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.” Its accent was chunky, clogged by the tumorous bulges in its throat. 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, the disguise was working. Covered in green paint, he wore a beak-like witches nose scavenged from an old costume shop. With their baleful eyes on him, Andy took solace in the company of Julie, his .45 revolver, at his hip. She hummed in her holster, pining to be set free. “Hold on baby,” Andy whispered, stroking her handle. “Soon.”

  “Wos dat?” The runty mutant dealing the cards leaned over the embossed metal table.

  “Don’t rush me,” Andy growled, doing his best impression of a mutant. The voice modulator helped, worn like a necklace, hidden in plain sight. He glanced around the satellite complex’s control room, glaring into the eyes of each hulking monster at the table. Present were the patriarchs of three tribes: The Bossers, The Boasters and The Bosses. Mutant politics were rich and complex like that.

  “Runty’s a thinka’,” the fattest mutant at the table heckled. 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.

  Resisting the urge to draw his revolver, Andy inspected his cards: Queen-Ten suited. Against other mercenaries, it would have been a pretty good hand. But as per ogre mutant rules, his cards were puny. 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.

  “Fold,” he grumbled, chucking his cards away. He needed a better hand before he assassinated his target.

  “Tiny runt’s scared of fightin’.” Andy’s target–the behemoth mutant–sat opposite him puffing on five cigars tied together like the barrel of a minigun. Its eyes were dots inside its tremendous head, like two nails hammered into a swollen corpse, milky and bloodshot. It stared back, face twitching in an inaudible rage. On its head was an imposing helmet made from the skull of a stag, antlers jutting out the top, decorated with hanging bones, some of which bore the rotting remnants of human flesh. The dress piece signified him as the alpha–the mutant which kept the others in check.

  Andy sighed. It wasn’t the right time yet. How was it Clara had put it during the mission briefing? He remembered back to their conversation in the jeep a few hours ago: “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 might look outside their tribes and seek revenge. Make it look like a mutant did it–like it was a fair fight.”

  Okay, so shooting the alpha mutant now would not be humiliating enough for his sister’s plan to work. The other mutants at the poker table would perceive Andy’s actions as cowardice. They might be dumb, but they had a rigid code of honour. Andy was required to undermine the alpha with a challenge first. The execution should be flashy: wait for a sure-kill hand, then pull the trigger.

  Alert: Immediate danger detected. A robotic voice reached him from within the deep recesses of his mind, as though he was wearing an earpiece with the volume turned way down. Eliminate mutant. Priority targets established-

  “Shh,” Andy said to the artificial intelligence in his head. For as long as he could remember, Andy had heard voices which others claimed weren’t there, but the Artificial Intelligence implant was by far the most vivid and persistent. It had first talked to him after he had injected himself with military-grade Augmentation Serum a couple years after the world had ended, mistaking it for a quick high. The effects had been immediate and permanent, invading his DNA, transforming him into a biological weapon.

  Alert: Pollutants detected, the voice badgered him. Motor and cognitive abilities impaired. Avoid contaminated liquids.

  It hadn’t shut up since.

  “Chill out,” Andy said, hiding his voice in a sip of the mutant grog. The whispering voice inside his head grew unintelligible, subdued by the hum of booze to a distant sanctimonious breeze. He slouched in his chair as the room spun pleasantly, like a swing twisted around its chain. But no matter how drunk he got, his mind was drawn to certain tactical assets and a crucial part of him remained alert. It was one of his Augmentation’s enhancement modules. Some Augmented people had developed gigantic muscles and herculean strength, others could control the elements, shooting fireballs and flying through the sky, or at least that’s how the stories went. 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… Badass.

  Andy closed his eyes, but he could still envision the dusty computers lining the walls, on top of which perched an audience of runt mutants-a smaller gobliny breed of the ogres–yipping and heckling. A handful of them were armed with hunting rifles as tall as themselves, just as likely to use them as clubs than to know how to shoot them. A smoky window stood before a fire escape exited onto a balcony. Outside, Clara was waiting in her overwatch position on the roof of a small office block at the edge of the mountaintop compound. Their getaway vehicle was parked in the forest just beyond.

  Andy was dealt in, but the cards came up Ace-Two. Again, playable against mercs, but awful against muties. “Fold.”

  “Better t’ play with propa’ muties.” The alpha’s voice was thick and gravelly like the bellows of a distant thunderstorm. “Dis ‘ere runt boy’s waitin’ for em teeth pickin’ bones t’ stew.”

  The whole table exploded in such an uproar of laughter that Andy could feel the tremors in his gut. He didn’t really get the joke, but he didn’t appreciate being the butt of it. Grinding his teeth, Andy ignored his simmering anger, taking a swig of mutant grog to quench the fire. The fattest mutant at the table snorted, struggling to breathe as it stared at Andy through pinprick eyes. The beast’s torso was wrapped in chain-link fence, scrap metal plates were strapped to its arms and a metal bucket perched on its fat head. Behind it, runty members of its clan jeered at Andy, dressed in the same scrapheap medieval knight outfit as their patriarch.

  “Stupid runt must miss the fight again, ey boys?” Fatty yabbered. A dizzying wave of combat enhancing hormones washed over Andy, dredging a strong impulse to kill the creature. Clenching his fists, Andy weathered the humiliation like a storm.

  The game’s hand was played and the mutants, not knowing the rules to poker, all argued that their cards were the strongest. While they bickered, Andy searched his pockets for his hip flask, eager to sweeten the mutant grog with whiskey. Then a moment of horror struck him. He hadn’t transferred his flask from his leather jacket when he’d dressed up as a mutant. What a blunder! All he could find was a crumpled piece of paper in the back pocket of his jeans. He hadn’t even known it was there. Curious, he held the paper up to the flickering torchlight and read.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  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.

  Currently, Gunslinger ‘Andy’ possesses two Delineations, which specialise DNA modification for specific abilities. Current development trajectory assessed as: stunted / underperforming (see footnotes).

  Delineation 1: Hitman

  Delineation 2: Marksman

  Beneath each Delineation was a transcript of Andy’s Augmentation abilities. Some of the powers he could activate consciously in combat, while others ran in the background of his mind, manipulating his thoughts, tweaking his DNA. He skipped over the text–he knew it by heart, but Clara thought it necessary for him to revise. His sister must have printed the paper last time he calibrated at an Augmentation Master Console. How long ago was that now? Four, maybe five months ago? The process was arduous, but Clara argued it was a necessity.

  The footnotes were circled in pink highlighter. A note in Clara’s handwriting read: ‘See, your system agrees with me. Train harder!!! I’m rooting for you :)’

  The highlighted text read:

  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.

  The phrase about a ‘potential power spike’ was one of his AI’s favourite to pester him with. But Andy saw through the coercion for what it was: just a way to sucker him in. His AI was desperate to go ham on his DNA, but it needed his cooperation. The Augmentation Serum was developed during the cataclysm when every apocalypse imaginable happened all at once, and humanity was on the brink of annihilation. Anyone who injected it would become a super soldier–a hero who could reverse the extinction tide–a bastion of mankind. But Andy was no hero, no pawn. He was a mercenary. He hadn’t been much invested in the human race before the cataclysm, so why should he care now, just because all of a sudden he had special powers? They weren’t even that special.

  Potential power spike detected as significant, his AI chimed, like a crackly radio signal inside his mind.

  “I can read.” Andy shoved the note back in his pocket and rested his hand on his revolver for comfort. Ever since he and Julie had found one another, things had been on the up. She had spent years alone and inactive, strapped to the hip of a dead man before Andy had come along and rescued her. She had spoken to him then–he was sure of it–beckoned him over, begged to be set free. That was a month ago now. Since then, they hadn’t been separated once. Wielding Julie was as natural to Andy as breathing. He hadn’t encountered much in the wasteland that couldn’t be put down with a .45 to the face, and if he ever did, he’d figure something out.

  A snapping sound jolted him out of his daydreams. Raucous laughter filled the room as the fattest mutant’s chair collapsed beneath it, and the behemoth tumbled to the concrete floor. Runt mutants dove over the table, snatching up his pile of betting-bones like seagulls picking at the scraps. Fatty whimpered and rolled on the ground, snuffling like a pig with the exertion, then gave up.

  Attention: Priority target established, his AI pestered him. Evasive Fire recommended.

  “Shut up,” Andy growled, his voice distorted by the modulator. Here he was, trying to be sneaky and engage in a bit of light hearted subterfuge, and all his implant could do was panic about imminent danger and obsess over priority targets. He’d been on the road with Clara for days, assessing the lay of the land, kidnapping mutants and interrogating them, stealing an invite to tonight’s prestigious gathering. The hard part was done, this was the bit he got to enjoy. Hell, if he stuck around, he might even win the game. What was the prize? More grog maybe?

  Alert: Pollutants detected. The AI nagged inside his skull. Cognition compromised. Engaging emergency metabolism.

  “Try it,” Andy muttered, shedding his grievous thoughts with each sip. Clara too had implored him to remain sober during this mission, and so he’d spent the past two weeks rationing one hip-flask worth of whiskey. As such, he’d hardly slept a wink, between the cold and the sobriety-induced nightmares. Now, victory was within his grasp, and he wanted to celebrate. Clara had repeated to him that this assassination job was contracted with someone they ought to impress–a warlord of a powerful tribe in Quadra city–an employer who had suggested he had more lucrative work lined up for them, should they succeed. She was career driven, concerned with politics and building a nest for their future. Andy didn’t begrudge her that, it was only that he hadn’t the same desires. For him, a paycheck was a paycheck. It meant getting blackout drunk–sweet oblivion–before a return to tormentous reality, and repeat.

  Lifting the mug beneath his joke-shop witch’s nose, Andy took a grateful sip of mutant grog. He wasn’t sure how the mutants made it. He didn’t care. It was strong enough to make his eyes sting and tasted like soap. Plus, his AI hadn’t yet coded a tolerance for it, so it got him properly drunk like in the good old days.

  Suddenly, a tree-trunk arm knocked Andy while he was taking a sip. He spluttered as the booze went down the wrong way, looking up. A fight had broken out over the game, but Andy was too busy coughing to observe. It felt like fire in his nostrils, and something shot out of his nose.

  The room grew silent. The mutants were all looking at him again, a pile of betting-bones in the centre of the table. Just four players remained in the hand, himself included. Andy picked up his cards. Two-Seven offsuit. The worst hand in human poker. But a rush of defiance seized him as the grog flushed down the drain. “Strong, yes. Mighty.” Andy rose and flung his arms up dramatically. “I will bet everything, even my life.”

  Andy expected an uproar. He held his pose, arms outstretched, snarling around the room, really putting on a show. The mutants gawked at him silently. Even fatty sat upright to stare.

  Teasing, Andy could handle, but this was pure disrespect! It felt like outright rejection. If you farted loud enough, mutants would roar bloodlust and battle. And here he was, putting on a right show, but they didn’t bat an eyelid.

  Lowering his arms, Andy followed the mutant’s gawking gaze to a patch of pale flesh on his torso. 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.

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

  “And what's his face doin’ like that?” the alpha mutant said.

  Something in Andy’s drink caught his eye. Poised like a cocktail’s decoration was the prosthetic witch’s nose which he’d scavenged from a costume store days earlier. It must have snapped off. “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 pumping chemicals throughout his veins, sharpening his senses and strengthening his muscles. It felt as though time slowed down to match Andy’s nonchalant pace. 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 fired Julie sidelong at the remaining mutants, bursting three more heads like watermelons. But the alpha was smart. It flipped the table just in time to protect itself, catching a bullet on the metal sheet. Andy unpinned a flashbang and darted towards the exit, but the beached whale-mutant grabbed his ankle. It wrenched him off balance as the flashbang exploded, blinding everything in the room. Except, Andy’s Killer Instinct didn't require sight. Julie flicked in his hand and he pulled the trigger. He felt her kick, and heard the mutant’s scream as Julie severed the beast's arm at the elbow with ferocious accuracy.

  Andy dove for the door, but a runt mutant 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, Andy chucked it behind him and leapt from the balcony. His knees buckled as he landed in the snow and rolled onto his back. The grenade boomed above him, 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, heralding a terrible realisation. He’d taken the wrong exit. Clara was on the opposite side of the satellite complex. Behind and above him, mutants stormed out of the array room brandishing clubs and rifles. Andy caught his breath and ran.

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