Project Nox

Chapter I: Stavanger

As the sun was shooting its dying rays into the office of the Prime Minister, the city of Stavanger, oblivious to itself being discussed many miles away, was alive with activity. And not all of it was legal.

The lights of the city grew brighter as the natural lights slowly faded into the darkness of night. Stavanger was alive with cheer and festival at the time, the well-off putting aside their trivial issues for the night of family cheer. The large homes of the rich populated the fjord, with large cruise ships and tankers slowly making their way through the harbour into the port, where cranes awaited to relieve them of their cumbersome loads. The mansions upon the eastern hills glittered with shining lights, their grandeur a sharp contrast to what lay across the Henriksfjorden. The notorious West Stavanger. The rolling, rocky hills of the west side, well separated from the prosperous east, was the very reason the city had earned such a villainous reputation in the entire nation of Vestgaard. It was said that if you ventured into the slums of the West, you only had about a fifty percent chance of seeing your family again. And it was true. The majority of inhabitants in the West had some form of criminal connection. Even if they wished not to, the danger to their lives if they did not support those crime bosses who came knocking was almost universal.

One such family was the Sørensens. It was no ordinary West Stavanger family. There was no violent drug dealing father and careless street-savvy mother. In fact, there was no father and no mother, for both had lost their lives in a police raid many years before. So the sole supporter of this family was one Melker Sørensen, seventeen years of age and up to his neck in crime. There wasn't much to support. A younger brother and an ailing grandfather, but they still needed to eat, and Melker had no intention of seeing his brother in his own position.

So he stole. Alone at first, before Tre Sverd found him. They cornered him, intimidated him, and drove him to agree to their terms. Basically they left him alone, but he gave half his earnings to their system. Most likely nothing of this ever reached the ears of Thorleif Halvorsen, who ran the entire organization. He had too many people to command anyway without worrying about an amateur teenage pickpocket.

That did not last long. Tre Sverd might have been immensely corrupt, but there were still a few members who would follow Halvorsen to the edge of the earth. A few of his personal dogs were still put forth on scouting for new members, and when a particularly tricky piece of work by Melker Sørensen caught their eyes, he became known to Mr. Halvorsen, who placed him in the system. Unable to refuse, the difficult but simple life of Melker Sørensen turned into a difficult and perilous one.

But with two people at home to support, and no options, Melker accepted the role. He became a thief with a purpose, so to say. He was paired with others of his own seniority, who became like family to him.

It was for these partners in crime that Melker was waiting for at this time. The sun was dropping, the streetlights were spotty and partially burnt out, so if someone tried to jump Melker, he'd be easy bait. It was very possible for that to happen. The 49ers and Steinfoss gangs were both prominent in the area, and not on the greatest terms with Tre Sverd. He knew that if they found him, alone on the Mikkelsveien, he'd be dead before he could blink.

So he stood in the shadows.

The young man sighed and leaned against a hidden streetlight, glancing around occasionally for the telltale signs of his approaching company. They were a ragtag group, he knew that, but they always got the job done. They appeared to be the flotsam and jetsam of the gang, but they worked well together, and had never been caught at the scene of a crime. Yet their expertise was still unappreciated in the gang. This was made evident in them being branded as De Heldige. The Lucky Ones.

Melker shook blonde hair from his eyes. It needed a cut, but the rusted blade he normally used to cut it had been stolen from their windowsill, and so he had no means beside a sharp rock. He didn't dare ask any of his compatriots for a blade. They'd probably stick it in his gut.