The next morning.... Well, it's considered morning when the factory horns blare the morning anthems to the Emperor. They seem to rouse everyone and everything in the hive, and whatever night-life was active until that point fades into the shadows and alleys. The common man -- serf, servitor, slave -- wakes up, does morning ablutions, eats, and goes to work. For the acolytes, that means waking up and heading off to the underhive.
The trip through the upper-and middle-hive goes well enough, though the descent is obviously into a less-pleasant region, as the smell becomes increasingly oppressive and unpleasant, and the air becomes thicker with oil and taint. At the lowest of the middlehive levels, a branch of the four-lane tunnel splits off into a single-lane path outside of which are a bunch of constables. They eye the gun-jeep, but otherwise do not impede it's progress.
It's like gradually entering a completely different world. The lack of constables is distinct here, as is anything resembling standard housing or hab-stacks. The people here are, moreover, much warier. People are so generally poor they don't even beg for alms. Instead they eye the group almost predatorily, evaluating them in terms of how much they could be rolled for versus how much trouble it would be. They look away; the group is, at this point, not worth the trouble to mug or kill for their stuff. And there is a distinct lack of any sort of Cult iconography.
"Don't make eye contact unless you're looking to start trouble," Havelock says quietly as they descend-- on foot, the gun-jeep wouldn't last a moment unattended here-- "And walk like you know where you're going. Stride with a purpose. Don't gawk. And keep your hand on one of your weapons." The psyker rattles this off with the bland confidence of a born Hiver. Which is impressive, because he has no idea how he knows any of this.
Spike grins relaxedly at the psyker, pleased he doesn't have to tell Havelock the same thing. Passing oneself off as something else, though, was one of the things he was taught by his masters who first trained him to assassination. Spike pads silently behind his companions, one hand resting on his rifle under the heavy cloak and his demeanor quietly ominous, like a poisonous snake. Hopefully that will keep their backs safe.
The trip to the mission takes a little while. There is no single easily-delineated route, though at least in places the pedestrian walks are wide, if strewn with debris. On the trip to the mission there is nothing that seems to want to mess with them. The mission itself looks like it was made from an oil tank in the middle of an ancient oil tank farm. A rough door has been cut in the side, and a heavy curtain has been hung over it. Over the door has been hung a crude sign: 'OUR SUFFERING LADY MISSION - PRAISE BE THE EMPEROR! - ENTER AND BE ENLIGHTENED' Typical Cult iconography has been scrawled around the doorway in a humble simulacrum of the cathedral the acolytes just left, done with heavy industrial dremels and filled in with charcoal smearings. Actually, 'humble' really doesn't seem to begin to describe he mission.
"Well then," Havelock says, placing a gloved hand against the door. "Let us be enlightened." It's hard to tell when he's being ironic, sometimes.
Spike chuckles quietly, following the others in.
The curtain-door moves aside easily, coming with it a jangle of washers and other metal bits as a sort of entry bell. The interior of the oil tank -- er, mission -- has been apportioned with curtains and flackboard partitions. The center area is a sort of congregational area with a ramshackle altar at the front, directly opposite the entryway. The sides of the congregatory are mostly concealed from view. A number of lamps and lanterns fill the mission with warm, orange light.
At the sound of the jangling metal, there comes a clear, bright voice from behind the far-left partitioned area, where there seems to be a lot of light gathered, judging by the spill of light against the high-sweeping tank walls. "I'll be with you in a moment, have a seat, please!" Followed by the unmistakable *BAROOM!* of a hand cannon.
Spike raises an eyebrow and slips one of his throwing daggers into his hand, under the heavy cloak, as he glances around.
Havelock darts behind one of the partitions, going for his laspistol.
Spike gently nudges the Tech-Priest after Havelock, backing after her and watching the surroundings warily.
There is a somehow meaningful silence after the gunshot goes off, then the sound of a gun being reloaded and several deep, quiet voices in conversation. The group is nestled in a small partition that seems to be a confessional, when a tall, husky woman emerge from the partitioned area with the light coming from it, changing out the magazine in a hand cannon, the barrel tip smeared with a bit of blood. She wears the dun rough-spun robes of a missionary, with a belt with a few pouches and a holster for the large handgun. "Hello!" she says, incongruously cheerful. "Welcome to the mis...sion...." Her voice trails of when she sees nobody in the congregatory. "Hello, did someone come in?"
Havelock clears his throat loudly before he steps out of cover. If he glares a little, his masklike features manage to hide it well. "I take it you're the missionary."
Spike steps forward after Havelock, the throwing dagger ready, and prepped to dodge back out of sight if necessary.
The missionary brightens when she sees havelock. "Oh, there you are! I'm sorry if the gunshot startled you. Yes, I'm Missionary Jennifa Halvorn, thank you so much for coming! Have you come to see the Light of the Emperor?" Then he blinks, seeing the way the three acolytes are dressed. "Oh. You're not from the underhive, I take it?"
Spike grins, relaxing slightly. He's always thought the missionaries were uniformly a bit mad. This woman's exuberance just verifies his opinion!
Havelock holsters his weapon and straightens his cloak around his shoulders. "Not precisely. We're here on the business of the Holy Orders of the Inquisition."
Halvorn actually blinks *twice* -- this seems to be unusual for her -- before she says a little worriedly, "Ah. Do you, uhm, have some sort of identification? I mean, I'm not trying to be getting in your way but, you know, this is an underhive, you'd not believe what walks through my door, the other day some poor fellow stumbled in claiming to be a sabre-toothed emu....."
She adds quickly, "N-not that I think the Inquisition is a bunch of sabre-toothed emus! And... and even if I did, uhm, they're a really, really tough animal...."
Havelock holds out his scroll-case. Although he keeps his eye on the gun while he does so.
Spike coughs amusedly at that, then grins, keeping a careful watch around while Havelock deals with the missinary.
Halvorn is keeping her hands carefully away from the handgun, as she carefully takes the scroll. As she opens it and reads, Spike notes the partition where the missionary came from. The curtain is carefully held partly open, by a grim-looking underhive ganger. Shaven-headed but for a long pigtail blackened by charcoal, with a lined and scarred face, the armor is clearly in some sort of ganger colors; Spike isn't sure if they're male or female. Beyond that one, he can see at least two or three more gangers, not making any sort of preparatory attack moves but holding themselves wary and ready; the one holding open the curtain in particular looks like they're being protective of the missionary.
Also within that partition, Spike gets the distinct view of what looks like a body on a stretcher or plank, a relatively clean white cloth over it; judging by the shape of it, a large red stain is right about where the head should be.
Spike raises an eyebrow... then quietly drifts back out of sight behind one of the partitions. Maybe he'll just go look... and not be where expected.
Halvorn finishes reading the scroll, and tries to put on her effervescent face as she hands it back. "Well!" She says. "Blessins of the Emperor on you! Always ready to help His Servants! Uhm... so. What, uhm,... can I do for you?"
Havelock says, "We need your assistance in locating someone."
Even as Halvorn relaxes, the gangers get more interested. Certainly, the one in the doorway doesn't seem to notice Spike at all now, even as the assassin slinks from view. "Oh! Well, I'll certainly do my best to help! Ah... who is it?"
Spike drifts soundlessly along behind and between partitions so he can eavesdrop, and perhaps peek as well, on the gangers.
Havelock gives the gangers a significant look, going so far as to meet one of their eyes. Then he turns to the missionary and says, "Let's take this behind a curtain, if you would."
The gangers have all their attention on Havelock. Typical ganger/underhive culture -- they don't trust outsiders looking for one of their own. And these gangers looks like, together, they could possibly take on a space marine. If, by some chance, the space marine were somehow falling-down-drunk, but still. The lead ganger narrows his eyes at Havelock's suggestion. To Spike's surveillance, though, none of them are preparing to attack, just getting more and more wary.
Halvorn glances behind her at the gangers, then looks back to Havelock, looking sheepish. "I... think it might be better to, ah, speak openly, so to speak. I.. really don't want to bring about trouble for or from the Singe-Spears...." her voice has a faintly plaintive note to it.
Spike raises a mental eyebrow. Singe-Spears? So is the missionary their friend... or hostage?
Havelock puts his back to the gangers, then. He doesn't wish for this to be lip-read, and one never knows. Besides, he has Spike to watch it for him. He leans down close, then, so not to be heard. "A friar. Named Wilhelm Janus."
Halvorn blinks. "He was... he was here the other day. Said he wanted to look around the underhive before he departed, see if there was anything to be done for here."
Spike is close enough now to hear and see the gangers. He watches them silently, the rifle tilted towards them under the cloak. He's happy to not mess with them... as long as they don't mess with his party.
Havelock frowns. "Did he say how long he was staying?"
She shakes her head. "No, he didn't. He met with some of the Singe-Spears, some of the other adherents to the Imperial Creed down here, I pointed him to a hostel and suggested that he not travel alone. But he did anyway. I hope he's okay.... What... what's this in relation to?
"He may be related to the attacks in Morgansburg. He is potentially very dangerous."
Halvorn frowns. "The attacks... oh, those animal attacks? We heard something about them." Her face droops. "I admit, we've had our own problems here that didn't let us give Morgansburg as much attention as we could have, even if we are in the underhive."
"What problems," the pskyer asks.
She glances over to the partition with the gangers. "We seem to have a little bit of a mutant problem, but it's under control, Inquisitor. I'm sure that the people of the underhive can control it well before it needs to come to the attention of the Hive Authoritas."
At once, Havelock asks, "What kind of mutant problem and how long have you been having it?"
The gangers aren't twitchy, but they more or less radiate wariness and suspicion: the acolytes are clearly on their territory and they do not like outsiders. Halvorn for her part looks taken aback at Havelock's question. "We've only had the first sign of it. One of the Singe-Spears, she was brought here by her fellows, and she asked for the Emperor's Mercy before the mutation got worse. That's... that was the gunshot you heard, I hope it didn't startle you too badly."
Spike hmms thoughtfully, then tilts his head to check and see if he can perhaps drift behind the gangers to take a quick peek under the white sheet at the dead person.
"You'd be surprised how often I am greeted with gunfire where ever I may go, cleric." That would be funnier save for the complete sincerity in his voice. "What kind of mutations and for how long?"
The gangers are surrounding the white-sheeted figure, so it would be probably impossible to sneak a look under it without them noticing. Though from this angle, Spike can see that the body, going by the basic body-shape of the Singe-Spears... isn't exactly human-shaped anymore.
Halvorn shakes her head in confusion. "Deformation, withering of the subdermal structure, dessication of certain humours.... I don't think she would have survived the night. We see... mutations in general now and then in the underhive but never something like this, so fast in onset and dramatically debilitating. And certainly not in someone so far past adolescence. This is the first such case I've seen. I'd like to hope its the last but with the centuries of... of stuff that seeps down here from the industrial levels, Emperor only knows if we'll see another or not."
"What sort of deformation?"
Spike shakes his head worriedly, then starts carefully eyeing the living Singe-Spears for any signs of mutation he might be able to pick out.
So far, the Singe-Spears appear to be mutation-free... so long as one doesn't count their impressive musculature as a 'mutation.' Which one would be sure they wouldn't. Halvorn hesitates, then nods, "Let me show you. I mean,... the body's still intact, I had to shoot her in the head, though...." She moves to the pertionment, the Singe-Spears there moving back and watching Havelock like hawks.
Havelock does them the most courtesy possible-- which is to say he ignores them completely.
Spike remains quietly hidden -- better a defensive knife from surprise, he thinks -- and keeps watching intently.
Halvorn removes the sheet. The body is not at all human, with a greyish-bluish pallor to it. Some sores have the oozing of thick humours. The musculature is almost dessicated. What remains of the head reveals a mouth agape with extended canines. In short, it is very much like what one would expect a stage previous to that of the ghouls or zombies of Morgansburg, or the Pater's lamented, beloved sister.
"Throne blind me," Havelock murmurs, then turns to Halvorn, "Was she one of the gangers that spoke to Janus before he left?"
Spike winces mentally -- it's here already! He glances at both wrists, looking for any bracelets or marks.
Spike's eye catches it -- a wooden bracelet on the dead ganger's wrist!
Spike remains silent. He figures Havelock will notice it, and he doesn't think screaming in his head will draw the psyker's attention. He doesn't really want a psyker in his head anyway -- and when the gangers hear they're all at risk, they might get ugly. He should be ready to defend then, if necessary.
Halvorn nods. "Yes, she was one of the most devout of the converts to the Imperial Creed. She had many questions for Janus about the Creed on other worlds and in other places. She was surprisingly curious for an underhiver." She looks to the gangers, abashed. "Er... no offense....?"
"None taken," one says simply.
"Inquisitiveness detracts from survival," another intones.
"Curiosity killed the titankiwi," another provides.
Spike is faintly relieved, in one way -- there's a nice, clear sign as to who will be mutated now.
Havelock turns to the nearest ganger and asks, "Did any of you speak to him?"
Spike mentally amends -- as long as they weren't one of the attacked and bitten -- but that's another clear sign, really. Good.
The ganger pauses, then nods. "Yes," he says. His voice is thick with some underhive accent, and he is struggling to speak a common Low Gothic dialect clearly. "He spoke to few of us. Yilith was most interested in what friar had to say."
Another says, "I did not like him. He felt not-right."
"Wise man," Havelock says. "Did any of you accept any items from him?"
Spike slides sideways a little as he realizes there's actually a spot where Havelock might be able to see the little assassin -- but the others will not be. He waits patiently for the psyker to look his way; he'll circle his wrist with the other hand when Havelock looks at him.
Spike will nod towards the corpse at the same time.
The ganger tilts their head. "Wo-man," she says. The other gangers get a collective chuckle out of this. The ganger goes on to say, "Items? He did not offer anything I know of."
The Missionary frowns. "Items?"
Havelock gives the assassin a momentary, acknowledging look, then gestures at the corpse, pointing at its dessicated wrist. "Like this. Bracelet, adornment, anything."
Spike slides back again silently once he's spotted.
The gangers look down at the wrist. "Oh, yah," one says. "Think friar gave that to her. Said was some sort of charm. Emp'r'r Blessin' or such."
"If ANY of your number have items like this-- Burn them." He leaves it to the gangers' discretion as to whether that ambiguous statement includes the wearer.
They look surprised -- at least, the frown concernedly. Halvorn asks, "Acolyte, if... if I may, what is it? What's wrong?"
"It's these bracelets. Janus is using them to pass on the contagion." Havelock frowns. "What hostel did you send him to?"
"The Blackchapel Hostel, down corridor E-24, up the ramp, and south along the unused monorail tunnel."
One of the gangers says, "Wait. Are saying friar caused Yilith, this to happen to her, by for to give bracelet to her?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Havelock says, turning back to face the ganger. "You want to help make this right? Come with us." He pauses, and turns to Halvorn. "You did the right thing, missionary. If you see any more unfortunates with these bracelets-- or these symptoms-- do the same. It's for their souls."
The gangers grunt, almost in unison. "Yah," the female one says, pulling from her back what looks like a boltgun. "Will show you where hostel is. And will put word out for friar."
Halvorn nods, unhappily. "May that bastard never see the light of the Emperor!"
"I suspect that won't be an issue," Havelock says, grimly. He nods to the gangers. "Blackchapel Hostel. Let's go."
Spike drifts quietly to the door, to be ready to fall in with the others.
The acolytes suspect that a WAAAGH! of Orks would make less noise than the grumbling, unhappy gangers traveling with them to Blackchapel. Even the hostel's manager has no wish to tell the Singe-Spears to keep it down. Shortly, the group is in the lobby of the two-storey hostel, and already the gangers are charging ahead of the acolytes, up the stairs, sweeping through the rooms with a ferocity one would not expect if one had never seen an underhive.
Havelock goes for his sword. "Something's wrong," he says, quietly.
Spike glances at Havelock, then preps his weapons, "Little more information please?"
"Tell you when I know," the psyker says.
Spike nods, gently nudging the Tech-Priest towards cover, glancing around warily as he does the same.
On the floor above, there's a lot of shouting and commotion as the gangers sweep through the hostel, then a shout, then a few more shouts. Then there is a deathly, grumbly quiet for several long seconds....
Spike glances up, cheerfully saying, "That your something wrong up there?"
"Almost certainly. Let's go."
The silence is followed by a horrific shriek of nothing human -- at least, nothing hopefully human, or still human. Then follows angered and terrified shouts, more of that shrieking, and the sudden cacophonous sound of every other inhabitent of the hostel desperately trying to come down the same stairs the acolytes are coming up.
Spike nods, starting to follow Havelock -- then wisely stepping to one side so the trample-path down the stairs and out the door is clear.
"Naturally," the psyker curses, and keeps to one side, but does not break pace.
It takes several too-long moments struggling up the river of human terror for the three acolytes to reach the second floor. By then the flood has reached a trickle, and several people have been trampled underfoot. In one of the rooms above, though, there is carnage.
Three of the gangers are present, on the ground; one is missing their face, the other two look like something seared away half their chests. Several other bodies are present, slashed and mauled. There is surprisingly little blood present. And there is a black-robed figure, standing at the window and looking out at the ripples of terror the moments of... whatever happened, are causing. The figure has long, dark brown hair, and stands with his back to the acolytes.
Havelock raises his sword to the ready, and nods Spike to take a firing position.
Spike slides sideways and settles to one knee to be more braced for the shot. He considers, then thumbs on the dum-dums.
"Wilhelm Janus," Havelock says, clearly. "In the name of the Immortal Emperor, I dub thee Hereticus.
"By the edicts of the Conclave of Mount Amalath I claim your life as forfeit and cast your soul to the mercy of the Emperor," the psyker recites.
The figure tilts his head to the side a little. "Hereticus? Ah, the Holy Orders of the Inquisition, I presume" He turns slowly, keeping his hands visible at all times. His face is round and unlined and unscarred, and he smiles quietly, with some confidence. "You responded quicker than I imagined. Then again, I suppose it all happened rather more quickly than I thought it would.
"'Hereticus,' Inquisitor? You have no idea. But then you follow the Creed of this dying, cadaverous empire."
"I take that as your confession, then," Havelock answers.
Spike continues to aim, the red-dot laser steady on the figure's forehead.
"You may take it as you wish, Inquisitor -- no, you are all far too young to be actual Inquisitors. Acolytes, then? I'm almost insulted, but... no matter."
"I don't suppose asking 'why' will help."
Janus chuckles softly, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Well, how much time do you have, Acolyte? I'm afraid it's a rather long story."
"There's another line in the pronouncement. I'll wait."
Spike grins silently within the cowl's shadows. He's fine with that -- more time to aim.
Janus's smile widens. "It'll have to keep for another time, though, Acolyte." There is an audible *click* from where Janus is rubbing his forehead... and suddenly the world goes inside-out. Both Spike and Cat are filled with a sudden, overwhelming sense of loathing that hits them so suddenly that they can barely focus. It's worse for Havelock, though; suddenly the world seems to condense around Janus, as if blotting him out from existence, or worse like there's a Janus-shaped blind spot in his mind's eye, and every inch of his soul is struggling to not get sucked into that void.
Spike is shocked and overwhelmed, practically frozen in place.
Havelock is resolute in the face of the attack-- but Janus scores a minor success in finally breaking the psyker's mask. He can't keep the look of revulsion... or is it hate? From twisting across his features. "You're Empty," he rasps through his locked teeth.
Janus bows. "As was decreed so very long ago, Acolyte. Now I've overstayed my welcome. Be seeing you!" He moves to turn and leap out the window."
Spike manages to yank himself together enough to pull the trigger.
Janus doesn't quite make it to the window. Havelock's blade catches the friar in the arm, cutting deep -- on a normal person the arm would be severed, but it makes a horrific metal-on-metal sound as it cuts, and remains attached. And with the crack of Spike's rifle, a round sings through the air and punctures through the back of Janus's head, leaving through his mouth and a surprised expression on his face. His inertia carries him through the window, inelegantly, and with a thud lands on the ground outside the hostel.
Spike lets his breath out in a small sigh... then rises carefully and paces to the window, rifle up and ready, to check his target is indeed dead.
Havelock says, "Go on down, I'll meet you there. We'll make certain."
The body lies there in the crete ground of the street, to Spike's eye very much dead.
Spike nods silently, studying the body... then he whirls and darts swiftly down the stairs.
By the time Spike gets down the stairs and out in front of the hostel... the body is still there. Though, disturbingly, it's twitching a little.
Spike pauses near the body, rifle still ready, putting his back into a building's corner. He aims for a moment, then shoots again. He mutters under his breath, "Stay dead, damn you!"
The body jerks a bit with the round pumped into it, and ceases twitching. Though... was that a 'spang' of a metal-on-metal ricochet that he heard with that shot?
Spike continues to cover the body. Havelock has a sword -- they'll decapitate it, and maybe even burn it here where it lies.
As soon as Spike leaves the room, the psyker reaches out for the Empyrean, as much for reassurance that it's still there as for the power he intends to make use of.
As if to reassure him, the Warp once again touches Havelock, with gentle, comforting ephemera, hoping that the void did not disturb him overmuch, and promising that there is comfort in it's embrace again....
Maybe a little too much comfort. But the locked door in his head is still infinitely preferable to a life blinded to its mystery. He draws in the power and... steps out of the ruined window.
The psyker takes three large steps, half falling and half-gliding, down the exterior face of the hostel. And then, at approximately two feet from the ground, he simply... steps off the wall and onto the ground. "You can stop shooting now," he says, mildly. "It's not undead. When I cut it-- here, look. It's some kind of machina."
Spike watches in silent curiosity, although he does continue to cover Havelock.
Blood is pooling about Janus's head, where the gunshot got him. And there is blood on the ground, too, from where Havelock caught him with his sword.
Standing over the corpse, for formality's sake, Havelock says, "By the authority of the Holy Orders of His Inquisition and the Chamber of the Ordo Hereticus, I execute the destruction of your body and the release of your soul for judgement. May the Emperor have mercy on you, for His servants cannot. Not that you ever had a soul to begin with, may you rot in hell."
Janus makes, of course, no argument with Havelock's pronouncement.
Spike says, "What was it, Havelock?"
"Some kind of cyborg, it seems," the psyker answers. "Heretek, obviously... the Mechanicus would never make a properly blessed prosthetic invisible. But if you're asking about what happened upstairs... it would seem Wilhelm Janus... or whatever called itself Wilhelm Janus, was a Pariah."
Spike shudders, signing the protective Aquila on himself -- whatever it is, it sounds bad. When he's got both hands on the rifle again he asks, "What's a Pariah?"
Havelock's answer to that is, "Everything that we are not."
Spike mutters, "Hunting them sucks -- should have shot from further out range."
"You didn't know," Havelock says. "I've never heard of one being able to turn its power on and off."
Spike says, "Can you see how it worked, on the forehead?" He pauses, then adds sharply, "Do we even want to touch it? -or just burn it?"
"Honestly," Havelock says, "I don't know. It could be trapped somehow. It would be better for Cat to bring this to the attention of the Mechanicus. We aren't trained to deal with this."
Spike nods, "All right. Want to bring them here, or bring the... uh... thing to them?"
As they continue talking, a shimmering green light starts to encompass the body.
"We don't dare touch it. We'll get them to come here-- get back!"
Spike swears, the rifle jerking up again, "Havelock, out of my line of fire!"
The light fades after a moment, and the body sudenly seems to crumple in on itself a little bit, as if there were supports there that no longer are there. The body is still recognizably human, however, just a bit caved-in in places. The hair slips from a pale-white, shaven pate, the shape of the whiteness on the head suggesting that some kind of skullcap was there.
Spike thumbs the fire selector over to armor piercing, then aims carefully.
"Wait!" Havelock holds out one hand. "Wait."
Spike pauses, although he continues aiming.
Havelock narrows his eyes. "The... bones are gone. It's as if the machina... just up and left."
Spike mutters, "Don't understand. Shoot or not?"
People are starting to come back to the area, warily and carefully, wondering if it's safe.
Turning back to Spike, Havelock says, "Don't waste your ammunition. We'll burn it here. Whatever it was, the interesting parts just fled of their own volition."
Spike nods, lowering the rifle. He glances around at the people, then murmurs quietly to Havelock, "It okay to search its pockets now?"
Havelock gives the assassin a look. "Don't touch that thing, Throne only knows what it might contain. We'll search the hostel room. That corpse has to be burned."
Spike grins within the cowl. He yells sharply at the people turning up, "Back! Moral taint!" Considering how folks usually react to him, maybe he can turn it to their benefit this time -- and keep the hivers clear.
The people skitter back a bit, most still watching with wide eyes. Most probably haven't seen hide nor hair of Imperial authority, but those that have do manage to spread the word to keep back, and the rest is handled by Spike's tone.
Spike tilts his head curiously at the psyker, "Not even at knife tip?"
"Frankly I'd rather not, but if you can do it without using your hands, be quick."
Spike pulls a throwing dagger, flipping it into the air once and grinning at the psyker. He steps forward and, with one or two swift slashes at each pocket he can spot, he tears the cloth enough to let anything within fall out.
Spike sheathes the dagger, pulling the hand-gloves of his bodysuit over his hands before he tries picking anything up. He'll dump it all swiftly into one of the many leather pouches belted to his person under the cloak. As he does so he murmurs to Havelock, "What're you going to use to burn it? Can you do that with your mind?"
Managing to sound only slightly wry, Havelock answers, "I prefer to use promethium whenever possible."
There's not much in the thing's pockets, but he does find a small data-slate, and a couple of thin strips of a black metal with gold hieroglyphs on one side, and a series of complex patterns of dots, all different sizes and configurations, on the other. Janus also had a few Thrones of coin, a simple wooden rosarius of the Cult Imperialis, and -- rather ominously -- a large, thin metal ring that has three wooden bracelets upon it.
Spike laughs softly, stepping back once he's looted the body. He's careful to put the bracelets in a separate thigh-pouch, away from everything else. He grins at the psyker, "Got any on ya?"
"No, but I'm sure the missionary will have something flammable. First we burn this, we'll search the hostel room, smooth this over with the hostler, and see to the bodies. Then back to the Spire. We need to report."
Spike says, "Someone needs to watch over the body." He glances around, adding wryly, "Hivers won't leave it alone if it's left unguarded."
"I'll go to the mission. Cat, take the room."
Spike nods, leaning relaxedly against the wall so he can keep an eye on the body as well as defend himself if necessary.