The roar of the toxic storm had lessened slightly; they had to be at least an hour away from that shit hole. James pulled to the side of the road—it was time to deal with his wounds before his body healed over a bullet in his shoulder and glass in his arm. He reached into the glove box and took out a pair of needle-nose pliers, a bottle of vodka, and a roll of gauze. Having an enhanced healing factor and coagulation capabilities had its benefits, but if he didn't act quickly, too much would heal over the injuries.

  James took a big swig of vodka before starting to remove the bullet. It hurt even more than when he got shot, and a steady stream of blood followed until he quickly packed it with gauze. It would stop bleeding soon, and with the bullet gone, the wound should seal up in the next hour or two, likely leaving him only sore by the time he reached Norfolk tomorrow. He cleaned the rest of his wounds and discovered he had broken a rib in the fall—thankfully just a hairline fracture that hadn’t dislodged.

  He let out a sigh, realizing he'd need an easier job next time. Though he healed fast, the soreness lingered about as long as it would for anyone else; his body simply did enough to keep him functioning without the risk of dying, then slowed back down. Taking another swig, James started the engine again and got back to driving.

  James eased his car back onto the highway and regained speed; he still had a few hours until the storm ended and many more to escape the wasteland. Getting comfortable in his seat, he inserted a HoloDisc he had scavenged from the ruins of Atlanta—a job that wasn’t fun, some scientist had wanted a live sample of a Viber Rat. The city was full of mutants; a massive worm had nearly eaten his car once, which was exactly why he modified it to emit electric shocks.

  As the music started playing "Toxic Highway," the track erupted with a distorted electric guitar riff, drums building into a relentless beat. The opening line—“Riding through ruins of a world gone mad”—cut through the chaos. In that moment, as the rhythm took over, James’s mind faded into his thoughts and his body slipped into autopilot, the familiar cadence of the anthem merging with the hum of the engine as he sped further into the desolate night.

  Sometime later, James finally emerged from the wasteland. It wasn’t an instant transformation, but a slow and steady change—the landscape gradually filled with cleaner, healthier-looking plants. No place he’d ever visited before boasted the vibrant plant life and colors of old; even the tamed lands had taken on a dull, muted tone. He felt a tinge of pity for those without implants or gene mods that could recall memories on command and bring them to vivid life.

  Now, with the sun just beginning to rise, James was only a few hours away from Norfolk.

  As the sun crested the horizon—nearly midday—James arrived at the City of Norfolk. Nothing remained of what it once was; now, the city was encircled by a massive steel wall, four stories tall, complete with barricaded terraces, watchtowers manned by heavily armed guards, and turrets. Just outside this formidable barrier, a makeshift town had sprung up—home to those who either farmed the barren lands or couldn’t afford a life within the wall’s protection, even if they still longed for its security.

  James approached the main gate—a colossal structure, one among several similar ones along the wall—and joined the line of vehicles awaiting entry. When his turn came, a guard clad in what appeared to be an advanced exo-suit stepped forward, an Argus Carbine slung over his shoulder. His eyes gleamed with a mechanical glint. He must be an augmenter,James thought.

  "I need your ID, sir," the guard said in a clipped tone.

  James handed over his ID card without hesitation. "Here," he replied.

  The guard examined the card for a moment before returning it with a nod. "Enjoy your stay here, James Grayson," he said before moving on to the next vehicle. James then drove through the gate and into the city.

  Inside, Norfolk was as close as one could get to pre-war splendor these days, though the glass towers were long gone. Instead, the skyline was dominated by imposing towers of brick and concrete—relics of an older era. The city streets, though worn and cracked, pulsed with life, and the familiar aromas of engine exhaust, street food, and lingering industrial smoke filled the air then James needed to slam on the brakes to avoid a car—a reminder that even a nuclear holocaust couldn’t erase traffic.

  Neon signs flickered intermittently, advertising everything from fuel to makeshift tech repairs and other illicit activities, while crowds of people moved through the narrow avenues. Amid the chaos of modern life, James drove straight to the SDS main headquarters.

  As James continued through the city, the buildings gradually became smaller and cleaner. Eventually, they morphed into a suburban sprawl with neat lawns and even a few pools. The closer he got, the lighter the traffic became. Finally, in the middle of a perfectly manicured field, the SDS HQ loomed—a twelve-story building, the largest in the city and possibly one of the biggest still standing anywhere. A gleaming tower of glass and marble.

  James drove up to the front, parked, and climbed out to stretch. “Yahaha,” he yawned loudly, his body protesting from weeks without a proper night's sleep. His brain implant and enhanced healing factor let him go a day or two without rest, but he hadn’t slept well during his hunt. The thought of a hotel suite and a comfortable bed made him feel almost giddy.

  Just as he finished stretching, four guards in exo-suits approached. “What’s your business here?” one demanded.

  “I’m James Grayson, and I’m making a delivery,” James replied, flashing his trademark smile—the one he always wore when he came to collect his payment.

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  “One moment while we confirm,” the guard said, speaking into a built-in mic. After a brief pause, he continued, “Your identity has been confirmed. We’ll take the package, but your presence has been requested to attend a meeting. Someone will be here shortly to escort you.”

  With that, James opened the passenger door and hauled Ryan out, drool still dripping from the side of his mouth. He handed the unconscious man off to the guards.

  Just as James was about to step into the lobby, a man in a black suit emerged. Standing around 5’11”, a little shorter than James, he had neatly combed black hair and piercing brown eyes. Spotting James, the man walked over and asked, “Are you James?”

  “The one and only” James replied coolly.

  “Follow me,” the man said, turning back into the lobby. James followed. The lobby was beautiful—a stark contrast to the dilapidated place where he had dragged Ryan out. It was hard to believe the world had ended.

  They passed the front desk and reached an elevator. The man placed his arm on the door, and it slid open smoothly. Once inside, he pressed the button for the 12th floor. This was unusual; normally, when SDS gave him a contract, it was on the 6th floor.

  “So, can you tell me what this is about?” James asked, or perhaps, “What's your name?”

  “My name is Danial. I’m Mr. Matenze’s assistant,” Danial replied.

  “You mean the CEO, Victor Matenze?” James said in shock. “Why would I be seeing him?”

  "You're not going to be seeing him; you'll be attending a meeting and then be given a contract," Danial said in a cold, measured tone. An awkward silence fell over the elevator as it ascended to the 12th floor. When the doors slid open, Danial stepped out and gestured toward a conference room filled with people. "Go in there and take a seat."

  James nodded and walked inside. The room was bright, warmed by sunlight streaming through large windows. In many ways, it looked like any other corporate conference room: a long table made of dark-stained wood sat at its center, and at the head of it, a man was in mid-speech—“…over here is the last known position of…” He trailed off upon noticing James’s arrival. “Oh, Mr. Grayson, it took you long enough. Sit,” he said, glancing up from his notes.

  James picked a seat near the back, settling into a surprisingly comfortable swivel chair. Moments later, three more individuals filed in, each wearing gear similar to his own.

  “Now that you all are here,” the presenter continued, “we can go over the details of the escort contract you all signed.”

  Before he could explain further, James interrupted, “I didn’t sign any escort contract.”

  The presenter shot him an irritated look. “Mr. Grayson, if you had read the fine print on the contract we had you sign for bringing back Ryan Qwincy, you would have seen it was a test to see if you qualified for this. Now, as I was saying, let’s go over the details of the escort contract.”

  Just then, someone handed James a folder. Opening it, he skimmed the mission details, planning to read the finer points later. All he really needed to see was the payout: 1.5 million SDS Credits. That kind of money would easily cover a brand-new fuel cell for his car—he’d been wasting thousands every few weeks on cheap cells that barely held a charge. With a top-of-the-line model, he’d be set for at least a year, plus some extra credits left over. His mind made up, James turned back into the briefing. After all, how hard could an escort mission really be?

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” James yelled, slamming the gas as he screeched out of the SDS parking lot, tires squealing in protest as they struggled to gain traction. “They have to be fucking crazy,” he thought. “A mission to D.C.? That place is nothing more than an irradiated crater. I’ve heard rumors that not a single person survived. Most cities had at least a few survivors—whether they got lucky or something—but not D.C. The place got hit so many times by direct nuclear blasts that its anti-missile system fried itself trying to compute what to shoot down. But the money... it’s so much money.”

  He knew the route would be brutal: the trip alone would take at least fourteen hours, since most roads were obliterated. On top of that, D.C. was one of the worst wasteland zones, plagued by toxic storms that could last for days. The creatures there were beyond terrifying. James had hunted crazy things before—he once took down a Skymaw, a massive bat-like monstrosity also nicknamed the Skyripper for how it tore planes apart midair. But that would be considered weak compared to the mutants lurking in the D.C. wastes.

  “No way I’m doing this job,” he muttered, though deep down he knew the moment he saw the payout, he was already in. One could hope common sense might kick in, but James just laughed at himself as he pulled up to his favorite SDS-owned hotel, Harbor for the Weary.

  As he parked his car, James pushed thoughts of the mission aside. It wouldn’t start for another two days, and for now, he just needed to relax and recover. Grabbing his bag, he headed into the hotel. The lobby stretched out before him—a vast space bathed in sunlight from floor-to-ceiling windows, supplemented by strategically placed overhead lights. The floor was polished stone, bearing faint cracks and scuffs that hinted at the world’s decay, yet still exuded a veneer of luxury. Towering planters of genetically modified flora—unnaturally vibrant—lined the walls, while a few security personnel patrolled discreetly, ensuring nothing disturbed their wealthy clientele.

  A crowd of travelers stood in line to book rooms. Unlike the SDS HQ, this building was only four stories tall, but it felt far from shabby—certainly nothing like the room James had rented at Fontels Bar. In fact, it was about as close to a pre-war resort as one could get these days, complete with a pool area, a bar, and several restaurants. Though much smaller than its pre-war predecessors—tourism was nearly extinct now—it catered almost exclusively to affluent merchants and mercenaries like him, many of whom relied on the hotel’s clandestine services. Rumor had it they could source nearly anything here, from illicit weapon modifications to black-market medicines, no questions asked.

  Bypassing the long line, he made his way to the VIP desk, where Zack greeted him. “Hello, James. It’s been a while—long mission?” Zack asked, already prepping a suite key.

  “That it was. He was a slippery bastard,” James replied, recalling his most recent target.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re still around. It’d be a shame to lose such a valued customer,” Zack said, handing him a key card. “Your room is number 24 on the fourth floor, as always. Enjoy your stay with us.”

  “Oh, I will,” James said with a small smirk. “I’ll probably have some supplies sent here—maybe a few things that don’t exactly fly under normal regulations. Make sure they reach my room.”

  “Of course,” Zack replied with a subtle nod, understanding the implications. “Just let us know what to expect.”

  With that, James turned and headed toward the elevators, ready to leave the bustling lobby behind. His body ached from weeks out in the field, and the thought of a real bed—plus a chance to momentarily shut out the apocalypse—felt like a luxury he’d earned.