On the pier by the swamp sat a small submarine of extremely slapdash design. The welds were atrociously coarse, and visible patches covered several spots; clearly, this vessel had leaked more than once.
"Please... step inside."
The Chief Surgeon, clutching his still-swollen cheek, made a beckoning gesture. Andy looked at the cramped hatch, then at his own bulky hazmat suit, seriously doubting whether he would get stuck. He let the hapless Surgeon go down first, then tilted his body and squeezed himself in like a sausage being stuffed into a casing.
The interior was incredibly narrow. Sitting face-to-face, their knees were practically touching. With a heavy clatter, the hatch sealed shut. Following a series of ear-grating metal-on-metal screeches, the submarine began to vibrate and slowly submerged into the blackish-green acid.
Andy peered out through a palm-sized observation window. Outside was a murky green expanse with near-zero visibility. Occasionally, massive shadows glided past—likely mutated water beasts dwelling in the acidic depths.
The Beak Doctors' decision to build their headquarters underwater was clever. This acid swamp served as a natural moat with a pH level low enough to dissolve standard metal hulls. Unless one possessed a high-tech coating like Andy's or used a specialized corrosion-resistant alloy like this submarine, approaching was impossible. Moreover, it was a perfect site for disposing of evidence. Failed experimental subjects could simply be tossed into the water; there was no need to worry about the stench of rotting corpses, as the acid and monsters would digest them within minutes.
"Underhive-style environmentalism," Andy muttered. "Right. Very Warhammer."
They descended for about ten minutes. Suddenly, the submarine jolted, as if striking something soft.
"We've arrived," the Chief Surgeon announced, reaching out to turn the hatch handle.
The hatch opened, and Andy climbed out. Before him was a vast underground cavity. From its structure, it appeared to be a former giant natural gas storage tank that had sunk beneath the surface during tectonic shifts, perfectly wedged into the bedrock at the bottom of the swamp.
The place had been rigorously renovated. The walls were lined with white ceramic tiles—though some were yellowed and peeling, compared to the filth and chaos above, this was heaven. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant; the pungent sulfuric stench was kept at bay by a powerful air filtration system. Several people in white lab coats, sans masks, were busy hauling crates. They showed no surprise at seeing the Chief Surgeon enter with a strange man in yellow robes, merely lowering their heads and continuing their work. The atmosphere didn't feel like a gang hideout; it felt like a legitimate underground clinic.
"The Boss is waiting inside for you." The Surgeon pointed to a double wooden door at the end of the corridor.
Andy didn't stand on ceremony and pushed the door open. The room was large and decorated in a way that was... cozy? Thick carpets covered the floor, a few oil paintings of unknown authenticity hung on the walls, and an old gramophone in the corner was even playing classical music.
Behind a massive solid wood desk sat a middle-aged man. He wore a pristine white lab coat over a sophisticated shirt and vest. No beak mask, no visible cybernetic augmentations. The man had the face of a businessman—well-maintained skin, wearing a pair of holographic glasses, looking quite refined.
This man was Sisyphron, the leader of the Beak Doctors.
Seeing Andy enter, Sisyphron set down his fountain pen. He didn't reach for an alarm under the desk, nor did he call for bodyguards. Instead, he stood up with a professional smile.
"Everyone out," Sisyphron waved a hand at the Chief Surgeon standing in the doorway. "Close the door behind you."
The Surgeon blinked but didn't dare ask questions, retreating obediently and closing the door. Only Andy and Sisyphron remained in the room.
Andy slammed the heavy stubber onto the desk.
THUD!
The solid wood surface shuddered, leaving several deep indentations. Sisyphron didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow; he even had the composure to pour Andy a steaming cup of tea.
"This is black tea brought down from the Upper Hive. It's aged, but quite rare." Sisyphron pushed the teacup toward Andy, his tone as gentle as if he were hosting an old friend. "Friend, please sit. Don't be formal."
Andy didn't sit. He silently activated his tactical analysis.
[Threat Level: Extremely Low][No implanted weapons or psychic signatures detected]
Hm... this was strange. The mob boss who controlled the entire Underhive pharmaceutical market was a frail mortal? And facing a killer like Andy, who had just slaughtered dozens of his men, he wasn't afraid at all?
"You don't plan on calling for help?" Andy's synthesized voice broke the silence.
"Call whom? Those Flesh Golems?" Sisyphron adjusted his glasses and let out a cold laugh. "You blew my trump cards apart in seconds up there. Calling more people in would just provide you with target practice. It's meaningless. Besides, why would I call for help?"
Sisyphron leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You killed Blood-Fang, helping me clean up a disobedient supplier. You crippled my detachment, helping me filter out some useless dead weight. Most importantly, you brought something I've dreamed of."
Sisyphron pointed toward Andy's waist. Despite the hazmat suit, he seemed able to see through it. "A new formula for antibiotics and a systematic industrial production process."
Andy's electronic eyes narrowed. This guy was a rare specimen: someone who actually understood the big picture.
In a place like the Underhive where life was cheap, the lives of a few thugs meant nothing. Even if a hundred died, as long as Sisyphron still held the medicine and the money, he could recruit two hundred new desperadoes the next day. But technology was a scarce resource, especially technology that brought immense profit. Sisyphron was a pure capitalist; in his eyes, the value of a technical genius like Andy far outweighed a pile of dead cannon fodder.
Andy pulled up a chair and sat down. "Let's hear it then. Your business philosophy." Andy tapped his fingers on the desk.
Sisyphron didn't beat around the bush. He stood up and walked to a map on the wall. It was a map of power distribution across the entire Underhive.
"Five years ago, this entire acid lake area was filled with black clinics." Sisyphron pointed to the dense cluster of small black dots on the map. "Every block had some nonsensical quack doctor using rusted blades to amputate limbs and selling counterfeit drugs that killed people. The market was in total chaos, prices were based on whims, and the medical malpractice rate was ninety-nine percent."