P'It all started with that weird kid.
The Yellowjackets were just about as feared as any other big gang in Sourbridge. They controlled everything as far as the Junktion, and had settled boundaries with the Misfitz after several infamous clashes.
"King" Rogan Ironfist started out as a solid and dependable leader, gritty and fearless in a scrap. But as the money started to flow in, King Rogan started to let himself go. A steady diet of ratburgers and all the Wildsnake he could bully out of Gorgon's Hole eventually led to grumbling that the old leader had lost his grip.
When a quiet stranger appeared in Gorgon's Hole offering cash for a simple job, greedy old Rogan almost bit his hand off. Some kids from the Spire had found their way downhive. They didn't belong. The stranger wanted them back.
There's no such thing as a secret in Sourbridge, and as the Yellowjackets tracked the missing kid to the ruins of Old Swine Ford, the Van Saar scum known as the Bumblebears attacked.
The Yellowjackets took a beating, but found the kid hiding and shaking in the ruins. She looked no older than fourteen standard years, but odd somehow. Brannan beckoned her to follow him, which she did without question. He could almost smell the reward. He cheerfully let off a burst from his Boltgun at the advancing Van Saar. The noise made the kid shriek, and all around her, debris, rivets and bolts flew outwards with kinetic force. The kid was some sort of rogue psyker. Dangerous to be around.
King Rogan saw all this happening, and duly panicked and ran away. The surviving Yellowjackets fought a desperate retreat, ushering the weird kid along with them, trying not to provoke her any further.
It was Graf who found Rogan after the battle. Drunk on Wildsnake, slumped over a table in Gorgon's Hole.
"Axel's dead," he growled. Rogan acknowledged the news of the death of the veteran heavy with a blink of his watery eyes. Graf leaned in closer, slamming his hands on the table.
"They've got Sevan."
Rogan didn't even look up. Addressing his own, ample gut, he slurred "We get the kid? Lotta creds..."
Graf lost his temper. He upended the table and dragged Rogan from the bar by his neck. Throwing him to the floor in the dusty street outside, he watched as he staggered to his feet, drunken rage etched into his face.
Every door and window slammed shut, but those too curious for their own good watched through holes in steel shutters.
They say that Graf drew first, but old Rogan charged him down, swinging wildly with his chainsword. But Graf was faster, beating Rogan down with the butt of his rifle.
Reaching down to the beaten old leader, Graf pulled free the sparstones embedded in Rogan's scalp. Holding them aloft for all the silent onlookers to see, he screamed at the top of his lungs.
"See this? The King is no more! From now on, the Junktion is mine!"
From that day forth, they called him Graf Orlock.'
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