The familiar scent of New Haven graced the air, the ever present haze encapsulating the city like a blanket. It might not have been as clean as Gallio—not even close—but there was something about it, something in the grime, dirt and hard to breathe air that made it feel like home.
"Good morning."
A passing stranger greeted him, and Ansel gave a brief nod, barely slowing his stride.
They had just wrapped up the Gallio job, delivering the president safely back to his haven. Since Ansel had tagged along as the final member of Vladimir's team, he ended up getting paid Cillian's share instead.
What a day to be alive!
But Sabrina had called earlier—he was needed for another mission at base in a few hours. Dahlia was going to be there and somehow he wished she had tagged along on the Gallio job.
He wanted her to get her spark back.
Even though that seemed a nigh-impossible task to accomplish.
The streets bustled with commerce, scavengers hawking their wares, traders bargaining, mechanics tinkering with rusty machinery. But Ansel wasn't here for any of that. He was here for a change.
His fingers drummed against the wooden doors of a bar before pushing them open with a slow creak.
The swinging doors parted, and as he stepped inside, the room fell silent. Conversations dulled, eyes flicked toward him—brief, assessing. He felt their stares cut through him, instinctively tensing as he walked toward the bar.
"I want to see Joe," he muttered.
"He's not around."
Same response as last time.
Ansel raised a hand, and instantly, the barkeep flinched, stumbling back into a stack of beer barrels with a muffled thud. Maybe he was still traumatized from Massiah's last visit.
"I'll check inside myself," Ansel said, brushing past him toward a door at the back.
The hallway was much brighter than last time, the scent of old wood and new metal clinging to the air. He half-expected the usual chorus of moans behind one of the rooms but even he couldn't have that much of a sex drive.
He reached a familiar door and knocked. Nothing.
Knocked again.
A voice answered from the other side.
"I'm busy, for fuck's sake."
Joe.
There was a faint hiss, a sound like metal meeting fire. Ansel frowned, then pushed the door open.
The room was different.
Gone was the oversized bed, the scattered perfume bottles, the lavish mess of silk sheets and discarded clothing. In their place stood a heavy workbench, cluttered with tools and half-forged metal. A forge glowed at the far end, embers licking the air.
Joe turned to him, dark welding glasses hiding his eyes.
In his gloved hand, a heated blade rested in a pair of tongs, its edge glowing faintly. "Oh, it's the flower," he muttered, submerging the blade into a bath of water before stepping toward him.
"My name is Ansel. Ansel Coulter."
Joe let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "I thought you'd be fucking dead." He gestured toward him with the tongs. "How the hell did you actually survive?"
Ansel glanced around the room. It wasn't the lavish mess he remembered. It resembled a blacksmith's shop now—more advanced, more refined. Tools lined the walls, workbenches cluttered with metal fragments, and the forge burned steadily in the corner.
"Glad to know you had faith in me," Ansel muttered.
Joe chuckled, returning to his forge. He grabbed a stool, sitting heavily before taking up his hammer again. "Faith is a meaningless currency. Same with hope. But then again—maybe you're proof I'm wrong."
"Maybe I am." Ansel wasn't really listening. His focus was on the weapons lining the wall.
He'd come here for a reason. His karambits, while reliable, weren't suited for the kind of fights he'd been in lately—especially not against larger, faster opponents. He needed something new. Something better.
Joe seemed to remember something. "What about the other one? The blonde chick?"
Ansel hesitated. "She's... in a weird place right now." His turned to the side, scanning the weapon rack, but nothing stood out. Everything felt unappealing—too bulky, too light, too impractical.
"I see," Joe muttered, hammering the blade again. "Well, if you get the chance, tell her I—"
"What's this?" Ansel cut in, his attention snagged by something beneath the weapon wheel. A small brown pouch lay there, but what caught his eye was what peeked from within—glimmering, almost like a star.
The hammering stopped.
Joe walked over, lifting his glasses again as he followed Ansel's gaze. He exhaled.
"That?" He said. "That's Elucadite."
"What?"
"Elucadite," Joe repeated, returning to his seat. The repeated clang of his hammer echoed through the room.
"You're making that up," Ansel said, eyeing the gleaming shard. "There's no mineral by that name—no record of it anywhere."
"Yeah, because I invented it, genius." Joe lifted the blade to inspect it under the light. "I don't craft things for museums, not that those even exist anymore."
Ansel frowned. "What's it made of?"
"Diamond and a shit ton of sapphire."
A sharp hiss filled the air as Joe plunged the blade into a cooling bath, steam rising in thin clouds. He pulled it out moments later, hammering again with precise strikes.
"That doesn't make sense," Ansel explained. "Those two materials alone wouldn't form an entirely new mineral. They wouldn't form anything at all."
"That's because you're missing the key ingredient." Joe shoved the blade into the flames, pumping the bellows at his feet. The fire roared. "And I'm not giving that information away for free."
Ansel sighed. "Fine. I'll tell Sabrina you're alive."
Joe paused, exhaling sharply before shaking his head. "You bastards really don't let up, huh?" He rolled his shoulders, slightly leaning back on the stool. "Alright, listen close. The secret ingredient? Myutants. Specifically, threat level twos."
Ansel's brows furrowed. "Okay, you definitely have to be making this up, how the hell would myutants be the last piece? That doesn't make any sense."
"Because you're not seeing the vision," Joe interrupted, rolling his eyes. He pulled the blade from the cauldron, flames roaring as he pumped the bellows by his leg again.
"Raw minerals on their own? Sure, they've got their limits. But inside a myutant? Given enough time, pressure, and whatever biological nightmare goes on in there, those minerals bond in ways that shouldn't be possible."
Ansel folded his arms, glancing at the small gleaming shard again. "And this—Elucadite—is the result?"
"One of them," Joe muttered. "Harder than reinforced steel, sharp enough to split bone like butter. Lightweight, but denser than any metal you've handled before." He smirked. "Perfect for an exterminator who wants to punch above his weight class."
"So you feed it the diamonds?"
"Exactly. And after about two years, the myutant expels its stomach and grows a new one." Joe grinned, his expression half amused, half sinister. "It's gnarly as hell the first time, but you get used to it."
"Wait—wait—wait." Ansel raised a hand, his brain struggling to keep up. "You're telling me that to mix materials, you feed them to a myutant, and after a few years, it just... shits out its stomach?"
"Pretty much. Only works with T-level twos, though. Anything lower, and they die with the minerals still inside them. Anything higher, and they just digest it." Joe shrugged. "Cost me about forty million I'm never getting back."
Ansel's head jerked up. "Wait—so that story about you and your partner in Deli Shara? And Dahlia's obsidian—"
"Oh yeah, I strapped the obsidian to him and pushed him into the thing's mouth."
"What?!"
Joe laughed. "I didn't push him, okay?" He smirked, the glow of the forge flickering across his face. "He was just slower, is all."
"You're sick man."
"And yet, I'm the only man to make Elucadite in a hundred years."
Ansel exhaled, shaking his head. "Fine. Even if I accept how it's made, where the hell did you even get the materials? Diamonds barely exist anymore and I thought all the precious gemstones were long gone."
Joe snorted, hammering the blade with sharp, heavy strikes. "Let's just say I didn't get them through a bank loan."
Ansel narrowed his eyes. "How much did it cost you?"
"There's a price for everything. A salvager found an old chest of assorted jewelry." Joe smirked. "Cost me seven hundred."
"Seven hundred thousand?!"
"Million."
Ansel stared. "This lifestyle isn't cheap," Joe added with a shrug.
His gaze drifted to the Elucadite shard, a thought forming. "So what do you even use it for?"
Joe leaned back, stretching his arms. "I'm an arms dealer." He smirked. "Take a wild guess."
Ansel turned to him. "Can you help me make a weapon with it?"
Joe laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls, followed by the sharp hiss of sizzling steel. When he looked at Ansel again, the boy's face was dead serious.
"No."
"Is it because of the money?"
"Yes, but it's more complicated than that." Joe said, eyes fixed on the cauldron. "There's barely any left. That's the last batch—just enough for half a rapier."
Ansel frowned, glancing at the material again. Its color shifted depending on the angle—black, grey, stark white. The same as Osiris's sword. "What happened to the rest of it?"
Joe smirked. "Can't just tell you my best customer's name, can I?"
"It's the same material as Osiris's blade, isn't it?"
Joe sighed. "So you've met him." He leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow. "How'd it perform?"
Ansel recalled the way Osiris's sword had cut through the human myutant like it was nothing. "Like butter."
Joe grinned. "Good." He turned back to his cauldron, realizing he'd left the blade in too long. "Alright, enough talk. What do you want? I'm busy."
Ansel straightened. "I want a new weapon."
Joe snorted. "Yeah, figured. You picked dogshit last time."
Ansel raised a brow.
"Karambits against myutants?" Joe scoffed, shaking his head. "Might as well be swinging a newspaper at 'em. Same outcome."
"I want something that can kill myutants," Ansel muttered, eyes scanning the weapon-filled wall. "But I'm not as strong as Dahlia—I can't swing a one-ton hammer like it's nothing. And I'm not Massiah either."
"So, you want me to craft a custom weapon for you," Joe said, setting the brittle sword into the bath with his tongs. "Using a rare material that barely has any weight."
Ansel didn't respond. He just stared at him. "I want to be able to help. If I can't do that... what's the point of even being there?"
Joe sighed. "What kind of weapon are you thinking?"
Ansel hesitated, glancing at him. "I don't know. That's the issue."
Joe didn't look at him, just kept his focus on the sword. "How good are you with your karambits?"
"I can use them pretty well, but they're not strong enough—"
"Don't worry about that." Joe smirked, grabbing two small pieces of metal. "Custom karambits with a custom material. Karambit blades are already hard as hell to make, and I'm thinking of elongating the tips—give them more slashing power and range." He sighed. "What kind of madman am I?"
Ansel met his gaze. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. I needed a use for that last batch anyway."
"I see." Ansel exhaled. "When can I expect them?"
Joe paused. "Wait. I'm not making them until you pay me."
Ansel sighed. "How much?"
"Five hundred."
"Thousand?"
Joe shook his head.
"I see," Ansel muttered. "Anyway, I wonder if Sabrina—"
"You can have them next week," Joe interrupted, waving him toward the door.
Ansel smirked, then turned and left, the door shutting behind him.
Joe leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. "Fucking pricks."
Ansel passed by the barkeep's table, giving a small wave as he stepped through the swinging doors. His new weapon wouldn't be ready before the next job, but that was fine. Sabrina had mentioned it was an escort mission—he probably wouldn't need one anyway.
Still, a custom weapon forged from the same materials as a Grade One's blade.
What a daytobealive!