2. exterminators must be ARMED!

After the collapse of humanity, half the world's electricity and infrastructure fell into ruin. Survival depended on salvaging whatever remained, scavenging through the wreckage of the old world.

Two years after the catastrophe, the city of New Haven was founded—built atop the ruins of a once-great continent, nestled against a vast, unforgiving coastline.

Towering walls enclosed the city, their reinforced structure designed to withstand the harshest storms and rising floodwaters. Yet, for all their strength, they weren't impenetrable. Myutants could scale them if given the chance.

The only thing keeping them at bay was Border Patrol—the city's heavily armed enforcers, wielding the best weapons they could salvage—and Dead End Solutions, wielding the best weapons border patrol hadn't already salvaged.

Inside the city, life carried on in a fragile semblance of normalcy.

The global market stood at its heart, an anarchic stretch of commerce where anything could be bought or sold—from rusted train parts to human organs.

Beyond the market, the streets were lined with newly built and refurbished structures, a patchwork of survival and capitalism. Inns, motels, and orphanages dotted the districts, offering shelter to the desperate and the displaced.

New Haven was far from perfect. But compared to the wastelands beyond the walls, it was the closest thing to civilization left.

"What are your names?" Massiah asked, hands stuffed into his pockets as he strolled down the street. The large scythe slung across his back swayed slightly with each step.

The girl spoke first. "I'm Dahlia Renaud."

She was pretty—blonde, slim, and effortlessly striking. In the old world, her features would have guaranteed her a spot on a magazine cover. Now, that world was gone, and looks didn't mean much when survival was the only currency that mattered.

The boy spoke next, his voice quieter. "Ansel Coulter."

Like Massiah, both of them wore the same oversized company-issued suit, though on Ansel, it somehow seemed to fit better. His hair was pure white, his eyes the same shade, an unusual contrast against the muted tones of the city. Massiah hadn't noticed at first, but now that he looked closer, every strand of hair on the boy's body was stark white—a clear sign of someone born in a polluted zone.

"Why did you join?" Massiah muttered, rounding a corner and stepping onto another worn-down street.

The two recruits exchanged glances before Dahlia spoke first. "Well, my family in New Haven are—"

"Cut the long-winded bull," Massiah interrupted. "There's a seventy percent chance you end up as cow shit after today's job. If you're doing this for your loving family, here's my advice—turn around and go back to them."

Dahlia didn't flinch. "I'm doing it for the money. I have nowhere else to go."

Massiah kept walking. "Next."

"It's the same," Ansel answered. His tone was even, almost resigned. "As you probably noticed, I was born in a contaminated zone. Most places won't hire me—they think I'll make them sick."

Massiah scoffed. "It's been a hundred years. You'd think people would have figured out how the pollutant works by now."

They walked in silence for a few moments before Massiah came to a halt, his gaze drifting over the two recruits, scanning their gear.

For rookies, they were at least properly outfitted—the standard-issue overcoat, gas mask, and reinforced boots. But when it came to weaponry? Nothing.

Figures. The company always cheaped out where it mattered most.

With a sigh, Massiah turned abruptly, heading toward a bar at the end of the street.

The swinging doors creaked as they stepped inside, the hinges loose and groaning. The air smelled of cheap liquor, damp wood, and regret. Conversations stuttered to a halt as every patron turned to look at them. Then, just as quickly, they all looked away, returning to their drinks as if nothing had happened.

Massiah approached the bar, his height putting his head just below the counter. The bartender barely spared him a glance before smirking.

The smirk didn't last long.

A sharp crack split the air as Massiah's scythe slammed down, the blade missing the bartender's mouth by mere inches.

"Where's Joe?" Massiah muttered.

The bartender shrieked and scrambled back, nearly toppling onto a crate of drinks. "He's in the back!" he stammered. "Said no one should bother—"

Before he could finish, Massiah was already moving. He kicked open the side door next to the bar, stepping into the dimly lit back rooms of the tavern, where several doors lined the walls—including one leading to a cellar.

Moans drifted down the hallway, a slow, throbbing beat woven into the air. The scent of sweat and perfume clung to the walls, thick and heavy, as if the very building had absorbed the indulgence within.

Massiah rolled his eyes, unimpressed, as he strode forward in silence. He stopped outside the room where the sounds originated, raised a fist, and knocked.

The moans didn't stop.

If anything, they grew louder, deliberate, as if to drown him out. The bed creaked, a breathless gasp cut through the air, and then—

The door swung open.

Massiah stood at the threshold, expression blank, staring at Joe, who exhaled heavily at the sight of him.

"Take a hint, Mass," Joe muttered, voice dripping with irritation. His bare back was lined with fresh scratch marks, and a woman's fingers curled lazily around his shoulder. Instead of moving, he let himself collapse onto the bed, landing above the silhouetted figure beneath him. "I'm busy."

"I'll let Sabrina know you're not dead," Massiah replied flatly.

Joe froze.

Slowly, he turned his head. "I hate you."

"Get up. We have a job in Khankar. The recruits need weapons."

"Again?"

Joe groaned but pushed himself off the bed. As he walked out of the room, he grabbed a discarded towel from the floor, loosely tying it around his waist. Before leaving, he flashed Dahlia a knowing smile.

She visibly shuddered in disgust.

He stretched, letting out a yawn, before rubbing the back of his neck. "So... what kind of weapons are you looking for?"

Massiah tilted his head toward the recruits, nudging them forward.

Dahlia hesitated. "Umm... what do you have?"

Joe glanced back, his usual smirk creeping in. "I have anything you want, baby."

He winked.

Dahlia barely masked her irritation. "Two Desert Eagles. Suppressors would be appreciated."

Joe froze mid-step, slowly turning to face her.

"...What black ops hellhole did you crawl out of?"

Joe stopped halfway down the hallway, crouching beside a loose wooden plank and pulling it free. Beneath it, a hidden passageway revealed itself—a ladder leading into the lower ruins.

He gestured toward it with a smirk. "After you, madame."

Massiah didn't acknowledge him, stepping forward and descending the ladder first. Ansel went, Dahlia followed. Joe, humming to himself, went in last.

The lower room was a weapons cache, its walls lined with salvaged swords, armor plates, crossbows, and reinforced melee gear—the kind of equipment that only a man like Joe, an illegal arms dealer, could get his hands on.

Joe clapped his hands together. "Now, I ain't got no guns, but I do have something that can shoot white—"

"I'll take the hammer," Dahlia interrupted, already deep into the inventory.

She hoisted up a massive war hammer, its metallic base reinforced, while the head gleamed with a deep, obsidian sheen.

Joe whistled. "Fine choice! I acquired that beauty in Deli Shara. My partner at the time got eaten alive, but miraculously, his pelt of obsidian survived being excreted." He grinned. "That hammer is the result of his death and determination!"

Dahlia grimaced. "Umm... okay."

Massiah turned toward Ansel, who stood motionless before the weapon rack, his eyes scanning the selection but never settling on anything.

"What about you?"

Ansel's fingers hovered near a blade's hilt, but he didn't take it. His throat felt dry. "I don't know... maybe you should pick for me—"

"Choose."

Massiah's tone was firm, his stare unmoving.

Ansel's hand twitched, reaching out—but stopping just short. His mind raced. What kind of fighter was he? What role would he play? He had no idea. He had never even considered fighting before. The thought abhorred him, yet here he was, standing among warriors, expected to pick a weapon like it was a natural part of life.

His hand moved toward a quiver of arrows.

"I'll take the—"

"Go home."

Ansel's breath caught. He turned sharply toward Massiah, but the older Exterminator wasn't looking at him. His gaze was distant, as if he'd already made up his mind.

"In four years as an Exterminator," Massiah said, "I've fought alongside countless others." He exhaled.

"More than half of them didn't make it back."

Ansel swallowed hard.

Massiah finally looked at him. "If you're not ready to die, there's no point in being here."

Silence pressed against Ansel's chest like a weight. His hands trembled slightly as they hovered over the weapons. Massiah had read him too easily. He was scared. Not just of combat—but of death itself.

His fingers curled, reaching out again—

A hand landed on his shoulder.

"Don't you think you're being too hard on him?" Joe muttered, stepping beside him.

Ansel flinched at the contact.

Joe's grip was firm but reassuring. "Look, kid. Don't worry about ol' lonely Mass over there. Four years ago, he was screaming like a damn child when he ran into his first Myutant."

Massiah clicked his tongue but said nothing.

Joe leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Nobody thinks about dying, kid. If you do, you might as well throw yourself off a cliff right now." He gave Ansel a pat on the back. "What you need to do is breathe. If you can do that, even when you're scared shitless. Trust me, you can do anything."

Ansel took a steadying breath. His hands, once trembling, slowly stabilized as he reached for a pair of dual karambits hanging from the weapon rack.

Joe's eyes lit up. "Now that's a good pick! Funny story behind those—my partner in Grand Murr died getting the material—"

He paused, noticing the way Ansel's face paled. "Right. Probably not helping."

Joe cleared his throat. "Anyway. That'll be fifteen million credits."

The room fell into dead silence.

Joe blinked. "Hm?"

His gaze drifted toward Massiah, who had somehow already made his way to the ladder, one foot planted on the bottom rung.

"You cheap bastard," Joe sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Instead of payment, let's make a deal."

Massiah turned back, mildly interested.

"Never bother me again," Joe said flatly. "And when I say 'again,' I mean it. No loopholes, no exceptions—I never want to see your ugly mug in my bar again—"

"You're the best, Joe!" Massiah cut in, already halfway up the ladder.

Joe groaned.

By the time he reached the top, the two recruits were already waiting for him. Their next stop was Khankar Haven, where they had been tasked with eliminating a Myutant that had been terrorizing the city.

The first mission was never easy.

However, it was a threat level one—the lowest classification possible.

And there were three of them.

This was going to be a walk in the park.