are we taking?"
Li Qingyu began listing:
"One promethium power cell, two coils of electrical cable—thirty meters each, one electric motor, an angle grinder, ten lamps, fifty sets of bolts and nuts, four steel pipes one meter each, a standard tool kit, and four electrical switches."
All of it was needed to upgrade the Hideout.