Music was a special thing.
After the world collapsed, it became a lost art. With the fall of the internet, access to music vanished overnight. Vinyl records remained, but their rarity made them exorbitantly expensive, leaving most people without a way to enjoy what was once an everyday pleasure.
"Vladimir."
A man bobbed his head in rhythm, fingers snapping in time with the subtle tapping of his foot. Across his ears, a pair of headphones pulsed with sound, connected to an old audio pod—one of the few relics left from a world that once had millions of songs at its fingertips.
Life was better with music.
"Vladimir."
He never understood how people lived without it. How could someone function without a melody in the background? To him, music was as vital as air itself.
His music cut off. The audio jack had been yanked from the device. Slowly, he opened his eyes, staring forward at an exterminator clad in white—his subordinate, Theresa.
"What did we say about music during work hours?" she muttered, arms crossed, dark ponytail swaying as she gestured at him.
"Where are my swords?" Vladimir responded, his voice coarse. Despite his name, there was no trace of an accent.
"I made sure you didn't have them before I pulled the plug," she said dryly. "Anyway, Sabrina says it's time."
Vladimir sighed, resting his headphones around his neck as he pushed himself up.
He and his team were grade two exterminators, operators who worked far beyond the depths. But after the incident in Raval, they'd been recalled to New Haven.
Yawning, he strolled toward the briefing room. Inside, Sabrina sat with one leg crossed over the other, her foot tapping impatiently against the floor.
"Madame," Vladimir greeted with a lazy wave.
"I'll dock your pay the next time you wear those things in here," Sabrina muttered, rising to her feet.
"Scary," Vladimir said, smirking as he walked past her, Sabrina close behind.
"How's the subject?" Sabrina muttered.
"We dragged him from the gates of hell, most likely," Vladimir responded. "Vitals flatlined, heartbeat gone for hours. It's a miracle he's even alive—or maybe it isn't, depending on how you look at it."
"Has he said anything since waking up?"
"We did some basic questioning," Vladimir said, rounding a corner. Their footsteps echoed against the metallic panels. "You know, the usual—who do you work for, why are you here, all that."
"And?"
"No response," he said. "Doesn't seem like we'll get one, either."
Sabrina stopped as Vladimir pushed open a door, waiting as she stepped inside. Her gaze locked onto the man at the far end of the dimly lit room. He was chained to the walls by his wrists and ankles, eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged, ears plugged.
"Is that certain?" she asked. "Or is this something Cillian can fix?"
"We haven't tried yet. Wanted to keep up the 'good cop' act as long as possible."
"Get Cillian here," Sabrina ordered, staring down at the restrained figure. "This bastard doesn't deserve kindness after the shit he pulled."
Vladimir pressed a hand to his earpiece, calling in. "Cillian, code 41, room six. We need some persuasion for a Diamantis Harkavell."
"I'm on my lunch break," Cillian's muffled voice crackled over the line.
"You better not throw up then," Vladimir muttered, dropping his hand.
Sabrina sat across from Diamantis, studying him like a specimen under a scalpel. Trapped like the animal he was. A part of her wished he had just died. Another part relished the opportunity.
The chance to make him feel the pain of every one of the two thousand and twenty-six lives he took.
"Remove the buds and gag. I want to talk to him," she ordered.
Vladimir was already moving, untying the cloth from Diamantis' mouth and pulling out the earplugs.
"Finally," Diamantis murmured, rolling his jaw. "Do you know how annoying it is not being able to hear? I had to listen to my own heartbeat. Hell of a soundtrack."
"How were you controlling a human myutant—" Sabrina stopped herself, rephrasing. "How does a human myutant even exist in the first place?"
Diamantis chuckled. "Is that why you kept me alive? Well, I won't be speaking without my lawyer present—"
His words cut off in a choked groan. A blade had pierced his abdomen, slipping cleanly between organs, missing anything vital. Slowly, the steel twisted. Sabrina loomed over him, her grip steady.
"You know the funniest thing about being a doctor?" she whispered.
"I don't know," Diamantis rasped, his breath shaking. "You tell me."
"I can read a body like a map," she said, leaning in. "I know exactly where every organ sits. I can stab without missing." She twisted the blade again, just slightly. "But then again... there's a first time for everything."
"Scary," Vladimir muttered from behind her.
Leaving the blade in his chest, Sabrina leaned back in her seat, watching as Diamantis' breaths grew shallow. He had only just recovered, and stabbing him like this could send him into shock.
But she didn't care.
"So," she said, voice cool, "are you feeling more cooperative now, or do you still require legal representation?"
Diamantis chuckled through gritted teeth. "No, no," he rasped. "I think I'm more than capable of defending myself."
"Good." She crossed one leg over the other. "Now, how does a human myutant exist?"
Diamantis exhaled sharply. "Okay," he muttered. "When a human male and a female myutant love each other very much—"
The blade twisted again. His scream ripped through the room, visceral and painful.
Then, laughter.
"You can go ahead and kill me already," he groaned, breath shaky. "I won't be telling you anything."
Sabrina tilted her head. "Why would we do that?" She wrenched the blade free from his chest, blood trickling down his torso. "We've established you're human. A minor defect from the pollutant, but human nonetheless. You feel pain." She smiled faintly. "So why should we kill you when we can enjoy this instead?"
The door swung open.
Vladimir barely glanced up as an exterminator strolled inside, his overcoat slung over one shoulder. Messy hair shadowed his face, white boots streaked with blue and red dragon patterns.
Cillian.
Or rather—Cillian the Inquisitor.
"There are two options," Sabrina said.
Diamantis smirked weakly. "Oh? Don't let me stop you from listing them."
"You can bleed to death forever. Don't worry, we'll patch you up, feed you, and then do it all over again. Watch you feel every second of your life slip away." She leaned forward. "Or, we can leave you to our torturer. Your choice."
Diamantis let out a dry laugh. "Wonderful options. But I have to say, there seems to be a lack of non-painful alternatives."
Sabrina ignored him, turning to Cillian. "Get him to talk. I don't feel like wasting food on him."
Cillian sucked the last of his juice box dry, tossing it aside. "Do I get a pay raise?"
"A thousand credits for each word he says."
The juice box barely hit the floor before a briefcase materialized on the table, flipped open to reveal an array of tools—pliers, screwdrivers, a tongue tearer.
"You should've talked," Sabrina murmured, stepping toward the door. Vladimir followed, glancing back as Cillian plucked a pair of pliers from the case.
The moment the door shut, Diamantis' screams were swallowed by the soundproof walls.
"His existence is a contradiction. And if what they're telling me is true, it only confuses me more." Sabrina muttered, rubbing her palm against her face. "He holds all the keys we need, but I don't see a single opening in him."
"Told you he wouldn't talk," Vladimir muttered. "But Cillian's a different story. He might spill his entire childhood by the end of this."
Sabrina barely acknowledged him. Her fingers left her earpiece as she came to a stop, exhaling sharply before lowering herself into a chair by the hallway. Vladimir mirrored her.
"Job?" he asked.
"Yeah," she muttered. "An important one. Not something we can just brush off."
"What is it?"
"The leader of Gallio—well, one of the more important ones—got captured by a myutant on his way to the city," Sabrina said.
Vladimir raised a brow. "Isn't that game over? What exactly are we supposed to do?"
"It's a desert land spider," she sighed. Beyond the depths lay creatures she only wished didn't exist. "The locals say it's mating season—something about it taking prey for its babies."
"So you want us to kill a giant pregnant spider before the president becomes baby food." He leaned back, rubbing his temple. "I could swear this was the plot of one of those knockoff games I played."
"Gallio is one of New Haven's biggest benefactors—we survive on their imports." She sighed, rubbing her temples again. "We can't just brush them off. Ignoring this would look bad on our end."
"I understand."
"Can you handle it?" she murmured. "Gallio's Border Control shot it with a rocket. The legs regenerated in about seven seconds, give or take."
"T-level four," he muttered. "What about the Gallio team—" He stopped, remembering Sabrina had called all teams back to base.
"You really want me to handle this?" He exhaled, tilting his head back. "I might be gone for a while. You'll have to deal with Cillian's freaky ass on your own."
"Cillian won't be an issue." Sabrina's voice lowered. "Actually, I have a favor to ask."
Vladimir side-eyed her. "Hm?"
"There's a kid. A recruit. He just watched an exterminator die for the first time. I think it's eating him alive."
"Massiah's kid?" Vladimir muttered, and she nodded.
"I've got a good relationship with the stump, so why not."
"Thanks, Vlad." She stood, already turning down the hall toward the infirmary. "Pick up the address from front desk."
Vladimir sighed, watching her walk away. He had just left the depths a day ago, and now he was heading back. Good money, sure, but still.
He had no idea how good Massiah's kid was. And with Cillian absent, that meant it was just him and Theresa.
Against a T-level four.
"I really need to start saying no sometimes," he muttered, standing up. He pulled his headset over his head, about to plug in the audio jack—
He stopped.
Sabrina was watching him from down the hall, eyes burning with quiet rage.
Slowly, he pulled the headset back down to his neck and turned toward the front desk instead.
"Scary," he muttered.
The front desk was manned—for once.
A single man stood behind the counter, absentmindedly drawing stick figures on a scrap of paper. The old world had Tetris, this was its modern equivalent.
Vladimir leaned against the desk. "I'm looking for..." He paused, realizing he hadn't even asked Sabrina for the kid's name. "Massiah Devereaux's current recruit. Male."
The receptionist barely looked up. Instead of tapping at a keyboard, he reached under the desk and hauled out a massive, leather-bound ledger, flipping through its pages.
"Ansel Coulter," he muttered. "Current male partner of Massiah Devereaux."
"Place of residence?" Vladimir asked, his fingers twitching toward his headphones. The urge to put them on was unbearable.
The receptionist skimmed down the page. "188 Colya Street. Apartment seventeen."
"Thanks." Vladimir was already turning, practically jogging toward the exit.
The glass doors slid shut behind him, and at last—finally—he pulled his headphones over his ears. The audio jack clicked into place, and with a press of a button—
P.Y.T.
His feet fell into rhythm, arms swaying with the motion. Head nodding to the beat, he weaved through the streets, slipping through alleyways, ignoring the glares of passerby's.
If only they could hear what he did.
"Where did you come from, lady?" he hummed, lips curling into a grin.
By the time the song hit its first chorus, he was already there—a squat, grey apartment complex with rusted metal stairs and a faded number '17' hanging above a chipped door.
He knocked, still singing under his breath.
"I wanna love you—"
"No thanks," Ansel muttered, peeking through the half-open door.
"Pretty young thing!"
"I love women, thank you very much." He moved to shut the door, but a hand shot out, stopping it.
"Are you Ansel Coulter?" The man on the other side asked, towering over him. His shaved black hair and thick beard reflected in his Ansel's eyes, in that moment, he seemed much larger than he did.
Ansel's eyes flicked to the white overcoat. An exterminator. "Yeah... Is this about Massiah, is he awake?"
Vladimir ignored the question. "We have a mission in Gallio." His fingers snapped to an unheard beat. "Get dressed."
Ansel hesitated. "That has to be a mistake. And even if it's not... I don't want to. Not now."
"I wasn't asking." Vladimir's voice dropped, his eyes locking onto Ansel's. "Get dressed."
Ansel opened his mouth, but whatever argument he had died in his throat. The look in Vladimir's eyes wasn't playful anymore. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the dark of his apartment.
Vladimir continued humming to himself as Ansel went in.
"The kid is not my son!"
He tapped his fingers against the doorframe, head bobbing slightly. A few seconds later, he heard the rustling of clothes, the shuffle of boots against the floor.
Good.
The kid needed to get out of his own head. Vladimir had seen it before—new recruits drowning in guilt, grief, and self-doubt after their first real loss. Letting them sit in it too long never ended well.
He turned slightly, glancing down the hallway as Ansel reappeared, now in his exterminator garb, though his coat hung loose around his shoulders, unbuckled. His eyes were tired, his movements sluggish, but at least he was moving.
"Gallio, huh?" Ansel muttered, adjusting the strap on his boot. "What's the job?"
Vladimir smirked. "Ever killed a giant, pregnant desert spider before?"
Ansel paused mid-buckle, looking up at him with visible skepticism.
Vladimir only grinned wider. "Don't worry. It'll be fun."