Chapter 2: Blood

A dull buzzing from his immediate right stirred the lethargic Operative from his sleep. An overly vicious and tired death glare revealed the alarm clock to be the culprit.

Yanking the power cord from the wall, the spiteful sound from the clock ceased. DJ sat up slowly, his joints clicking into place with a groan as he scanned the room wearily in the early morning light pushing through the curtains

Another night of battling nightmares. Nothing out of the ordinary, an easy win, as per usual. His mind couldn't throw anything at him he hadn't already seen or felt anyway.

Shifting off the bed and standing, the feeling of something sliding off his shoulder grabbed his attention as he rounded, ready to attack whatever was on him.

His expression changed from fierce to disappointed nigh instantly.

The sheets of the bed were torn to shreds, along with some nasty claw marks on the wooden bedframe's surface. His battle with the mental monsters had taken a physical world toll.

DJ sighed wearily. "Well… fuck." Leaning over and rubbing his thumb over the deeper of the grooves, he clicked his tongue against his cheek. "Good luck buffing that out."

The young Operative turned to his weapons on the desk behind him, squinting at the stabbing glare coming off the chromed slide of his pistol.

"Well, better to get started sooner rather than later."

"Othirth-"

Osirus couldn't help but crack a little smile. Jerek's day after effect from getting fly kicked in the mouth had resulted in humorous effects. Humorous to his squadmates at least.

Morgan was inhaling hard to stop himself laughing. Both of them had been verbally lashed, Jerek more so. But whenever Jerek had tried to form a rebuttal, the resulting lisp and his pain kept getting in the way.

"Jerek, argue all you want- or try to." Osirus paused to regain his composure, shaking his head at the purpled Operative.

"Ahem. But, both you and Morgan ignored the orders you were given on the field by your superior. As a result, I have no choice but to send you both back for retraining."

Morgan frowned. "Retaining sir? But the Western Division has trained us as much as they could."

"Not basic Morgan. You two are headed back south. Hildie tends to clean up the habit of ignoring orders pretty quickly from memory."

Jerek flinched at the mention of his old Division's leader. Morgan on the other hand sighed and looked to the floor. "Yes sir." He murmured.

"Hildie still terrifying as she used to be huh?"

Osirus turned around to face Garm with a subtle smirk. "That she is from what I hear. I would petition to send them to Hanne but I want them back alive. That and he's got his hands full."

"Sounds about right." Garm looked over Osirus's shoulder to Jerek. "My weaponsmith is selling masks at discount if you want one to cover up…" he motioned around his bearded face, "this."

Jerek gave a half hearted thumbs up and moved to the door, staggering into a chair on the way.

Nodding his head to Morgan, Osirus sighed. "Go with him and make sure he doesn't collapse or something." Throwing a quick salute, Morgan followed up behind Jerek as they exited the bar.

"They will learn. One way or another." Garm remarked, grabbing the money the last Merc had left on the bar for his early morning 'Pick-me-Up'.

Osirus tisked, shaking his head softly. "Here's hoping they learn the hard way, not the Nevada way."

Garm snorted. "That's positive thinking. Strange that it's coming out of you."

"Maybe. Hard not to become blissful after choosing to be ignorant of the worst of it."

"Final offer. These are already discounted kid."

Jerek sighed and gave in. He had haggled the price down to 200 credits from the 250 original for the fabric facemask in a bid to not spend all his remaining credits.

The gunsmith, a full armored, blast helmet clad and bulky individual, stood behind the counter. Radio shades with a bandana mask hid the rest of his face from view, which complimented the baggy hoodie he wore overtop the heavy kevlar vest.

Taking the credit chit and swiping it in his machine, he passed the card back with the thick full face balaclava mask.

Despite being masked himself, the gunsmith poorly hid his amusement from Jerek. "Thank you kindly. You drive a hard bargain, but I see why."

Jerek scowled as he put on the mask, turning to his fellow Operative. Morgan gave him a thumbs up of approval.

"Now you. You requested to see some body armor. Behind you on the mannequins are the currently available armor pieces I have in stock." The gunsmith gestured to the lit display behind Morgan.

Morgan nodded. "Am I able to try them on?"

"Yes, all but the layered metal armor vest are adjustable as well."

Jerek took a seat on the stool nearby the armor display. The gun/armor shop itself was very much set out like a department outlet for jewelry and clothes. A surprisingly well lit store with a very clean and carpeted grey floor. Ranks of guns stood alone and in places set up much like once would set up a clothing stand, with locked panels of bigger and higher caliber guns set up on the walls.

The counter, made of reinforced glass, held some blinged out pistols, like a gold plated Deagle that stood alone upright on a pedestal in the middle of the display, flanked by more common yet still flashy pieces like engraved 1911's and a chromed Beretta 92FS.

As Morgan tried on a lighter vest that fit under his leather duster, the door opened, a small gust of sand entering before DJ, kitted to the teeth and carrying an odd looking M16.

Approaching the counter, the gunsmith looked DJ up and down. Whether it was intrigue or not was impossible to tell.

"Ever the walking armory huh? What do you have for me this time?"

DJ put the M16 down on the counter, resting it on its overly sized magazine.

The gunsmith picked up the rifle, whistling in appreciation. "200 round double drum magazine, M203 underslung launcher, red dot sight and a spiked muzzle break. A nice piece for sure."

"You said if I brought you in another good gun, you'd consider giving me that special piece."

The gunsmith lowered the rifle, sighing almost regretfully. "I was hoping you had forgotten."

DJ fixed his gaze to the back wall to a beat up old rifle sitting amongst far more flashier and powerful weapons like the Intervention and M249 on display.

"Sure, my 30 carbine pistol gets shit done, but I need range. And that M1 Carbine is the perfect fit." DJ folded his arms.

The gunsmith nodded in defeat. "Ok, you can have it for the price you bargained for last time. Just take care of it yeah?"

Nodding, DJ handed his credit card over. The gunsmith swiped the card and, to Jerek and Morgan's disbelief, withdrew 70,000 credits.

Morgan approached DJ, shaking his head. "Holy fuck. How do-"

"I don't have a home HQ to report to, so this place became my base of operations for a while. Not much to buy out here that I consume or use so things stack up."

The gunsmith removed the M16 behind the counter, placing it in a box labeled 'SORT'.

DJ smirked at Morgan's still shocked expression. "That and Restricted Zone missions pay more than standard ops due to the risk. Quick way to earn credits if you are skilled, but even I have it rough out there."

"No shit." Morgan nodded. DJ inspected Morgan as the gunsmith placed 3 boxes of 30 carbine rounds in a duffle bag alongside the rifle.

"I was going to say to you on the field that you should invest in some decent armor before heading anywhere else. How short are you for the vest?"

Morgan looked back over at the shelf he picked the armor off of. "How did you…" He stopped and sighed, figuring his lack of credits was more obvious than he thought. "I'm short a thousand credits, but you don't have to-"

"Save it. You two didn't follow my orders out there, but it's not worth you dying over. Besides if you cark it, who's going to pull shit for brains over there out of the line of fire?"

The lower rank Operative paused for a moment then shut his mouth. DJ turned back to the gunsmith. "Take a thousand off my card and put it towards that vest he's wearing."

Nodding quietly, the gunsmith swiped DJ's card once more, ringing a thousand credits before putting it on top of the bag.

"Uhh. Well, thank you sir."

DJ pocketed the card and picked up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Don't mention it. And I know I grilled you out for insubordination, but the whole Sir thing is a bit formal. Just call me DJ alright? Chao Twinkletoes." Giving a two fingered salute, DJ turned and walked to the door.

Morgan watched him go, still dumbfounded. The gunsmith rang up the vest on the till. "Kid, the credits?"

Shaking his head back to focus, Morgan turned around to the counter. "Oh yeah, sorry." He fished his card out of his pocket.

"Lucky you. I've never seen the Scourge help pay for anyone's gear before." The gunsmith remarked.

Morgan chuckled a little, "well we did just come off a mission with him. We… didn't exactly perform very well."

"Obviously." The gunsmith glanced to Jerek under his shades, softly chuckling to himself as he swiped Morgan's card.

"If it gets scuffed and damaged, bring it back here if you get the chance and I'll repair it for a price we can arrange."

Morgan smiled warmly at the gunsmith. "Thank you."

"Pleasure's mine."

"What's that now? Heavy pistol at your hip, two backups under your arms, a sword and now a semi-automatic rifle?" Garm shook his head smiling, his surprisingly white teeth casting a harsh contrast against his weathered features.

"Wait, and the Anti Sig. Which I have in my pocket." DJ fished the extra pistol out of his coats inner breast pocket before returning it.

Osirus cracked a smirk. "I see that other nickname of your's reigns true."

"Damn straight." DJ grinned. "I won't deny that it's a better name either. 'Scourge of the Antithesis' is a tad long."

The bar late in the morning was still mostly clear. A passed out drunk Merc snored loudly at a booth in the corner.

"So, if I'm to guess, like every East assignment you have to meet up with someone somewhere, but that's all the details you got right?" Osirus mused.

DJ snorted. "Yep, if every East op is like this, I can't believe I'm saying it but I'd prefer to deal with the HP's bullshit on a daily basis."

"It's not all bad. Hanne usually has some of the best missions if you're up to scratch."

"Best mission's huh? And what's your guarantee I'm actually going to do missions as opposed to sitting in a room all day?"

Osirus downed his drink, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "None. Hell, chances are you'll get assigned to some unit or something so Hanne sees as little of you as possible. He's made his disliking for people like you quite clear in the past."

"Charming." DJ rolled his eyes. "Oh well. It's better than being stuck with a group of bellends."

"Come on, Jerek and Morgan aren't that bad." Osirus scoffed.

DJ sighed, "If only I was meaning them." Pulling out the matte black 1911 off his right underarm holster, he looked at it's bodywork in thought. "My trainee squad when we were under 574. Let's just say things didn't finish off after graduation very well."

"I heard it got a title and everything, but never found out what happened. People just referred to it as Incident 030 once I got the chance to find out." Osirus placed his card on the bar to pay for the drink.

"The summary of it goes like this. We were tasked to clear out what we thought was a Grunt barracks." DJ reholstered the pistol.

"Turns out, nah, there were Agents on site too. My partner blew cover by mentioning the security station right in front of a damn camera which tipped the entire base off among other problems the rest of the team were having."

DJ scowled, gritting his teeth. "Not a few minutes later, I save the fucker from having his brains blown out by an Agent who was onto us. Turns out the entire facility was already on alert because of his earlier comment. Everything from there turned to shit but I kept doing my job like I was supposed to. Firefight ensues, reinforcements show up, we get pinned, then we discover one of our guys, the brother of another guy in our squad, goes all honorable suicide and takes the building with him."

"Debriefing comes round. Only me, the guy I was with Eli, the girl of our team, Hina, her spotter partner, and the lone brother end up there cause everyone else died." DJ shook his head, staring into the bartop's worn surface as if searching for a different truth than the one he knew.

"Everyone gets a grilling besides me, because I'm the only one who didn't fuck up. I got promoted because of it, and you know what the first thing the guy I was partnered with did? Fucking gets snarky cause I got the promotion. After that the last member of the squad we were paired with fucking shoots me in her attempt to kill herself." DJ slammed his fist on the bar, splintering and causing a crack to appear in the wood.

"Fucking squad besides the one guy Hank, who was too injuried to take part in graduation, goes and fucking disowns me like a bunch of scumbags." Growling deep in his throat, he yanked the bottom of his fist that had become slightly wedged in the bartop. Shaking his hand, he leaned back into the bar.

"Far as I'm concerned, Eli, Hina and Aaron are dead to me. Ryder never had the opportunity to betray me and Hank saved our lives during the Western HQ attack so I have no qualms with those two. But the gall of those three to disown me after I even saved Eli's damn life? Pfft. Fuck em." He snorted hard, expressing that deeply seeded anger.

Osirus wore an expression of pity, a rare sight from the normally stoic and jestful elder. "I see. Did you ever find out what happened to your other teammate… uhh, Hank was it?"

"Besides getting out of hospital in record time? He got paired with some guy called Nikolai Khrushchev. Heard he's as bloodthirsty as I am, only it's more terrifying cause he doesn't have none of this energy mutation shit to make it happen. Hank needs someone like him to be frank."

"Nikolai Khrushchev? What kind of madman paired your old squadmate with him? Last time he was here he burned through half my actual vodka supply in thirty minutes." Garm remarked, handing Osirus back his card.

"574 before he left I think." DJ stood up from his barstool. "Oh yeah, I kinda tore up the sheets again in my sleep. Sorry Garm."

"Don't sweat it. I heard as I went past last night. You're fighting some harsh demons in your head to cause that noise. Might want to consider seeing a counselor or something."

DJ snorted. "No counselor worth his salt practices in Nevada anymore. The Icon of Sin is damned and everyone knows that."

"True." Garm extended his hand out. "Take care DJ."

DJ took his hand in a firm shake. "You too. You're the last refuge for miles around, seeing you go would be a real shame."

"I hear that." Garm smiled, parting the shake and answering the hail of a recently entered Merc.

Osirus nodded to DJ. "For what it's worth, I wish I had you in my rookie squad way back when."

"No you don't, I was a little edgelord shitebag in my rookie days. The current me is a far cry from what I was back then."

"I find that hard to believe. Humor as deep as that isn't common."

DJ cracked a little smile, "It's called a Kiwi's wit. A fucking grace of god be it."

Osirus nodded, returning the smile. "Well, best of luck to you."

"Aye, you too." DJ waved goodbye as he exited the bar.

Osirus sighed, turning back to the bar and looking to Garm. "Yeah, I'm going to need that extra shot."

"Coming right up."

Closing the door behind him, DJ took off his sword's sheath from his back and his Engineer's trench, placing them on the ruined bed next to the rifle bag.

Picking up his full torso vest, he inspected the battleworn armor. The kevlar 'scales' covered the vest in a traditional scale mail pattern that matched the scales on his right arm. A small, dull plaque rested on the chest area in the center of the front plate, reading the text 'X13' imprinted into the scratched and worn metal like a dogtag.

Donning the vest and trench coat, and affixing the sword back in position, he chucked the nearly empty bottle of Vigorants in the duffle bag with the carbine, and hefted the bag over his shoulder. Picking up the trash can, he turned off the lights and exited the room.

Putting the key inside the strongbox just beside the doorframe, he wandered to the dumpster chute and emptied the bin's charred contents inside before placing the bin beside the dumpster to be collected later.

The sun had replaced the heavy sandstorm of the night before, small dunes having formed up against the sides of the buildings and coating the ground thickly in fine particles. The lone mute staff member Garm managed to keep around despite the ongoing war was doing his best to shovel the minute grains aside to clear the garage doors, although the prevailing wind made that a much more difficult task than on paper.

A silent nod shared between DJ and the mute man signalled the polite morning greeting, before the two hoisted up the heavy door. The jeep had been spared the sandblasting of last night, topped up and ready to take on the day.

For the most part. It was still a hunk of junk that had more holes than bodywork.

Climbing up over the bent and jammed door, he positioned himself as best he could on the worn seat, putting his new bag of gear behind him in the bed and retrieving the cracked l33t shades from the glovebox, along with the keys.

The first few attempts at starting the vehicle resulted in nothing but a few back blasts and some hard shaking. The Operative slammed his fist on the dashboard.

"Damn it you rusting piece of shit if I had the chance I'd ditch you in a hole and detonate you." He angrily beat the dashboard once again, hearing a heavy KERCHUNK sound and the engine coming to life.

Relief washed over him, not having to test the Nevadian public transport system today. Rolling out and donning the beaten shades, a strange oddity caught the corner of his eye.

A dark shadow that didn't belong in the sunlight up on the cliff behind the compound that abruptly vanished.

DJ shrugged it off. Weirder shit had happened before; a shadow was the least of his worries. A scavenger or maybe a Merc that survived the storm the night before.

Snorting at the idea it could be someone from Antithesis HQ sent to spy on him, he almost slapped the jeep into drive and exited the compound.

"Devus, get away from the edge." One voice remarked in a mild but young tone.

"Zai, he can barely make us out let alone perceive us. There won't be any trouble even if he sees us, I assure you." A second voice replied, this one deeper and less composed in its tone.

"Shush. You don't even know what he can do. You'll piss off Pavel if he finds out, and then we'll both be dealing with his "Holier than thou" shit." The first retorted, hissing in a slight fear of a third unknown.

"Pavel won't find out either. The man's blood father already gave us the information we need."

"You sure we can trust this source? He may work in engineering and testing, but he could just be trying to…"

"Enough. The information is good. As infuriating as it is to work with him, Derek Jameson is trustworthy, and Pavel has worked with him for years. I see no reason to believe he would betray us."

"You're legally blind, Devus."

"... Fuck off."

The two beings seemed to fade away into the wind like fire wisps, leaving the sand where they stood glassed over. Only the remnants of a few dead desert shrubs as ash left any trace of their presence.