Voices rang out through the chaos, men and women in blue and white uniforms ushering terrified civilians toward the shelters.
The sound of pounding footsteps filled the haven. Screams. Panicked breaths. The shuffle of children being carried. Blood sprayed across the concrete, and the wounded were quickly separated and herded into makeshift triage zones, where frantic doctors scrambled to do what they could.
"Still," muttered Randy, a Border Patrol officer, his blue jacket stained with soot and sweat. A shotgun hung across his back. "Ten T-level Fours? What did we even do to deserve this?"
"More like—what did they do," Angela said beside him, as her eyes drifted toward the exterminators at the edge of the chaos. They were helping civilians, moving swiftly, but to her, it wasn't enough. "Destruction follows them like a damn stench. We'd be better off without them."
"You really wouldn't."
The voice was calm. Amused, even.
Angela turned.
A figure crouched nearby, dressed in white, a bright red lollipop sticking out of his mouth. The scent of artificial grape floated faintly in the air.
"You think you could handle a Myutant with that shotgun?" he said, nodding toward Randy's weapon. "I'd pay good money to watch you try."
Angela scoffed. "Do you have any idea how many people have died because of your group's failures? You're slow, unreliable, and only show up when there's a paycheck in it. You're what's wrong with this world."
"Angela," Randy warned, stepping between them.
But she wasn't finished. Her fists trembled.
"My sister lived in Raval. She—" Angela's voice cracked. "She died. If your people had gotten there sooner, she'd still be breathing."
The exterminator pulled the lollipop from his mouth. Its glossy surface had dulled slightly, the stick now a discolored grey.
"We lost people in Raval too," he said flatly. "Sisters, brothers. That's life, no?"
Angela turned away, jaw tight, her shoulders heaving.
Randy sighed and stepped forward, offering a respectful nod. "I'm sorry for what she said. Truly. I apologize, Mr...?"
"Arsenal," the man replied, sticking the candy back in. "And don't worry about it. Anger makes people say dumb things. It happens."
Angela scoffed, "...You show up late, kill a myutant and leave, you treat every life like it's an extra zero on your paycheck. But when the cleanup's done, it's us who are left to pick up the pieces."
Arsenal stayed crouched, idly rolling the lollipop between his teeth.
"That right?" he said flatly. "And how many T-level Fours have you taken down?"
"That's not the point—"
"Didn't think so."
He stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat, eyes scanning the distant skyline like she wasn't even worth facing.
"You think you're some kind of hero?" Angela snapped. "You walk in with your flashy weapons and your cryptic little lines like this is all a game—"
"It's work," Arsenal muttered, monotone. "Nothing more."
Her anger flared. "Work... that's what this is." She said glancing around. "You don't even care when people die!"
He glanced at her now, but only briefly.
"Let me guess," Arsenal said, eyes half-covered beneath a curtain of black hair. "You're new to this. You probably think we're some kind of heroes. Like one of those feel-good movies where the bad guy gets blown up, and everyone laughs their way into a happy ending."
He let the words hang, then turned his head slightly toward her.
"Well, grow up."
Angela wanted to say something but was stopped.
"Arsenal." A voice shot toward him, another figure clad in white.
Arsenal walked away without a word, lollipop stem bobbing slightly between his lips. Angela's rant died on her tongue as he passed, his scuffed boots kicking up loose stones with every step.
He stopped just short of another exterminator.
"Stop antagonizing the officers," Brenda said, eyes narrowing as she turned. "...They're getting closer."
He glanced at her—dark royal blue eyes, blonde hair tied in a tight bun, held by a red scarf streaked with ash and grime.
Beneath their feet, the ground shuddered—this time stronger. Closer.
The Myutants were moving in.
"Aren't the First Grades supposed to be handling this?" Arsenal asked.
Brenda shook her head. "Only Osiris and Lovecraft are out there. They can't cover all ten on their own. Some of the Myutants already broke past the Second Grades." She exhaled sharply. "We've lost contact with Vlad and Iron's teams. I don't even know what's happening anymore."
Arsenal's voice didn't change. "As much as I hate to break it to you—" he shifted the lollipop to the other side of his mouth, "if they make it here, it's over. We're all dead."
Brenda turned toward him. Arsenal wasn't dramatic. He wasn't optimistic. He was just the most realistic person she probably knew. Too realistic for a Third Grade.
"Most likely," she muttered.
"Still," Arsenal added, tilting his head slightly, "it'd suck to die like this. Haven't accomplished anything. Haven't done anything. Just a corpse with four thousand credits and a clean pair of socks."
He paused, then gave a faint shrug. "Twenty saves on my record, though. Wonder if that's enough to get one of those big memorials like the others."
Brenda glanced at him sideways.
She knew him. Knew his file. Arsenal wasn't fast. He wasn't strong. But he understood what most exterminators didn't figure out until their third or fourth time nearly dying.
Being an exterminator wasn't about talent.
It was about understanding.
If you're weak, you die.
If you mess up, someone else dies.
Simple truths—rarely learned early. But Arsenal had known them from the start.
"Where'd you grow up?" she asked as another tremor rippled beneath them.
He blinked, then glanced over. "It's not interesting."
"Nothing in this hellhole is," Brenda replied, pulling a Rambo knife from her hip sheath as a shriek rang out in the distance. She held it in a reverse grip, the blade catching dull sunlight. "Now spill."
"Beyond the Depths. Far north. Small remote island."
She turned slightly, listening as more panic swelled behind the tents.
"What was it like? Cold? Isolated?"
"Both."
"You regret leaving? Becoming an exterminator?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yeah. I think at some point, you have to regret becoming an exterminator."
Brenda nodded.
"True." Her voice was low now. Grounded. Steady.
"But do you regret the people you saved?"
Arsenal didn't answer.
He just stood there, the sound of approaching destruction creeping closer, the taste of man-made grape fading on his tongue.
"Do you regret the lives you put your life on the line for?" Brenda asked again. "Does your heart ache when someone dies, knowing you could've stopped it?"
Still, Arsenal didn't answer.
His gaze stayed locked on the Myutant ahead. Massive, hulking, its distorted body slamming through the final barriers like paper walls.
Wood and metal exploded outward.
Tents flapped violently as several third grade exterminators stumbled into the open, blood staining their uniforms, hands trembling as they fumbled with weapons too heavy for them.
Brenda exhaled.
For kids whose hardest fight had probably been a T-level Two, they had guts.
"No answer, huh?" she said, half-laughing. "That's alright. You don't have to tell me. Sooner or later... you'll feel it yourself."
A loud screech, then—
A thunderous crash echoed as a giant mutated serpent burst through the dust, its fangs enlarged, curving outside its own jaw like sickle blades. At the end of its tail, hardened plates shimmered like a rattlesnake's drum, much thicker though, much more deadlier.
Brenda didn't wait.
She rushed forward, sprinting across the battlefield, yelling over her shoulder.
"Look alive!" she shouted. "Protect the survivors! That's what you get paid to do!"
Exterminators surged forward behind her, some shouting, others too terrified to speak.
The Myutant turned.
Its tail whipped, fast as a blink. Everything in its arc eviscerated.
Buildings—shattered like brittle bones.
Exterminators—gone in a mist of red.
Border Patrol—snapped like matchsticks.
It never touched Arsenal.
The tail passed just by him, the wind it created blowing against his hair as he stood unmoving. The Myutant turned again, fangs wide, hissing loud enough to shake the ground.
They didn't stand a chance.
Fighting was pointless.
Then—BANG!
A shotgun shell split the air.
It grazed the Myutant's face. Barely a scratch, but it turned.
Arsenal looked left.
The Border Patrol officer from earlier—Angela—was sprinting straight past him. Blood soaked her sleeves, a short knife in one hand.
"You said you wanted to see me try, right?" she shouted sprinting straight at the Myutant. No hesitation. No plan. Just motion.
The serpent reacted instantly, tail snapping toward her like a whip. But she jumped—vaulted right over it. Rolled mid-air, then landed hard but kept running.
She'sgoingtodie, Arsenal thought.
And yet, she kept going.
Her arms pumped at her sides, her steps reckless but driven. The Myutant twisted again, tail recoiling like a spring.
She grabbed it.
Slammed her blade deep into the muscle beneath the darkened skin.
The beast screeched.
And flung her.
Her body launched skyward. Spinning.
Mid-flight, she reached to her side—drew a pistol.
Two shots.
Straight into its eyes.
Pop. Pop.
Both exploded like overripe fruit. Yellow ooze splattered on the ground below. The Myutant shrieked again, this time in agony, its massive body writhing as it slammed against the ground, disoriented.
She landed hard, rolling into the dirt, then craned her neck to find him.
Her eyes locked with Arsenal's.
Even bloodied and bruised, she smirked.
See? You were wrong.
Brenda chuckled in front of him, spinning her blade.
"She got you there," she said, then dashed ahead.
Her blade tore into the beast's side. Black fluid sprayed the ground, hissing like acid as it hit metal.
It was touching, sure. Valiant, even.
But Arsenal didn't move.
Because they hadn't won.
They'd merely triggered its regeneration.
The eyes—now gone would return, much stronger than before. Much harder. That patch of skin Brenda had slashed? It'd grow back thicker than steel.
The remaining exterminators, what few of them still breathed, rushed across the blood-soaked ground, weapons clashing against the Myutant's hide in a final, desperate push.
Steel met flesh.
Flesh gave.
Blood poured—thick, black, and steaming in the cold air.
But Arsenal didn't move.
He hadn't from the start.
Because it had always been a losing battle.
And then—
Snap.
The Myutant's body pulsed with fresh life.
Its wounds sealed. Its tail coiled, then lashed out.
A single swing.
Brenda.
Angela.
Randy.
All gone.
Their bodies crashed to the ground beside him, overcoats shredded, blood pooling into the dirt.
Arsenal didn't flinch.
He didn't feel right. He didn't feel wrong. He just... watched.
Watched as the monster turned toward him, eyes—regrown and gleaming—fixing on his frame.
Behind him, the survivors peeked from their tents, hands clasped in prayer. Their eyes wide. Lips trembling. Praying to a god Arsenal knew damn well had stopped listening long ago—if it ever listened at all.
Were they pinning their hopes on him?
Hoping that he'd be the one to kill the myutant and save them?
If so, they were just as stupid as the ones who had charged in screaming.
He tapped his earpiece.
Nothing.
No voice. No static. Just dead air.
Maybe Sabrina was still trying to reach someone else. Maybe the relay towers were damaged. Maybe it didn't matter.
This was the end of the line. Not surprising, really. He'd always known a day like this would come.
He turned slightly, glancing behind him, wondering if any exterminators had remained, if any border patrol officers had, they hadn't. All that stood in the tents were civilians, and doctors who hunched over operating tables, hands shaking as they tried to save who they could.
He wished—just for a second—that someone would save them.
But he didn't linger on the thought.
He simply watched the Myutant widen its jaw. And let it consume him.
⸻⸻⸻
"Arsenal," Sabrina said, leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed on him from across the table. "Do you know why I recruited you, even though you failed every standardized test we gave?"
"Because you needed more disposable bodies," he replied, "and I fit the profile. No family. No friends. No record. Easy to add to the growing list of deaths on the company ledger."
Sabrina rubbed her temples. "Is that really what you people think of me?"
"I don't think anything of you," he said. "I just understand how this system works."
She didn't answer at first. Instead, she reached into a file, flipped a page, and looked at him again—calmer now.
"The doctors all said you had a strange outlook on things," she said, eyes skimming the file. "Realism."
"That's just what I believe in," he replied flatly. "It's the only correct mindset to have."
"And that's why I picked you," she said, setting the file down. "Because of that mindset."
Arsenal's brow twitched. "My mindset is a liability. If anything, it's a detriment to this organization."
"Is that what you think?" Sabrina laughed softly. "If that's the case..."
She smiled, eyes locking with his.
"Then why did you save that little boy from getting killed?"
Arsenal blinked.
That moment again, etched in the back of his mind. The blur of instinct, the slam of adrenaline, the pain of impact.
"Self sacrifice." he muttered. "I wasn't thinking. Hence, why I made an illogical decision."
"But you still did it."
She leaned in, smiling, eyes bright.
"That's what makes a great man. Not strength. Not talent. But knowing it's hopeless... and doing it anyway."
⸻⸻⸻
"I hate myself."
He moved.
With a roar, he yanked the short blades from his back, driving them into the Myutant's jaw as it lunged.
The creature reeled back, head thrashing. One blade tore loose, clattering across the dirt.
Arsenal rolled, grabbed it mid-motion, came up fast. His gaze locked with the monster's.
He didn't feel brave.
Didn't feel heroic.
He just felt, awake.
He was going to die. That much hadn't changed. This was unwinnable. He had didn't have the strength needed to kill it, the backup to help him, or miracle technique tucked under his sleeves.
But his heart pounded anyway. His feet moved. And he didn't tell them to stop.
He dashed forward.
The Myutant's tail came crashing down—he slid beneath it, gravel biting his palms as he rolled to his feet. He sprinted again, blades flashing in his hands.
The Myutant was already frenzied. Its tail whipping through the air in erratic arcs.
Arsenal ducked low, then weaved left, shoulder grazing the dirt. He twisted his body sideways, barely avoiding the next strike. Every muscle screamed. His limbs were locking up, spasming from exhaustion.
Still, he pushed through.
Behind him, eyes were watching. Wide and silent.
Hands clenched tight. Knuckles white.
He struck at the tail, steel met skin.
CLANG!
His blade bounced back, the recoil shaking his arm. That part hadn't even been touched prior. He just wasn't strong enough to pierce through.
Another tail flick knocked his feet out from under him, and he slammed into the ground with a hard, aching thud.
He lay there, staring up at the grey sky, feeling the cold seep into his bones.
No plan. No hope. He didn't know how to win.
Didn't even know how to stand anymore.
His mind had gone quiet. His heart dulled. Legs refused to respond.
The Myutant surged forward, all pretense of torment gone. No more toying. It was coming to end it.
And the eyes—The ones behind him—The ones that once held faith—
They turned away.
Hope had died.
He laughed at himself—a bitter, breathless sound.
"What a pointless effort."
Still, he stood.
Still, he moved.
He ducked the incoming bite, blade flashing as he slammed it against the Myutant's side.
It pierced.
But only enough to get caught.
The beast thrashed, and the weapon dragged him upward like a ragdoll tethered to a rope.
A snap.
His wrist gave way. The blade tore loose from his grip, and he went flying.
His body spiraled through the air, arms flailed at his sides.
The Myutant's jaws were already on him, widened, hideous fangs ready to devour.
And in that moment, Arsenal's thoughts settled.
This isn't a movie.
Humans don't get stronger because they're right. Or because someone cheers them on.
The stronger one wins.
Regardless of what side of history they stand on.
The eyes behind him had turned away, but now, they returned.
Too late.
His foolishness had already caught up to him.
Then—he heard them.
Voices, all shouting together now.
He twisted midair, tumbling headlong toward death, and caught something in the corner of his eye.
Below, just beneath the base of the twenty-foot serpent, two boys ran through the chaos. Barely more than kids. Their feet pounded the broken ground, fear plastered across their faces, but their hands didn't shake.
One of them held a case.
Royal blue, a black insignia burned into the surface.
A Border Patrol demolition bomb.
Arsenal's eyes widened.
"Leave that alone!" he shouted, voice cracking as he fought gravity. "You'll kill yourselves!"
But they didn't stop.
They turned, braced. Spoke to each other in a panic he couldn't hear.
Then they threw.
The briefcase cut through the air, spinning once, twice—gleaming under the dull sunlight. It passed the Myutant's extended body, past its gaping jaws and came straight toward him.
A high-pitched whine echoed from it now. A red light blinked repeatedly on the handle.
Already primed.
Already counting down.
Arsenal's mind raced.
These bombs weren't meant for combat, they were made to level buildings. Used only in emergencies when T-level Ones got too close to the city walls.
And now it was next to his face.
"THROW IT INSIDE!"
The cry came from behind, dozens of voices, all screaming the same thing.
A faithful attempt, they had tried to help him. But bombs didn't do anything against Myutants like this. Their stomachs contained pure acid, it would turn to metal chunks before it even exploded.
At least, that was if the Myutant swallowed it.
Its mouth was open now, jaws inching closer and closer to him.
If he could drop the bomb just inside its head—
Maybe, just maybe—it would explode before digestion. Maybe it'd kill it.
But how would he even make that happen...
Arsenal sighed.
His hand shot out, grabbing the briefcase mid-air, yanking it forward.
The Myutant's jaws snapped shut around his arm.
A painful crunch.
Blood burst from the wound. Its teeth sank through flesh and bone, tearing into him. But his arm didn't fall. Didn't separate.
The company overcoat held it together.
It clung by the straps, by the same white fabric so many had died in.
Arsenal frowned.
Exterminators were stupid.
They screamed about pay. Talked tough, tried to act like this job was just a paycheck. But in the end they went home and cried, wished they could've done more, saved more.
They were contradictions.
The dumbest people on the planet.
And somehow, he'd caught that stupidity.
The coat hadn't torn yet.
And then.
BOOM.
A massive explosion erupted from the beast's mouth. The blast rocked the entire stretch of road. Myutant flesh split apart like overripe fruit, chunks of it raining down across the field.
Blood painted the tents.
And for a moment—
The eyes could no longer see him.
The fists that had been clenched, loosened.
Then, legs moved. Slamming against the ground.
All of them, running through the downpour of gore.
Their hands outstretched.
Toward him.
He tumbled down, half-buried in destroyed muscle and smoking fragments of bone. His coat was gone. Half of his body was, too.
One eye burned shut.
Half of his face blistered and blackened.
But he smiled.
Just barely.
He collapsed into their arms. People screamed at him, slapped at his face, pulling his eyes open, desperate to keep him awake.
Because if he fell asleep, he'd never wake up again.
But the sounds around him—blurred, garbled—didn't reach him clearly.
All he could focus on was a figure beyond the crowd.
Through a gap in the civilians, just past the corpse of the Myutant—stood a boy.
Kneeling.
Hands clasped together like he'd been praying.
Then the boy stood.
And walked forward.
His arm rose, blood already dripping down it like ink from a broken pen.
Arsenal moved on instinct.
He shoved himself from the arms holding him, stumbled forward, and threw his head into the path of the strike.
Eyes shut.
Expecting the end.
But it didn't come.
When he opened his eyes again, the boy stood still. Calm. Smiling.
"I assume you know who Diamantis is?"
Arsenal froze.
Shit.
If this was who Sabrina had warned them about—Diamantis's backup—then this was the worst-case scenario.
"I... I don't—"
"Don't lie," the boy said. "If you do, I'll kill everyone here."
Arsenal's breath caught. "What do you want..."
"Where is he?" the boy asked. "Give me his location, and I'll spare them."
"You won't."
The boy smiled. "You got me there. But that's the risk, isn't it?" He leaned in. "So what'll it be?"
Arsenal swallowed hard.
"I'll take you to him," he said. "Just... don't touch them."
"Oh? That way you can guarantee their safety. A smart choice."
Arsenal's stomach turned. By his guess, this guy didn't know where the base was. If he gave him that location—Sabrina, the recruits—they'd all be slaughtered.
But he could still take Knox somewhere else, lead him into a dead end. Feign ignorance and most likely die shortly afterward.
That was the plan.
A bad one, but the only one.
Until static crackled in his ear.
"Brenda, are you there? Garrick... Arsenal?"
Sabrina's voice.
At the worst possible moment.
Arsenal froze.
Knox didn't.
He simply raised a finger to his own ear and smiled.
The bastard could hear her too.
"...Yes," Arsenal replied, voice tight.
"What's your current situation?"
He swallowed, choosing every word like a landmine. "Most of the third grades have been wiped out. Civilians are secured at the shelters. However..."
Sabrina didn't wait, "I've rerouted additional Border Patrol to reinforce the area. Return to base now. We need your assistance—urgently."
Knox's grin widened.
And Arsenal knew he had one shot. One chance to say it. "Sabrina, I'M WITH THE—"
A slice, clean and sharp.
His ears hit the ground first.
Then the blood came.
And then the screams.
Arsenal dropped to his knees, clutching his head, agony blooming like fire inside his skull.
Knox stepped forward calmly, grinding the fallen earpieces beneath his boot.
"I thought we had a deal," he said, voice calm. "Perhaps I'll kill these humans first... as punishment for your stupidity."
"WAIT!" Arsenal howled, forcing himself up, eyes bloodshot.
Behind him, the civilians backed away, trembling.
"I'll take you," he panted. "Please... just leave them alone."
Knox tilted his head, thoughtful.
Then smiled.
"If you try pulling anything again..." He turned toward the civilians, giving them a little wave. "I'll come back and kill every last one of them.
Then I'll kill you.
Understood?"
Arsenal, shaking, barely upright, nodded.
"...Understood."