"There's what the bosses are callin' a Fatburg stuck within one of the wee tunnels. Causin' all manner a backlog, need to clear it out. and ensure the flow continues." The Foreman stood precariously on the first rung of the railings, his head just above the rest of the workers as he organised them for the task for the day. "Gonna split up into two teams, you lot heading east towards the Warf with Mister Jackson as your lead. Rest of you with me going west. Please stick with your leads, do not wander into the labyrinth that is the sewers - we will not come to rescue you. If you do get separated head to the nearest cover and climb it."
There was a clearing of the throat, the Foreman giving a quick glance down to the sewage outlet. He was perhaps a little young to be a foreman, but none of the other workers seemed too bothered by this fact.
"Mister Jackson." The Foreman spoke with such authority and certainty. "Make sure they keep on high ground during the major flush times."
The quick glance back to the faces before giving a firm and satisfied nod.
"Right, synchronise time. Need you all back here by the twenty-second bell. Keep your lanterns closed and your faces covered. Don't want breathing in miasma now, got it? Now go on, get."
The Foreman clambered down from the railings, with it the crew began the slow careful descent into the sewage outlet and onto the narrow brick ledge that ran along the edge. There were a few grimaces as faces were covered, but the workers of Braze and Co Sewers got to work without complaint. If anything they were focused, dedicated to the task set before them as they lit their lanterns and sloshed their way into the dark dripping depths of Vienda's sewer system.
It was all a carefully constructed illusion that hid them all in plain daylight.
As Artful posed as their Foreman and set the scene, the rest of the Resistance cadets fell in step - they donned the uniform and looked the part, splitting off into their own separate teams once they were beneath the cover of the dark sewers. They moved then less as a professional body, but more as a mass eager to get the job done and remove themselves from the choking stench of the sewers. With maps and lanterns, they took the march along the tunnels, trying not to slip into the sickening mess created by the population of the city and headed to Uptown.
The plan, the real plan, was ridiculous in every sense of the word. Artful remembered the few scoffs received from their peers as they told them the idea, and the How laughter quickly fell quiet as it was explained in greater detail with the chaos it would cause neatly highlighted. And so here they all were, hand in hand and all equally guilty in enacting their part in it; each being ready for enacting suitable revenge against their supposed betters for the prohibition they forced upon their lesser.
As Artful gave a parting wave to 'Mister Jackson' - not his real name - they lead the group through the squelching depths of the sewers. Old brick made from red clay, the faint glugging of water while droplets echoed across surfaces. Even if they wanted to be quiet here it would have been a difficult task, the tunnel acoustics amplified each footfall as they shuffled their way along the narrow ledges and wheeled the hand cart behind them. Beyond the light of their lanterns was darkness, and the bits they could see made Artful's skin shudder. Smears caked the walls, Artful did not want to know what they were made from, but it had stained the brickwork beneath to an off pale white that seemed to shudder in the glow of lantern light. There were rats too; if they were on the surface, the smith would have smelt them. But down here in the putrid depths they did not want to smell anything. They did their best to breathe through their mouth and the cloth scarf that covered them, but even then it was beginning to permeate their taste buds and sink into their pores.
They were far too sober for any of this, their taste buds hungering for a stiff drink that they had been denied for what felt so long. It did not help that the inside of the sewers felt warm and far from the pleasant sort. A sticky humidity that tried to niggle its way into every opening and cling so tightly that they were certain they would not be able to scrub their body clean afterwards.
Artful's lips smacked for a cigarette; no, not here, not with all the literal shit around them. They had heard enough stories already about what cholera could do to a person and they were not about to expose themselves to it any further just to receive that nicotine buzz.
But by Vita it was so tempting.
No, they just needed to focus - after it was done they could smoke themselves into oblivion.
Stopping at a junction, Artful called for a halt and hooked the lantern onto their belt. Their hand gave a quick rub of the dark black signage on the wall, glove smearing away the dirt and revealing 'Caesar Augustus Memorial Sewer Junction XI' painted on a once-white background.
"We're here." They gestured to the crew, their voice muffled by the fabric pulled across their lips. "Get the planks out, gonna need a bit of bridgin'."
The tunnel narrowed nicely here, each side flanked with brick ledges they could barely walk down. As the planks were lifted from the pull cart and laid to create a larger walkway, Artful gave a quick glance down either side of the junction and squinted off into the darkness. Ahead was where one of the Uptown cisterns poured out into the sewers, a welt squelch of spray being audible as it splashed against the surface. The Smith's cheeks puffed as they tried not to gag; they were already hungering for fresher air.
"Right. So. Here's the plan." Artful began. "We need to plug this gap and follow the ring west clockwise to Junction twelve, and then back over the top to one to five. We'll then meet up with Rusty and his team and skip on out of here." Their hand slapped against the sewer sign then. "These junctions are where the Uptown sewage flow joins the Lowtown flow. By blockin' them off, those Golly toffins and their shit gets stuck in the uptown ring and can't escape."
Beneath the cloth, they gave a smile, though their features were no doubt lost in the poor light.
"Then we just need to let it cook for a few weeks in our glorious summer heat before returnin' it to them. Ye chen?"
Artful clapped their hands together. They just needed to get through this; once it was over they could scrub themself raw in the hopes of removing the stench.
"Get the struts in first, then we can bolt in the sheetin'. Sooner we get it done, sooner we can leave." There was a low chuckle. "Keep your ears sharp. Shouldn't be guards here but it's better to be safe. C'mon, it's time to play."
With the planks now lain, the Smith took up one of the iron struts from the wagon and shimmied across the wood to the other side of the tunnel. Once there with their lantern swinging at their side, they gingerly began the process of slowly lowering the length of it into the depths with a grimace.