The clouds swirled into a mass of dark shadows, crackling with the promise of rain. It came too fast, a heavy downpour sweeping across the land before they had a chance to find proper shelter.
Halfway back to New Haven, Massiah and the others veered toward a small haven nestled in the depths. It didn't appear on any official maps, but that hardly mattered—it was a roof over their heads, and for now, that was good enough.
The haven itself wasn't as bad as they expected. Most of the buildings looked fragile, their structures patched together with whatever scrap and salvage could be found.
They didn't seem built to withstand the storm creeping closer. But at the heart of it all stood a large bar—sturdy, well-maintained, and by the looks of it, a popular gathering spot. A tavern and an info depot rolled into one, the kind of place that attracted scavengers, bounty hunters, and trouble.
The doors creaked as they swung open, metal hinges groaning in protest. The sound was drowned out by the heavy clanking of boots on wood, followed by the exasperated panting of Ansel, who hadn't taken well to running through the rain.
Massiah scanned the room. The moment they stepped inside, every pair of eyes flicked toward them. Some lingered on their faces, others drifted to the weapons strapped to their backs.
He stepped forward, the others following suit.
At the far end of the room, Massiah dropped into an empty seat, shrugging off his overcoat. Originally designed to endure harsh temperatures, the fabric was now completely soaked through, clinging to his skin like dead weight.
"Wow," Dahlia said.
It was the first time they'd seen him without the coat. But more than that, her gaze traced over the scars marking his arms—deep gashes, old wounds that had never properly healed, bruises staining his skin. The remnants of previous battles.
"You're still wearing that old shirt," Quem muttered, eyes landing on his undershirt. The faded black fabric was stretched thin, bold letters across the chest spelling out Nirvana.
Massiah scoffed, draping his coat over the chair beside him. "Clothes are expensive. So unless you feel like chipping in for rent this month, you better appreciate this shirt."
"Aye, aye, capitano," Quem said with a small salute.
Despite the return to casual banter, the room remained tense. Some of the drinkers had gone back to their conversations, sloshing beers and exchanging stories, but more than a few still watched them. Silent. Unwelcoming.
"Why does it feel like everyone in here wants to kill us?" Ansel muttered.
"Maybe because they do," Gran replied dryly, leaning back in his chair. He sighed, flicking a glance toward Massiah. "Still, the kid's got a point. The rain might've been better than this."
Massiah exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His fingers tapping softly against the tabletop. "It's just for the night," he murmured. "We can make it."
"Whatever you say." Gran leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the bar, settling on the wooden barrels filled with golden brew.
Two years ago, when they first met Massiah, drinking wasn't an option. They were too young, stuck in dingy havens like this after missions, pretending the world wasn't chewing them up one job at a time. But now—
Gran stood, raising a hand to signal for drinks. The waitress caught it immediately, weaving through the crowd with ease, a tray balanced on her palm, five heavy jars sloshing with beer.
As she approached, he hesitated. His gaze flickered to Ansel and Dahlia. They looked seventeen but were two years younger—he'd seen their files. Drinking wasn't illegal for them—at least not anymore—but it was morally wrong. He adjusted his signal, lowering his full palm to three fingers.
Massiah sighed, already regretting this. "I don't think now is the best time for this, Gran. Weren't you the one going on about how dangerous this place is?"
"We'll manage." Gran smirked as the waitress set the drinks down, heading back with the remaining two. "Besides, we might never get to do this again."
"I'm sure we could meet in the haven—" Massiah started, but the moment he saw their faces, he stopped.
There was something unspoken in their expressions. A silent understanding of the work they did, the lives they led. There was no guarantee of another night like this. He sighed.
"Just one, though."
"Wow, I was so sure you'd resist." Quem grinned, grabbing a jar and raising it slightly.
"I was too," Massiah admitted, lifting his own. Gran followed, and with one swift motion, their jars clanked together in a quiet, unceremonious cheer. Then, without hesitation, they all downed their drinks, slamming the mugs onto the table.
One beer.
That was the limit.
But within minutes, the table was cluttered with empty jars, foam trailing down their sides, the waitress already making another trip back to the bar.
Gran exhaled, his fingers tracing lazy circles against the wood. "Still, you know... we really hurt after that..." His voice was quieter now, his head dipping slightly. "You left us out there... it was hard."
Massiah's eyes lowered, his grip tightening around the rim of his jar. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it!" Gran suddenly shot up, throwing a hand into the air, signaling for more drinks.
Massiah groaned, his head hitting the table. His words came slurred, barely coherent. "I said... one."
"But here you are..." Gran managed to slur before his head hit the table with a dull thud.
"Oof. He's out." Dahlia raised a brow, glancing at Gran, who mirrored Massiah's position—except for the occasional snore that broke the silence.
"Is this what you wanted?" Ansel asked, looking toward Quem.
She smiled down at the table, her fingers lazily tracing the rim of her empty jar. "Gran adores him, you know. Probably more than anyone. More than anything. After all, Massiah saved his life." She exhaled softly, waving off the waitress who approached with more drinks. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't let them have a moment like this?"
Ansel smiled, pushing back his chair. "Probably not a good one."
Quem laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed Gran by the shoulder, hoisting him up with ease. "Grab Massiah. Let's get them to bed."
Dahlia and Ansel moved quickly, draping Massiah's arms over their shoulders. His drenched overcoat was heavier than expected, so Dahlia slung it over her own. They carried him toward the back of the bar, past the rows of drinkers and into a dimly lit hallway.
The bar also functioned as a makeshift inn. While most of the rooms were meant for passed-out drunks who had caused one too many problems, the owners had figured out they could make a tidy profit by offering longer stays.
"I really... oughta..." Massiah mumbled, his head drooping. "...ask Sabrina for... a raise."
"I doubt she'll be open to the idea." Ansel muttered as Dahlia pushed open the door to their rented room.
Inside was a simple bed, its sheets a little too clean for a place like this. A single oil lamp flickered on a wooden nightstand, snaring the room in soft, crimson light.
"Alright, let's get him on." Dahlia adjusted her grip, helping ease Massiah onto the bed.
They stood back, glancing toward the door. Quem was still settling the tab, handling both the rooms and the damage done to their wallets. They had gone ahead with the key to get Massiah tucked in first.
"I really should... thank her." Massiah muttered, his voice barely a whisper, already slipping into unconsciousness.
"Is that so?" Dahlia humored him, expecting more drunken nonsense.
They paid his words no mind, dismissing them as the ramblings of a man barely clinging to wakefulness.
Quem's footsteps echoed down the hall, growing closer.
"Yeah, I really should..." Massiah muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The door swung open as Quem entered, guiding Gran inside. His legs smacked against the doorknob, but he didn't so much as flinch.
"Sorry, I took so long," she said, shifting Gran's weight to adjust her grip. "The room was a bit tricky to—"
"Thank her for giving me..." Massiah hiccupped, his words slurring together. His eyelids fluttered, barely able to stay open. "...these amazing fools."
Quem stopped mid-step.
Her gaze flickered to the bed, to Massiah—drunken, half-asleep, and yet completely sincere. Her smile faltered. She bit her lip, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat.
She hadn't expected that.
Slowly, her eyes drifted to Dahlia and Ansel. Their backs were turned, giving her space, pretending not to notice.
She smiled. And then she cried.
It wasn't dramatic, just a quiet sting behind her eyes, a warmth trailing down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her coat, exhaling sharply, forcing herself to hold it together.
She had loved Massiah the same way Gran had. As a teacher, a master, a pillar in their lives. But when he let them go, when he chose not to advance with them, she convinced herself it was her fault.
That she wasn't good enough.
That if she had been stronger, faster, better—maybe he would've stayed by their side.
But now...
She hoisted Gran onto the bed beside Massiah, adjusting him until his arm flopped over, his hand unconsciously pushing Massiah's face to the edge of the mattress.
"Are you okay?" Dahlia asked, still facing the wall. "We can leave if you want us to."
"Yeah, it's not a big deal," Ansel added.
Quem let out a breathy laugh and stepped toward them, looping her arms around their necks in a sudden hug, pulling them close.
"I never thanked you guys," she said,
"For what?" Dahlia murmured.
"For saving him."
Ansel hesitated. "We didn't do anything special."
"Sure you did." Quem smiled, pulling back just enough to look at them. "And I'm thankful for it."
The fire shook, casting shadows against the damp wooden walls.
A gust of wind rattled the small window above the bed, whispering through the tiny cracks. Outside, the rain hadn't stopped, it pounded against the rooftop, turning the haven into a waterlogged mess.
Quem glanced at the window, then back at them. "You guys wanna go for a walk?"
Ansel squinted at her. "Is that a good idea? I mean, aren't we in murdercapital right now?"
"Don't worry," Quem grinned, already stepping through the door. "I'm grade two, after all."
They followed her outside, stopping beneath the overhang just beyond the entrance of the bar. The storm had turned the world into a murky abyss. Rain hammered the dirt roads, puddles rippling beneath the glow of scattered lanterns.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the steady, repetitive drumming of the downpour.
Dahlia glanced sideways. "Are you really fine?"
Quem took a breath, then slapped her cheeks lightly, twice in quick succession. The sharp smack echoed beneath the shelter. She shook her head, exhaling, forcing herself to wake up.
"Just needed some fresh air," she said, stretching her arms overhead. Then, lowering them, she turned to face them fully. "But more than that... I wanna know about you two."
Dahlia glanced outside, the moon barely visible through the storm, its light swallowed by the relentless cascade.
"What makes a couple of kids like you get into this line of work?" she asked, her voice quieter than usual.
Ansel didn't answer, so Dahlia kicked a rock into the abyss before responding herself.
"It's hard to keep a roof over your head when a shitty burger costs two thousand credits."
"So, money," Quem mused, her eyes flicking between the two of them.
Dahlia nodded. "Yeah."
"Where'd you grow up?" Quem leaned against the wall, fishing in her pocket for something.
"A collapsed haven."
Quem tilted her head. "What made you leave?"
Dahlia hesitated. For a brief moment, her usual lightheartedness dimmed, the shift barely noticeable but present enough for Ansel to catch.
She exhaled. "My parents were killed."
Quem didn't react at first. She simply pulled a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, slipping one between her lips. With a flick of her wrist, the flame sparked to life, shedding a faint glow against her fingers before she lit the tip. Exhaling a slow stream of smoke, she finally spoke. "Myutant?"
Dahlia nodded slowly.
"Is that why you became an Exterminator? To kill them?"
"Yeah."
Quem inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in her lungs before turning her gaze to Ansel.
"And you?"
"Same thing," he said, his voice flat. "My mother was killed by a myutant."
Quem exhaled, her breath carrying a soft sigh alongside the smoke.
The old world was gone, and with it, childhood. In its place was something far crueler—where kids like them weren't given time to grow up. They were thrown into survival, into blood and fear and battle, and no one questioned it.
"Figures," she muttered, staring out into the rain. "Seems like that's the case for most people in this job."
Dahlia kicked another rock into the abyss, watching it disappear into the mud. "Yeah, well... we all need something to keep us going, right?"
Ansel stayed quiet, his arms crossed, shoulders stiff. The conversation had drifted too close to something he didn't want to linger on.
Quem noticed.
"You two ever think about leaving?" she asked. "You know, getting out of the Exterminator business while you're still young enough to do something else?"
Dahlia scoffed. "And do what? Work the fields? Maybe start a nice little bakery in New Haven?"
Quem raised her shoulders slightly. "Could be worse."
"Not really." Dahlia shrugged, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. "You know how it is. No connections, no money, no real way out. Extermination's one of the only jobs left where you can make enough credits to scrape by."
Quem took a slow drag, her gaze drifting between them.
"And you, Ansel?"
He hesitated. The thought of leaving had crossed his mind before—more than once. He hated this job. Even now, after facing his fears, extermination wasn't a career built for the long haul. It was brutal, unforgiving, and sooner or later, it would get him killed.
But even if he wanted to walk away—
He couldn't.
There was nowhere else for him.
"...No," he said finally. "Not really."
Quem exhaled a plume of smoke, watching as the rain blurred the glow of lanterns in the distance.
"That's a damn shame," she muttered.
For a moment, the three of them stood in silence, listening to the storm.
"You guys should head inside, check on the others," Quem said, pulling another cigar from her pocket.
Ansel hesitated. "You're not coming?"
"I'll stay out here for a bit. Don't worry, I'll be fine." She waved them off with a flick of her wrist. "Now shoo."
They exchanged glances but didn't argue, making their way back through the bar's main door. The room was dimly lit, oil lamps swaying slightly from the occasional draft, more of them burning now than when they had first arrived.
Then, as they walked, static crackled in their earpieces. A distorted voice, buried beneath the sound of rainfall and interference, buzzed through in broken, inaudible words.
The static faded slightly, just enough for the message to become clear.
Sabrina's voice.
"To all exterminators beyond the depths or in any mapped havens—south, in a haven called Raval." Her tone sharpened, each word laced with worry, a worry never heard in her voice before. "A mutated human has been sighted. Threat level unknown. Please... to anyone who can hear this... help them, please."
Ansel stopped in his tracks. "A mutated human?" His voice was barely above a whisper. He turned, catching sight of Quem—she was already moving, her expression unreadable as she strode toward the room.
"What does she mean?" Ansel asked again, but no one had an answer.
"We don't know," Massiah muttered, wearing his overcoat.
"Let's just hope it's not what we think it is," Gran added, grimly.
Quem didn't wait for more discussion. "Let's go." She was already heading for the door.
"Okay," Dahlia said, but Massiah turned to her.
"You're staying here."
Dahlia's head snapped up. "We can help!"
Massiah exhaled sharply. "This isn't the time for—" He stopped himself, taking a breath. His tone softened. "This is serious."
Dahlia's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying we'll hold you back?"
"No." Massiah met her gaze. "I'm saying you could die."
Dahlia's hands curled into fists. "And what, you won't?"
Massiah exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking her dead in the eye. "I've seen things like this before. Not exactly this, but close enough. And if it's what I think it is—" His voice trailed off for a moment, "I'd rather not drag you into it."
"We're not kids, Massiah," Dahlia said, her voice steady, but there was an edge to it. "We took down a T-Level three Myutant."
Gran scoffed, shaking his head. "And you think that means something? There are things out there worse than any Myutant you've ever seen. That thing in Raval... we don't even have a classification for it."
Dahlia took a step forward, defiant. "And what happens when it gets classified? What happens when this 'thing' becomes another job on the board, another contract with a payout? Are we still not ready then?"
Massiah held her stare, his jaw tightening.
Quem sighed, already halfway out the door. "Enough arguing. We don't have time for this." She turned back to them, her expression softer. "Stay here, alright? This isn't a fight you need to be in."
Dahlia's teeth clenched, but Ansel put a hand on her arm, shaking his head.
"Fine," Dahlia muttered, crossing her arms. "But if you guys aren't back by sunrise, we're coming after you."
"If we're not back by sunrise," he muttered, voice flat, dull, "don't come looking."
Then, without another word, he turned and followed Gran and Quem into the storm.