It was around 6 p.m. when James finally entered his room—a massive, well-appointed suite that was a far cry from the grim shelters of the wasteland. The room boasted a spacious living area with a plush couch, a compact cooking area, and a bathroom outfitted with a state-of-the-art tub and a shower whose jets sprayed gently from the sides. But what captivated James most was the bedroom. The massive bed, soft and inviting as if sculpted from a cloud, immediately caught his eye. Without a second thought, he threw off his jacket, shirt, and pants, leaving him in nothing more than his boxers and a dogtags gleaming at his chest. He collapsed onto the bed, drifting off into a deep sleep long before his head even met the pillow.
The next day, at around 11 a.m., James awoke to a surprisingly clear mind. His brain implant had done its job, dispelling the lingering fog of sleep. Groggy but determined, the first thing he did was head to the shower. As he stepped under the cascade of warm water, he noted with grim amusement that he was covered in dried blood—and possibly some brain matter, though he couldn’t tell for sure. The shower rinsed away every trace of the previous night’s rough-and-tumble, a welcome luxury compared to the wipes and spray he was forced to use in the wastelands.
With the last droplets disappearing down the drain, James moved to his desk where his travel bag lay waiting. Methodically, he unloaded his weapons: his venerable 1911, the reliable HK416, along with two spare magazines for the pistol and six for the rifle. He retrieved a coil of sturdy rope and assorted oddities that might prove useful in unexpected situations. He mentally accounted for everything—he would eventually need to unload his car to take a proper inventory of his gear and determine what additional supplies to purchase. But that could wait; now was the time for a brief respite.
Next, he opened his travel bag. Inside, he found a fresh change of clothes: a set of shorts that doubled as bathing suits and a snug t-shirt that fit him perfectly, accentuating his lean, muscular frame. The fabric was soft against his skin, a rare comfort in a world where even basic clothing had been reduced to utilitarian scraps. Despite it being winter and the temperature hovering around 23°F—and the fact that the global temperature had dropped by about 10 degrees after the fallout and the end of the nuclear ice age—he allowed himself a small smirk. After all, in a twisted twist of fate, the best way to stop global warming was by nuking the planet to hell. James wasn’t sure that was what climate activists had in mind, but the thought brought him a brief, bitter chuckle.
The resort-like accommodations were kept to a comfortable 85°F by a high-tech heating sphere that enveloped the entire complex—a stark contrast to the unforgiving cold outside.
Then he pulled out a pair of comfortable flip-flops, gathered up his merc clothes, and grabbed his boots before heading toward a section of the wall that opened as he approached. He stowed his dirty clothes inside a secure compartment designed for laundry and repairs—services that came at a fee, of course, as nothing was ever free in this world.
With that done, he took a few moments to stretch, loosening his still-sore muscles. The bullet wound had healed completely, leaving no lasting scar, though his rib—while no longer broken—still hadn’t fully recovered. Bones, after all, always took longer to mend.
Feeling a bit more limber, James headed down to enjoy the resort’s amenities. As he rode the elevator, he noticed a man—one he recognized from yesterday’s meeting—heading into a room smeared with gore. The sight made James chuckle darkly; he recalled how he’d been so out of it during the meeting that he forgot to clean up, ending up in a similarly disheveled state among suited men.
James stepped out into the pool area, a sprawling complex that exuded pre-war luxury. The pool itself was vast—a sparkling, crystalline expanse that stretched nearly the length of the building. Surrounding it were comfortable loungers and cabanas, while a hot tub bubbled invitingly at one end. A stylish bar served up a range of drinks from classic cocktails to offbeat concoctions, and just beyond, a modest restaurant offered a menu of gourmet dishes that belied the wasteland outside.
After a while, his attention was drawn to a woman at the far end of the bar. She exuded an effortless charm—confident yet approachable—with a glint of mischief in her green eyes and light brown hair cascading softly to her shoulders. She wore a two-piece bathing suit that appeared entirely black—or so he assumed, since the top was concealed beneath a light hoodie cover-up. The outfit revealed just enough to pique his interest while keeping him guessing.
Unable to resist, James slid off his stool, paid his tab, and made his way over. Leaning casually against the bar, he flashed his trademark half-smile and removed his sunglasses, letting his unnaturally striking Cherenkov blue eyes meet hers. “Hey there,” he said, his tone warm and teasing yet edged with danger. “Mind if I join you?”
She returned his smile with an inviting warmth. “Sure, no problem,” she replied, her voice soft but confident.
James eased himself onto the adjacent stool, savoring the brief moment of calm amid the chaos. “I’m James,” he offered casually. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
Her eyes sparkled with a blend of amusement and curiosity. “Call me Celeste,” she said. “I usually keep to myself, but something about today felt… different.” She tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingering on his face as if weighing his words.
“A different day in this city?” James asked, leaning in. “Maybe it’s the storm finally washing away all the usual gloom, or maybe it’s just you.” His words were half-joking, yet there was earnestness in his eyes.
Celeste chuckled softly. “Maybe it’s a bit of both. I like the idea of a storm that clears away the old mess and lets something new shine through.” Her fingers tapped lightly on the cool surface of the bar—a subtle invitation to continue the conversation.
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James nodded. “I’m all for a fresh start, especially if it means meeting someone who can make reality fade—even if just a bit.” His tone combined sincerity with his characteristic roguish charm.
Their conversation flowed naturally from there, touching on the absurdity of corporate enclaves that were once unimaginable before the war, the irony of a world rebuilt on ruins, and the rare, beautiful moments amid the decay. Celeste’s wit and candid demeanor drew him in, each flirtatious remark building a bridge over the harsh reality looming just outside the hotel’s walls.
As the evening progressed, their banter deepened into a shared indulgence in laughter, stories, and fleeting escapism. They drank, dined, and found solace in each other’s company—a brief respite from the endless struggle of survival. By the end of the night, memories were forged over clinking glasses and whispered confidences.
The next morning James awoke in a bed that wasn’t his own. The room was empty, its silence a stark contrast to the previous night’s warmth. Though he stirred as Celeste got up, James decided to remain silent. He didn’t want to burden her with an awkward encounter; instead, he resolved to let their time together remain a happy memory for them both.
James’s body never really allowed him to get drunk—unless he managed to down five times the amount of liquor that would kill a normal man. With his enhanced physiology and neural implants, every detail of the previous day was ingrained into his memory, available to be replayed with startling clarity at any moment. Even so, as he lingered on those fond recollections, a hint of melancholy crept into his thoughts. He knew that tomorrow’s mission might very well be his last, and that realization spurred him into action.
Determined, James left his room and headed to his car. Under the dim glow of the early morning light, he carefully packed three heavy-duty bags with his essential gear. For discretion, he took the private elevator, the metal doors sliding shut behind him as he ascended to the higher floors of the hotel.
Upon reaching his room, James set about creating a functional space. He pushed the plush, well-worn couch aside to clear a sizable area, the soft fabric brushing against his calloused hands as he moved it. With precise, almost ritualistic care, he unloaded his bags and arranged his belongings.
Sometime later, James stood above his gear, methodically inspecting it as he carefully laid out his essentials on the carpet of the lounge room. His eyes swept over the familiar contours of his trusted 1911, the sleek profile of his HK416, and the imposing presence of his Remington 870 Tactical. Next, he ran his fingers over the smooth, cold surface of his Gauss Rifle—a weapon he rarely used, reserved for taking out targets from a great distance. It had been a long time since he’d fired it.
His hand then moved to the Plasteel Tactical Sword, its hilt sturdy in his grip, while the custom 8-inch Vibro Knife, designed for swift, precise strikes, lay neatly beside it. A compact tactical drone was secured in its case, and nearby, the remaining three Helexoin platinum mines were arranged with military precision. He also had about twelve Helexion Grandes tucked away in his bag.
James then checked his plate carrier; 2 inches of plasteel plating protected both the front and back. He picked up his portable welding laser—a tool that had saved his ass more than once; he remembered the time when a target had lured him into an old bunker and sealed the door from the outside. Nearby, a coil of 12 feet of high-tensile synthread rope lay coiled neatly. Finally, a small hacking module blinked quietly in standby mode—a potent device against digital fortresses, one that had once helped him crack an old UCOA AI in the ruins of a fort deep in the wastes of South Carolina.
Turning his attention to ammunition, James took stock. He had 19 .45 Durasteel armor-piercing rounds in reserve, though he’d need the full 21 before the trip. For his HK416, he carried about 300 rounds of 5.56 anti-splicer ammunition and 500 rounds of 5.56 plasteel-tipped rounds. He was considering swapping the plasteel-tipped rounds for full-plasteel ones, as the current load wouldn’t be as effective against the thick skins of the mutants in the DC wastelands, and, importantly, he wasn’t planning to capture any splicers as bounties, so there was no need for specialized incapacitation rounds.
As for the heavier weaponry, the Remington 870 Tactical had no place on this mission. He’d debated bringing the Gauss Rifle, but the extra weight and risk of loss were too high. After an internal debate, he decided to leave the Gauss Rifle, the hacking module, and the tactical drone in his truck. Instead, he’d take the essential tools—the rope, the welding laser—and all 12 Helexion Grandes in his bag.
Satisfied with his inventory, James turned his attention to his personal belongings. He retrieved his clean, freshly laundered, and repaired clothes from the wall-mounted storage. Now, he needed to decide what else to buy; he couldn’t afford to go unprepared on what might be his last mission. In the end, he spent a total of 50,000 on ammo—15,000 of which was spent just on two Durasteel bullets. He then shelled out an additional 20,000 on rations, water, cleaning spray, four lure flares, and one very illegal combat drug. This drug was notorious for its horrible after-effects, which would normally kill an average user, but his enhanced healing factor only made it feel like a terrible hangover or so he assumed he’d never experienced a real hangover from alcohol before.
With the day drawing to an end, James methodically returned the gear he wouldn’t need for tomorrow’s mission to his car. He set aside the extra equipment and began preparing his outfit, running through every detail with a practiced, almost sacred ritual. He examined each part of his guns, every component of his devices—each check a reminder that this was a mission with deadly stakes. It was a ritual he performed every time he had a particularly dangerous mission, a way to ensure that nothing was left to chance.
For the final part of his ritual, he reached for one of his two worn, old dog tags. Holding it up, he read the name: Tylor Grayson. Tylor was one of his brothers; they both survived the initial chaos of the bombs falling. They were only 12 at the time, seeing the outside world for the first time only for it to be in a state of collapse. But Tylor didn’t have the same resilience—he lacked the gene mods that allowed James to shrug off the bitter cold. James could still remember, with painful clarity, the long, relentless descent into the nuclear ice age. He recalled watching, powerless, as the world grew colder and colder, and his brother’s warmth slowly faded away. Tylor died seven years ago at the age of 15, a casualty of a new era where even survival was a cruel game of chance.
The weight of that memory, of his brother’s untimely death amid the frozen ruins, mingled with the grime and scars of his own past. It was a reminder that no matter how much he prepared, the past was never far behind. Sometimes, having a perfect memory wasn’t such a blessing after all.
With a heavy sigh, James secured the dog tag and rose from his makeshift inventory station. He gathered his thoughts and, with a final glance over his meticulously arranged gear, he headed down for one last meal—a quiet, solitary moment of sustenance before the chaos of tomorrow.
