The next day, James drove into the SDS HQ parking lot, deliberately choosing a far corner spot so no one would mess with his car while he was away. When he stepped out, he pulled on his backside jacket and quickly donned his plate carrier, which was already loaded with extra magazines. His trusty 1911 sat securely in its holster, and his HK416 was slung over his right shoulder. On his left, his Plasteel Sword rested against his side, while his Vibro Blade was holstered at his thigh. Finally, he put on his sunglasses, completing the look, and headed toward the lobby.

  Inside, he was waved through and escorted to a back room that lacked the glamour of the rest of the building. Instead, its concrete walls and dull colors gave it an austere, utilitarian feel. As he passed a room labeled “The Armory,” he was brought into what resembled a pre-war locker room. However, instead of the nostalgic mix of sweet cologne and BO, it reeked of recycled air and sterile practicality.

  In the room, he found three other mercenaries—two men and a woman—already gathered together. They were huddled in a discreet corner, speaking in hushed tones, separated from the group of sixteen SDS guards stationed nearby. As James approached, he said, “You were the one covered in gore yesterday. Never heard of a rest,” extending his hand for a handshake, his signature smile playing on his lips.

  The man shook his hand and replied, “I’m Laim.” Laim was a Black man, about 5’7” with a buzz cut, looking to be in his early forties. He wore a thick jacket and heavy pants suitable for this time of year. “Aren’t you going a little light on the clothing?” Laim remarked, eyeing James’s attire. “The DC wastes this time of year are probably around 10°F and drop below zero during the night.”

  “The cold doesn’t bother me much,” James grinned, “but thanks for the concern.” He then looked over to the other man. As if anticipating the unasked question, the man said, “The name’s Mason.” James shook his hand. Mason was clad in clothing similar to Laim’s, though James noted that his right arm was made of some type of metal—clear evidence he was an augmenter. Mason was a white male, around 6’2”, and appeared to be just coming of age—perhaps 18 or 19. He had short black hair.

  James’s attention then shifted to the woman. She had short black hair and, oddly enough, striking orange eyes. Standing about 5’5” and looking to be in her early thirties, she carried herself with quiet confidence. “And what would your name be?” James asked, adopting a casual charm.

  “Raven,” she replied in a cold tone.

  James then turned back to the rest of the group and sat down, asking, “So, what are we talking about?”

  "We were just talking about how this doesn't make any sense—escorting a group of scientists to retrieve a crashed satellite in the DC wastes. It's a crazy risk," Liam said, his voice low as he glanced around at the armed guards standing by. He added, "And they're paying a large sum to hire us."

  Raven leaned in, her tone measured yet edged with cynicism. "They don't think we'll all make it back alive, which is why the price is so high. But they're risking a lot of men for a satellite."

  Mason grinned, a mix of youthful bravado and reckless confidence. "Yeah, it's a weird mission, but if they think they won't pay me, they're dead wrong—I ain't dying." His tone carried that strange invincibility of someone who barely remembered the bombs falling, maybe around eight years old, when the true danger of the world was still a blur in his memory.

  James folded his arms and interjected, "It doesn't make too much sense, but the money doesn't change. No point in asking why; what we should be asking is what we'll be facing. After all, the Skymaw is at the bottom of the food chain out there." His voice was steady, almost amused at the absurdity of it all.

  "You're right," Laim agreed, his tone pragmatic. "What weapons do you all have?" he began, clearly ready to hash out the details.

  Before anyone could answer, a group of people entered the room, their sudden arrival cutting off Laim's question and shifting the conversation to a new focus.

  It was the science team—a group of six people: five men and one woman. The men looked nothing special, just your average lab geeks, but the woman stood out entirely. She carried an air of superiority and nonchalance, as if she didn't care at all. Her piercing violet eyes and her hair—a mix of dirty blonde with streaks of black that fell to her shoulders—set her apart. She wore sleek, self-regulating thermo-fabric attire known as "CryoWeave," which maintained the perfect temperature without weighing her down. James never liked the idea of such high-tech clothing; they could be finicky. On her head, he saw a worn Yankee cap—a relic that shocked him.

  One of the men stepped forward and said, "Alright, we're ready to move out. We'll be going in two light Bradleys and two jeeps." He pointed to the group of mercenaries and added, "One of you in each vehicle—let's move, people. The window is already starting to close."

  With that, the group began to mobilize. James decided to take the second jeep at the front, while Raven took the rear Bradley. Laim moved to the Bradley behind him, and Mason, ever impulsive, insisted on taking the lead jeep—and no one was going to stop him.

  James hopped into the jeep and noticed two guards—one sitting in the back and the other in the driver's seat. As he settled in, he quipped, “Well, since we’ll be seeing each other for a while, we might as well get to know each other’s names.”

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  The driver grinned and replied, “My name’s Ryan, and this here is Luke.” He nodded toward the guard in the back.

  “Huh, small world—I knew Ryan,” James said with a wry smile, already anticipating where the conversation might lead.

  “Yeah? So, what’s he like?” Ryan asked, his tone light.

  “In the custody of SDS, he’s probably wishing he were dead after a fun session,” James replied with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling with dark humor.

  Before they could continue, a scientist strode into the jeep and occupied the empty seat with a brisk efficiency. “That’s enough chit chat,” he commanded, his voice clipped and impatient. “Your job is to help us make it in the wastes, not to make friends. We’re leaving now.”

  With that, the mood in the jeep turned awkward as the driver hit the accelerator and followed the car ahead. The convoy veered onto a back route through the city—an area off-limits to normal traffic—which allowed them to exit the urban sprawl relatively quickly. With two Bradleys in their formation, James doubted that raiders would test their luck unless they were truly desperate, so he expected the ride into the wastelands to be peaceful.

  Or so he thought.

  Within ten minutes of leaving the city, chaos erupted. Out of nowhere, one of the Bradleys hit a hidden mine and was violently detracked. The opening blast was catastrophic: four guards were blasted to pieces on the pavement, and several more inside the Bradley likely met the same gruesome fate. Instantly alert, James unstrapped himself and slid out to join Laim and Raven, who were crouched behind the battered Bradley for cover.

  In a heartbeat, James sprang from behind cover, unleashing a rapid burst from his HK416. He picked off four bandits who were reloading what appeared to be a makeshift RPG—though it looked like it wouldn’t even fire. Nevertheless, when shot, it exploded in a dazzling display of fire and shrapnel, ripping several more bandits to pieces.

  Peering over the edge of his cover, James watched as the remaining attackers were methodically cleaned up. Bodies lay sprawled across the ground, and scattered equipment glinted harshly in the light.

  Once the firefight subsided and the immediate threat was over, James decided to partake in the age-old practice of looting—after all, in the wasteland, it was always "the winner takes it all," and James was certainly the winner. While most of the spoils were of little value, one detail caught his eye: several of the fallen bandits bore the unmistakable mark of the Crimson Viper Cartel (CVC). This ruthless organization, notorious for using a potent battle drug that numbed pain but was terribly addictive, was known to control a small portion of Upper Old New York State—they were far from home. Even stranger, some of the bandits had coins stamped with the insignia of Eclipse-Horizon-Dynamics (EHD) in their pockets. The two groups—CVC, ruling what remained of Upper New York State, and EHD, based in the remnants of New Jersey with one of the only operational fleets ferrying them to offshore holdings—should never have crossed paths, let alone this far from either territory.

  James scooped up the coins and other useful items with practiced ease, his mind already racing through the implications. Regret began to gnaw at him—this mission was turning out far bloodier than expected—but the money was too good to ignore. Shoving his darker thoughts aside, he moved forward to assess the full extent of the damage done to the convoy.

  As he approached, he saw Raven, Laim, and Mason grouped together, deep in conversation. They glanced up as he drew near, clearly taking note of the odd details he’d picked up during the firefight.

  "It makes no sense that they're here—setting up mines and anti-armor rockets. They knew we were coming," Laim remarked, his tone laced with disbelief.

  "I agree," James replied. "I don't think this is a satellite recovery mission. If anyone wants out, now's the time." The other mercenaries shook their heads in silent agreement. In this line of work, risk was expected.

  Turning his attention to Raven, James asked, "What's the inside of the Bradley look like?" He pointed toward the wreckage of the detracked vehicle.

  Raven’s eyes darkened as she described the scene. "It's a total mess," she said. "The explosion was mostly contained at the front—I got lucky that there were enough guys in exo-suits ahead of me to take the brunt of it. The interior is like a slaughterhouse: blood is everywhere, shredded metal hangs in the air, and limbs are mangled beyond recognition. I got a couple of cuts, but I'll be fine. My gene mods help my blood coagulate quickly, though the side effect is that my eyes turn orange."

  Her words painted a gruesome picture. Inside the Bradley, shattered glass and twisted metal lay amid pools of dark. Bits of flesh and bone were strewn about like macabre confetti, and the air was thick with the acrid tang of burning materials mixed with the metallic scent of spilled blood.

  James managed a wry smile to lighten the mood. "Damn, do we get a bigger cut if one of us dies?" he joked. Then, turning serious for a moment, he asked, "Any other survivors in there?"

  "Three others made it out, though one of them is probably going to die," Raven replied.

  With that, James glanced over to the leading group of SDS scientists deep in conversation. Moments later, the group seemed to reach a decision, and an order was issued to load back into the remaining vehicles. The decision was clear: move forward. However, a separate group broke off with the wounded and headed back toward the city, leaving behind seven guards and the four of them.

  Once reassembled, the convoy resumed its journey in a relative lull. After four hours of steady driving, they finally reached the outskirts of the Vergina wastelands. Had it been pre-war, they would have been on the edge of what used to be DC, but a death zone now lay around the area of the old city of Richmond—a place ravaged by a new type of bomb. It was something James didn’t understand, but it left behind corrosive acid rain that reduced everything to a state of decay. In those depths, the very land seemed to eat away at you, slowly reducing you to fragments of what you once were. It was a horrible fate for those who ventured too deep.

  Deciding to avoid that, the convoy headed southwest until they reached the old Interstate I-81. They traveled along this stretch for a while, but eventually, they would have to leave the highway and venture into the DC wastes. Beyond the highway lay a network of overgrown forest paths and open clearings, where hardly any roads remained intact. James had been in these wastes before—by accident, during a return trip from the Eclipse-Horizon-Dynamics territory. That trip had taught him that the DC wasteland was a merciless environment; even without a raging storm, the toxic air nearly burned through his air scrubbers.