The rusty door groaned open. Rain had walked into countless Gene Warrior barracks, but none like this.

  The room was a perfect rectangle. In each corner sat a pair of rotten, king-sized pre-war beds, each adorned with bloodstained, torn silks. A gun rack stood between each pair of beds, every slot filled neatly with the most advanced weaponry available in the dead world—except for one, which remained empty. In the center of the rectangle sat an enormous antique leather couch; it must have belonged to a "rich cockroach" once, though all of its legs were missing now.

  Above it hung a chandelier. Missing crystals had been replaced with skeletal hands, some with skin still clinging to the bone. The light bulbs were long gone. War loot was everywhere, ranging from the mundane—captured antique M4 carbines suspended on the walls—to the macabre: severed heads nailed to the ceiling, their rank slides shoved into their mouths; dates and locations carved into their foreheads.

  An Uncle Sam poster was plastered next to the severed heads, a single bullet hole centered between his eyes. The poster read: "I WANT YOU FOR—MY CEILING." The last part was smeared over the US Army logo in blood, written in Russian.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it—far from it. The sight of what stood before him made even Rain stagger back.

  A naked humanoid was nailed to the far wall. Railroad spikes had been driven through each of its hands, which were pinned wide apart, and a single spike was hammered straight through the dorsum of both feet. A crown of rusty barbed wire was pressed deep into its head. A bullseye was painted with blood over its stomach, multiple darts jutting out of it.

  Twelve Gene Warriors all sat on the dilapidated couch meters ahead of the unlucky humanoid, facing it. They made bets as they shot darts blindfolded; recent spoils of war changed hands.

  Rain’s hands instinctively reached for his daggers as if they had a life of their own; he glanced at Blood. She was covering her mouth with both hands, frozen in place.

  This isn’t good.

  He leapt to her side, his claws biting deep into her forearm; her eyes instantly focused on him.

  “Stash our shit on the rack.”

  He gestured with one hand and tapped Morse code with the other on her back: ‘Careful’.

  “Roger.” She saluted and walked towards the empty gun rack; each step echoed like a frag.

  The rumble caught their attention.

  A Gen-6 Gene Warrior stood up. He was almost as tall as Blood, bald, and the only color on his body was ink. A sledgehammer was tattooed on his chest, barbed wire across his arms, and a tally sat above his serial number on his sternum—each mark a cross burned into his flesh. All he wore were his trousers; everything else was gold: a chain on his neck, rings on every finger, and multiple golden watches.

  He smiled, each tooth a dagger, and aimed a finger at Rain.

  “Kinzhal?” he rasped.

  “Aye” Rain replied casually.

  “Join us, brother…” He gestured at the sofa with open palms and mocked a bow.

  “I’m Rain.” Rain smiled nonchalantly and offered him a cigarette.

  “Carbide.” He extended his hands wide and stared at the skulls on the ceiling, ignoring the cigarette. “That… your mate, brother?”

  His hand squeezed Rain’s shoulder hard enough to make his bones groan. He shook his head in Blood’s direction. Rain faked a violent sneeze and twisted himself away from the grasp before Carbide could react.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  I might have to kill this one.

  “Apologies. Honored to work with you, Carbide.” Rain's eyes darted between the squad and then back at Carbide—all Gen-6. His instincts screamed: Lethal threat.

  “No! Come on, Rain, join us! We still have time!” Carbide threw his hands wide once again.

  “Of course, what’s the occasion?” With a swift motion, Rain released the dagger pinned to the inside of his sleeves.

  Carbide tied a dirty crimson scarf over a female Gene Warrior’s eyes, placed a dart in her hands, then poured whiskey into her mouth. “Bullseye,” he spat and dropped a Rolex watch on the sofa. The rest replied either “pass” or “call.” None raised; they placed platinum Montblanc pens, perfumes, and other pre-war luxuries into the pot.

  Ahead of him was the unthinkable: a female Gene Warrior, barely breathing. Her serial number was in English, not Cyrillic; she was indistinguishable from late Gen-3s or early Gen-5s, with almost humanlike gray skin and long, matte-black hair. Her likeness to Embers was uncanny.

  The Blues have Gene Warriors… Zharova.

  The POW’s limbs convulsed; her head had tilted toward the floor. She was on the verge. The warrior let the dart fly. It dug fin-deep into flesh, right in the woman's thigh—well outside the circle they had marked. A muffled moan was all she could produce.The Molot squad booed her assailant’s aim, except for the two who now shared the loot.

  “We all lose some bets, brother.” Carbide raised his hands and shook his head.

  “Very nice. Is it for sale?” Rain lit another cigarette. He heard the thumping steps of Blood closing in and saw the flicker of Carbide's eyes tracking her movement.

  “Nah,” Carbide gave an unhinged smile.

  “Pity. I had a packet of Cubans, Monte Cristo 1998, unopened.”

  Please, Blood, don’t do anything stupid.

  “Ah, you mean like these?” Carbide walked leisurely toward his hoard, next to his bed and produced a packet, shaking it in front of Rain like a flag.

  Rain heard Blood’s footsteps right behind him.

  “Very nice piece… what Gen is she?” Carbide started walking closer, throwing the packet without looking where it landed.

  “I am Blood,” Rain heard sharply behind him.

  “Blood.” Carbide licked his lips; everyone stood up.

  “Nice to meet you, Blood...” His pace quickened.

  Hands reached for knives, fangs bared, and nails shot out. Hisses and snarls erupted.

  “Dear brother... I am Gen-7.” Her zweih?nder left the hilt, raised atop her head.

  “Very enticing. Let’s dance... Blood!”

  “Ehre und Zorn!” Blood’s biomechanical voice exploded.

  Fuck! Too many! Can’t keep track!

  Rain's daggers were in his hands before anyone could blink. Rain and Blood were back to back. Gen-6 assailants completely surrounded them, inching closer. Blood kept swinging the greatsword in wide, controlled motions; it sounded like the blades of an attack helicopter. They staggered a step back.

  Carbide reached for his sledgehammer; rusty barbed wire was wrapped around its head, and countless notches marked its haft.

  Rain heard a loud pop; instantly, a stinging pain erupted on the back of his neck. Numbness followed. His body felt heavy, and his vision blurred. Heard the familiar clash of metal on metal. Hands yanked at his arms while pommels struck his knuckles, disarming him. He was in a standing rear-naked choke before he could blink.

  “Fuck!” he slurred.

  Laughter and cheering broke out; they chanted “Carbide.” They formed a circle; he was made to watch.

  Blood held the sword in front of her, point toward the enemy. Carbide held the hammer like a poleaxe, the haft toward her, jabbing and probing.

  “Gewürm! Verreckt!” She drove her blade forward; the center of his haft pushed away the point of her blade.

  The blade groaned, it did not budge a millimeter. Carbide’s smile disappeared.

  He dashed to the side just in time to avoid her thrust. In a single motion, he lunged with his hammer. It connected flush on the part of her blade closest to the hilt and stopped in place. Sparks flew. It sounded like an MBT driving through a wall.

  Everyone went silent.

  She thrust the pommel into his face; he ducked and dashed away from the downward slash that followed. The point of her greatsword aimed at his throat.

  “Unhand Rain,” she echoed in the room.

  Carbide cracked his neck and reassumed his stance with quick, balanced steps. This time, his face was unreadable. Blood held the sword above her head and widened her stance.

  The door swung open. Geiger, Glass, and a short, thin female Gene Warrior entered; she had almost identical characteristics to the one nailed on the wall.

  A Gen-3?

  They unhanded him, and Rain slumped to the ground. Geiger and Glass walked quickly toward him, their faces unreadable masks.

  The Gen-3 shrieked: “Carbide! Your assessment!”

  “Functional! Major Havoc!” Carbide lowered his hammer.

  Blood sprinted toward the POW, tore the railroad spikes from her body, removed the barbed wire crown. Checked the pulse and shook her head. She eased the woman's eyes closed, pulled silk from a nearby bed, and covered her.

  Geiger stole a glance at Blood and the POW. Then they aggregated around Havoc.

  “Enough with the meet and greet, assemble for briefing” she led everyone outside.

  Rain staggered towards Blood, tucked a cigarette in the dead soldier’s palm. Blood saluted, then Rain. Geiger was waiting for them at the door.

  “Permission to..”

  “Granted, do not take long”

  They sat her next to the other corpses.

  Rain whispered at her ear “I am sorry, please tell Embers.. I miss you”