Sophos
SQUAWK
The Southern Slums are a haven for the lost and forgotten of Malifaux City, those people who have fallen upon hard times and aren't likely to get back up anytime soon. The wretched people who call the slums their home – people such as yourselves – primarily live in whatever decaying buildings they can lay claim to and keep. It's not an easy life, and the mortality rate is high, but it's still a step above living in the Quarantine Zone with the monsters and undead that lurk beyond the Guild's high walls. There's not much hope in the Southern Slums, but sometimes, the faintest candle shines brightest in the darkest shadows. There have been rumors of a Miners and Steamfitters Union boss who has been making the rounds through the slums, offering honest pay for an honest day's work. There aren't many opportunities to make scrip when you're at the bottom, but this man might just might be your ticket out of the slums for good.
The arrival of the Union boss draws a crowd of would-be workers from the slums, all of them in torn or worn clothing that has been patched up one too many times. The crowd's mood seems to be somewhere between eager and wary as the Union boss raises his arms and bids everyone to be quiet. He's dressed in a business suit that looks a bit too tight for him, complete with suspenders and a vest. Two men in long dusters flank him, neither of them making any effort to hide the pistols on their gun belts.
“Some of you know me,” the Union boss shouts, his voice carrying across the crowd. “For those of you who don't, my name is Yelp, Theodore Yelp. I'm with the Union, and the Union needs good workers. And you folks sure look like you could use a paying job.”
A man in a checkered cap speaks up. “Yeah? What's the work?”
Yelp turns to face the man, but when he speaks, he addresses the entire crowd. “We've got a building in the Quarantine Zone that needs some clearing out and fixing up.” When murmurs begin to pass through the crowd, he raises his voice to drown them out. “Yes, the Quarantine Zone is a dangerous place, but we're offering a good rate to make up for it. One scrip per able body for a day of honest work.”
A woman in a dirty gray dress steps forward, her brow creased in a scowl. “I've heard your offer before, Mr. Yelp! My husband done took you up on it, and he never returned. That was two weeks ago, and you're still back every few days looking for more workers.”
Yelp gives her a sympathetic look. “As I said, my dear lady, it's dangerous work. We're not pretending otherwise.” His smile returns as he looks back to the crowd. “But it is paying work. Now, who wants to prove their worth to the Union and earn some scrip while doing so?”
The crowd breaks apart amidst grumblings about “nothing being worth going into the Quarantine Zone” and “can't spend the money if you're dead.” While these sorts of grumblings may be ominous, it's clear that the people making them are still giving the offer a bit of consideration.
The arrival of the Union boss draws a crowd of would-be workers from the slums, all of them in torn or worn clothing that has been patched up one too many times. The crowd's mood seems to be somewhere between eager and wary as the Union boss raises his arms and bids everyone to be quiet. He's dressed in a business suit that looks a bit too tight for him, complete with suspenders and a vest. Two men in long dusters flank him, neither of them making any effort to hide the pistols on their gun belts.
“Some of you know me,” the Union boss shouts, his voice carrying across the crowd. “For those of you who don't, my name is Yelp, Theodore Yelp. I'm with the Union, and the Union needs good workers. And you folks sure look like you could use a paying job.”
A man in a checkered cap speaks up. “Yeah? What's the work?”
Yelp turns to face the man, but when he speaks, he addresses the entire crowd. “We've got a building in the Quarantine Zone that needs some clearing out and fixing up.” When murmurs begin to pass through the crowd, he raises his voice to drown them out. “Yes, the Quarantine Zone is a dangerous place, but we're offering a good rate to make up for it. One scrip per able body for a day of honest work.”
A woman in a dirty gray dress steps forward, her brow creased in a scowl. “I've heard your offer before, Mr. Yelp! My husband done took you up on it, and he never returned. That was two weeks ago, and you're still back every few days looking for more workers.”
Yelp gives her a sympathetic look. “As I said, my dear lady, it's dangerous work. We're not pretending otherwise.” His smile returns as he looks back to the crowd. “But it is paying work. Now, who wants to prove their worth to the Union and earn some scrip while doing so?”
The crowd breaks apart amidst grumblings about “nothing being worth going into the Quarantine Zone” and “can't spend the money if you're dead.” While these sorts of grumblings may be ominous, it's clear that the people making them are still giving the offer a bit of consideration.