Mercenaries of the Apocalypses [System Apocalypse Progression]

Ogre mutants were bad at bluffing. The brute sitting beside Andy grimaced at its cards like they were soured milk, then threw a handful of bones into the pile.

"Fifteh boens."

Predictably, with a clatter, every mutant at the table chucked their betting-bones into the pot. If there was one thing mutants struggled to do, it was turn down a challenge.

They all turned to face Andy. Either by a feat of his sister's creativity, or the mutant's stupidity, his disguise was working. Painted green head to toe, he wore a witches nose which they'd scavenged from an old costume shop. He'd had to leave his leather jacket in the jeep, but the rest of his ragged clothes fit the bill. All that remained was to act like a mutant, and as it turned out, he was a natural.

"Come on, then, ye dafties," Andy growled. The voice modulator helped, worn like a necklace, hidden in plain sight. They weren't that smart, mutants. They'd never suspect that a human had the stones to turn up to one of their games, sit at their table, and shoot the stuffing out the back of their leader's skull. It was genius. Too genius. There was no chance to fail, so what was the rush?

The cards were played, and mutants–not knowing the rules of poker–argued that their cards were the strongest. Andy glanced around the satellite complex's control room. In attendance were three patriarchs of the tribes: Bossers, Boasters and The Bosses. Mutant politics were rich and complex like that. Spectating the game were three troupes of abominable warriors and their runty brethren; a real soup of stage-twenty cancer-beasts, all armed to the teeth.

Andy teetered back in his chair, enjoying his grog, and eyed his target. The alpha sat opposite him–a muscular-mess of a mutant. Its eyes were dots inside its tremendous head, like two nails hammered into a swollen corpse, milky and bloodshot. Five cigars smoked like the barrel of a minigun teetered on its bloated lips. As it caught Andy's eyes, it glared back with a challenge, face twitching to an inaudible rage.

Julie shook in response, eager to come to her man's aid. Andy patted the .45 revolver in her holster, stroking her wood-finish handle soothingly. "Hush, baby. Soon."

You see, there was a problem with executing the alpha now–with just standing up and BAM BAM BAM. The other mutants at the poker game would see him as a coward. It wouldn't have the effect they desired.

How was it Clara had put it during the briefing? "Our mission is to create instability. Just killing a few of them won't work. We can't have them blaming humanity for this, or else they'll seek revenge. We need to make it look like a mutant did this–like it was a fair fight. Like their alpha was defeated, and all the rest will compete for the position themselves. Civil war."

Andy hiccuped and leaned back in his chair. It wasn't that complicated really, the execution just had to appeal to mutant sensibilities. It had to be flashy: wait for a sure-fire hand, then pull the trigger.

Julie hummed again, pining for the pleasure of his grip.

"I know baby," he whispered and inspected his cards. Queen-Ten suited. Against mercs, it would have been a pretty good hand. But to ogre mutants, they were runty. The radioactive abominations favoured picture cards, and the King was mightiest of all. Maybe if he scratched off the Queen's hairdo, he could convince the table that she was just a girly looking King, but it would take a lot of bluster and bravado to sell, and it wasn't a hill he was willing to die on.

"Fold," he grumbled, chucking his cards away.

"Tiny runt's scared of a fightin'," the fattest mutant at the table heckled him. Its humongous muscles were buried beneath rolls of fungus-grey fat. A sledgehammer rested upright beside its chair, only the legs of which escaped the folds of its gargantuan arse. Somewhere on its bestial face were the worn grooves of mankind, warped by radiation, remoulded into a horror of the apocalypses.

"Terrified," Andy murmured, making sure to reserve an extra special bullet for the brute.

Alert: Immediate danger detected. A robotic voice rose from the deep recesses of his mind. It sounded like wearing an earpiece with the volume turned way down, but as it spoke, it got louder. Eliminate mutant. Priority targets established. Engaging combat stimulants-

"Don't engage," Andy hissed, hiding his voice in the mug of grog. The robot had first spoken to him after he'd injected himself with military-grade Augmentation Serum. He hadn't known what it was at the time. Didn't care. But the effects had been immediate and permanent. The Augmentation invaded his DNA, infested his mind, seeking to transform him into a biological weapon. And to some degree, it had. But he was not its pawn–its little soldier–a bastion of mankind. All that was dead and gone now–the old world–and good riddance. But the AI didn't know that. It kept on pestering, kept on making alterations, and Andy kept on fighting for a piece of his own mind.

Alert: Pollutants detected. Motor and cognitive abilities impaired. Avoid contaminated liquids.

He drank plentifully to suppress the stimulants. Now wasn't the time for blasting–he'd told the robot that already! He had to be patient. Wait for a sure-fire hand etc. But the AI's programming struggled with subtlety. Most of all, it neglected his right as a combatant to enjoy his time of peril.

There were few thrills in life greater than coming face-to-face with abomination, ruination and evil. And nowadays, there was a lot of that to pick from. Every apocalypse imaginable, to be precise. Heaven on earth, or hell, depending on your disposition. If he didn't enjoy his job, what would be the point in doing it at all?

Of course, Clara would disagree. But she wasn't here, was she? She was waiting outside, nice and snug in an office-block, overlooking the satellite complex with a high-powered rifle. They had prepared for days–assessing the lay of the land, kidnapping mutants and stealing an invitation to tonight's game. The hard part was done, why rush the ending? Hell, if he stuck around, he might even win the game. What was the prize? More grog maybe?

Yeah, his sister could wait a little longer.

Suddenly, the fattest mutant at the table slammed his fist into the corrugated metal tabletop, sending betting-bones flying. "You's da weak 'un."

"Fatso's no muscle, all flab." His adversary was a tall, muscular mutant with a shotgun strapped over his shoulder. Andy could tell just from looking that the gun was inoperable–muzzle bent, chamber rusted. Likely, the mutant preferred it as a club.

All about, the runt mutants yipped and coiled with anticipation. But when the alpha spoke, his voice cut through the ruckus.

"Quiet, boys. Settle it on t' table."

With reluctance, the mutants backed down. Sure enough, once Andy de-throned the alpha, the tribes would go to war. But the cards weren't right quite yet. As Andy waited patiently, his vision shimmered with analytical data. His AI implant scratched an outline of each mutant in the room. It began a faded-yellow with the lowest priority targets: the gobliny runts, and ended blood-red for the alpha. The lay of the room was mapped out–escape points highlighted, the distance between him and his targets, measured in metres. Who even cared about meters? It didn't mean anything to him. Andy went of feel. He knew what he could shoot. Everything. What difference did numbers make?

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Calculations flashed in his mind, disorientating. The AI didn't normally go this overboard on the nerd-stuff–it must really be freaking out about all these mutants–thirty-seven to be exact. Damn! How did he know that? Bloody AI, that's how.

Some Augmentations gave you gigantic muscles and herculean strength, others could control the elements, shooting fireballs and flying through the sky… or something like that. Andy's Gunslinger Augmentation gave him Combat Conceptualisation: an artificial intelligence implant which ran tactical programming, mapping the room as though it were a video game, with threat ratings and weak points and data-readings… Yeah, real badass.

Translucent spots glowed before his visions, suspended over the alpha's forehead, its heart, its hips: kill-shots and stopping-shots. As if Andy didn't know where to shoot the thing. Heads! When was it not the head, really? Hydras, he guessed, but he hadn't come across one of them yet.

Paragraphs of text flickered behind his eyes, glitching out as the AI threw a hissy fit. Andy recognised them to be his own–an entry from his Apocal-pendix on the mutant ogres. But how was that useful now? He blinked, a headache forming. The words and targeting lights scattered across his vision until it became difficult to tell what was real.

Better to turn it into a blur. Curious of the culinary qualities of both grog and whiskey, he reached in the back pocket of his skinny jeans.

But his hipflask was not there. He had forgotten to transfer it from his jacket.

Horror gripped Andy. The grog was running out. Soon, the AI would adapt to this new toxin, and he would sober up in a flash.

That was it then, he'd have to hurry things along. Desperately, he searched the recesses of his pocket, but recovered only a crumpled note. Solemnly, he read:

Augmentation Archetype: Gunslinger

The Gunslinger is able to develop abilities relating to firearm proficiency, combat agility, tactical perception and reasoning. Versatile and precise, the Gunslinger is the archetypal Augmented warrior.

Gunslinger 'Andy' possesses two specialised DNA Delineations

Current development trajectory assessed as: stunted / underperforming (see footnotes).

Delineation 1: Hitman

Evasive Fire
Killer Instinct

Combat Conceptulisation

Delineation 2: Marksman

Enhanced Precision
Firearms Finesse

Beneath each Delineation was a transcript of Andy's Augmentation abilities. He'd been Augmented for so long, with all the same abilities, it came naturally to him now. With a flick of a switch, he could possess Enhanced Precision or a Killer Instinct. He knew all of the transcription by heart–it was something else his AI flashed before his eyes when it thought he wasn't paying attention.

The footnotes were circled in pink highlighter:

Potential power spike detected as significant. Background upgrade programs activated and running for T-minus nine-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-two hours. Accumulative upgrades available. Current progression hindered by user inactivity. Assessing experimental implementation methods.

Beneath, a note in Clara's handwriting read: 'See, your system agrees with me. Train harder!!! I'm rooting for you :)'

With a sigh, Andy pocketed the note. All this reading had sucked the fun out of the mission. It was time at the bar.

Potential power spike detected as significant, his AI crackled like radio static in his mind.

"I know. I can read."

Andy shoved the note back in his pocket and rested his hand on his revolver. Alright, this was it. He could do it with a bluff. No matter what cards came next, he would make his play. Bluffs were impressive, weren't they? It sort of said: 'I could have any cards in the deck and I'm still going to blast you.' But did it play with mutant psychology? He tried to think, and access his Apocal-pendix notes. Perhaps there was insight in there? At his command, they flashed before his eyes–a translucent window at the bottom of his vision.

Apocal-pendix: Mutant Ogres

You know those gym-nuts who used to come into college all juiced up on steroids? It's like them, but with a sprinkle of Tolkien's orcs and a tub-load of Fallout. Two types: Ogre (big) and Runt (small). Tough as nails but can't shoot for shit. Probably about a two for threat level, as far as apocalypses go.

Weaknesses: Stupid. Angry.

Strengths: Strong (obviously). Vengeful. I shot the legs off of one and it crawled five miles to nibble my feet in my sleep–a crazy sense of revenge. Don't toy with them, I know it can be fun, but is it worth the risk? Just shoot them in the head.

"Classic," he mumbled, and read on.

We stalked a troupe for a couple days. Clara had this sonar mic that we used to overhear them. Saw something bizarre. One lost a bet and had to give up its trolley-full of wire it had been collecting. But worse was the humiliation. All the other mutants laughed at it, and it flew into a rage, tearing at its own face, stabbing itself with a pitchfork. Stupid thing ran out of steam before it could do itself in. Of course, later we came by and finished the job.

"Humiliation," he pondered. A new hand was dealt, and Andy inspected his cards. Seven, Two. Perfect. Necking the remainder of his grog, he slammed the mug down and rose from his seat.

"These cards'll do. Even you can't beat 'em." He pointed at the alpha, shoulders back, chin raised in defiance. "Jus' try. Two kings, I got. What ya' gonna do?"

Andy held his pose, one arm shakespearily outstretched, the other on his revolver, Julie. He wasn't very muscular, so he had to play the regal-card. He looked down his nose at the alpha–but even while sitting, the mutant towered over him. Andy sneered and turned one of his cards over, revealing the Seven.

"Let's see the bones."

He expected an uproar. An explosion of chest-pounding bravado. But all the air was sucked from the room. Every mutant gawked at him, frozen. A thin silence, spoilt by the creak of the fattest mutant's chair.

"What's 'amatter with you all?" he growled and the voice box echoed.

"Runt is so… runty." The muscular mutant beside him jabbed him in the chest. "He nearly does look like a hummie."

"And what's his face doin' like that?" the alpha mutant said.

He followed their gaze down and discovered he was wet all over. He must have spilled something… he couldn't imagine what. Green paint streaked down his torn cloth disguise, staining his black skinny jeans. And what's more, poised in his emptied mug of grog like a cocktail decoration was the prosthetic witch's nose. Disbelieving, Andy felt the back of his head for the elastic string. It must have snapped off.

"Ah, shit."

Like a flash, Andy drew his revolver and fired. The nearest mutant's head burst like a gory party-popper, spraying chunks of flesh over the mutants behind it. Andy's blood boiled as his Augmentation's combat enhancing hormones kicked into gear. Genetic pistons pumped chemicals through his veins, sharpening his senses, slowing down time. A familiar taste touched his tongue–metallic, but not unpleasant, like the first sip of whiskey in the morning. The taste of killing to come.

Andy danced around the table as his Evasive Fire protocol kicked in. He aimed Julie sidelong at the remaining mutants, bursting three more heads like watermelons. But the alpha was smart. He flipped the table just in time to protect himself, catching the fifth and sixth bullet on the metal slab. Andy unpinned a flashbang and darted towards the exit, but the fattest mutant grabbed his ankle. Half its face was blown out, but still it flopped like a beached whale in death's throws. It wrenched him off balance as the flashbang exploded, blinding everything in the room.

Except Andy.

The AI's Combat Conceptualisation remained–painting the room with targets. But the image was motionless–a snapshot of the moment before he was blinded. The AI saw through his eyes, it had to make do with what date his senses provided it.

Six slender rounds slipped from his tender fingers into Julie's cylinder. In a heartbeat, she was reloaded. He pulled her trigger, and felt her kick. There was a gruesome crunch as the whale-mutant's arm was severed at the elbow, and Andy kicked it free. He pelted for the exit as his vision returned, but one of the runts stood in his way. Julie's cylinder clicked dry as he blew a cavity in its chest, then burst through the fire exit onto an icy balcony. Unpinning a frag grenade, he chucked it behind himself and leapt to the ground.

His knees buckled as he landed in the snow and rolled onto his back. The grenade boomed overhead, shattering glass, raining glittering debris. Andy rolled to his feet and squinted in the sudden light of day, trying to get his bearings.

He expected to see a flat concrete mountaintop shelf leading to a short office block at the back where his sister waited in overwatch. However, before him was a chain-link fence, and beyond that, a sheer drop. The massive mountain range spread before him. But shouldn't there be forest–an escape route?

"Where am I?" he said.

South-side. Elevation: 1829 metres to sea level.

"Sod sea-level. Where's Clara?"

North-side.

"Shit."

Above him, mutants stormed out of the satellite control room. They brandished clubs and rifles. Some of the runts even aimed at him, and bullets kicked the snow at his feet. Time to improvise. Time to run.