Chapter 1
Benjamin Walker took a slow drag from his cigarette the ember flaring red at the tip. Smoke curled from his lips as he exhaled, a subtle frustration hanging in the breath. He sat on a chipped wooden barstool, elbows resting on the worn, polished counter in front of him.
The bar was livelier than usual. Around him, patrons filled scuffed leather booths, their cracked seams spilling old stuffing. Overhead, dim bulbs dangled from frayed cords, casting a weak, orange glow that struggled to light the crowded room. Behind the counter; rows of dusty, mismatched bottles lined the shelves. Above them, a faded neon sign clung to the wall – BAR – though only the first two letters still worked, flickering weakly in electric blue.
Smoke from Ben’s cigarette danced around his nose, blending with the thick staleness of booze and body odor that clung to the air. The room was humid, and a few beads of sweat slid down from his unkempt, dark brown hair. He sat waiting for his older brother, Clay.
They’d come to the massive market inside of the old Detroit football stadium, summoned by one of the city’s most notorious gang leaders – a man known only as Butcher, sole ruler of the stadium and the overseer of the entire northeast section of Detroit.
Ben and Clay had worked a few jobs for Butcher before – mostly inside the towering walls of Detroit. Rarely were they asked to step beyond them, into the shattered ruins. But this job carried a different weight. There was urgency in the message that had caught Ben off guard, leaving him both curious… and cautious.
Clay had gone ahead, deeper into the bar’s underbelly where Butcher usually conducted business. He was supposed to signal once they were cleared to enter – but fifteen minutes had passed, and there was still no word.
The wait was starting to put Ben onedge. His fingers drifted to the pistol in the worn leather holster at his hip, brushing the grip out of habit more than intent. Butcher’s guards were scattered across the room – five, maybe six. They wore their usual uniforms: old – world suits, wrinkled and torn at the seams, their faded fabric clinging to some long-lost idea of class. Butcher liked that look – said it made his men look disciplined, professional.
Ben knew better. He remembered the last time they worked a job around the stadium – remembered how one of those suited guards dragged a trader out of the market by his collar, how the man screamed and begged until the noise was cut short somewhere deep below the stadium. None of the guards even blinked. Just adjust their cuffs like nothing had happened.
Two of the guards stood to Ben’s left, flanking a set of red double doors along the back wall – the same doors Clay had disappeared through minutes earlier. One guard on each side, still as statues, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. Ben’s finger tapped steadily against the bar counter, his patience thinning by the second. Sure, they’d been invited to meet with Butcher – but in Detroit, nothing was ever as it seemed.
You never walk in thinking you’re safe.
That was something their father, John, had drilled into them since they were kids. Always be ready. Never trust comfort. Never trust the quiet. Especially in a place like this.
“You sure you don’t want anything?”
The soft voice pulled Ben from his thoughts. He looked up to find the bartender standing across from him. She was a bit shorter than he was, with long, light brown hair that hung loose around her shoulders.
Ben’s green eyes briefly drifted over her – the thin, stringy tank top clinging to her frame, barely containing her chest, and the tight, frayed jean shorts that rode high on her legs. The outfit was deliberate, he figured – one that probably earned better tips from the regulars crowding the bar.
Ben cast one last glance at the red double doors, then flicked the ash from his cigarette into the tray. He gave a small nod. “I guess I’ll take a shot. Whiskey, if you’ve got it”.
The bartender returned to nod with a faint smile and turned toward the back shelves. Bottles lined the wall – rows of them, stacked high, their labels so faded by time and sun and smoke that most were unreadable. Didn’t matter. It was booze, and that’s all anyone cared about
A moment later, she set a small glass of amber liquid in front of him. “That’s five” she said flatly.
Ben nodded and reached into the cargo pocket of his pants, pulling out a rusted silver nickel. He set it on the counter, then slid it towards the bartender with one finger. She took it without a word and moved down the line to the next patron.
Ben let out a quick chuckle. Before the war, back in the old world, coins had been long obsolete – paper and digital currency had taken over. Now, with the old systems buried under rubble, Detroit had gone back to metal. Coins had become the currency once again.
At first, it was out of convenance – they were everywhere in the ruins. But over time, their value grew, mostly because no more were being made. The switch was officially sanctioned by the DSF – the Detroit Security Force – the governing body that ruled the city inside the walls. The DSF claimed to answer to some higher council that supposedly oversaw all the remaining safe zones across the U.S. But Ben didn’t buy it. He didn’t believe there were any others left. Not anymore.
“The world isn’t dead out there – no matter how much it seems to be.”
Their father, John, used to tell them that. Words Ben and Clay once believed in. Held onto.
But time had a way of grinding down belief. Out beyond the walls, there was no real sign that life still existed – not in any normal sense. They’d both seen it for themselves: scorched ruins, pockets of radiation that twisted air, mutant things that shouldn’t exist, and bands of killers living off scraps and blood.
Who could build a life out there?
Ben figured no one.
“Are you going to drink it?”.
The bartender’s voice slipped back into Ben’s ears, soft but cutting through the background noise. He looked up and met her gaze – curious blue eyes studying him from across the counter.
“This isn’t for me,” he said, giving a small shake of his head.
Her brow creased slightly, confused.
“It’s for my brother,” Ben added. “I don’t drink”.
Right on cue, Clay emerged from the crowd to Ben’s left. His long brown hair was slicked back, short beard trimmed close, wearing his usual gray jacket and worn jeans.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, little brother,” Clay said with a chuckle, giving Ben’s shoulder a slight smack.
Clay’s hazel eyes dropped to the counter and locked onto the waiting shot glass. He pointed at it with a raised eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You drinking on me now Benny?” he said, grinning. “Did I miss the end of the world – again?”
“No, dumbass” Ben said with a smirk, rising from his barstool. “It’s for you. I know you operate better with some liquor in you”.
“Oh, baby” Clay exhaled, eagerly grabbing the glass. He tipped it back in one quick motion, then slammed it onto the counter. His eyes squinted tight as the burn hit, and he let out a low growl. “Oh shit” he coughed sharply. “That’s the wild stuff right there.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get yourself together” Ben muttered. “And stop calling me Benny”.
Clay grinned. “Never. Also – we’re good to go. Anders is waiting for us”.
Ben rolled his eyes, already annoyed. “Ah yes, the prick.”
Anders. Mid-forties, sharp white hair, and thick black glasses perched perfectly on his nose. He wore the same style of suit as Butcher’s other men, but his was sharper – dark gray, pressed clean as possible, with a blood-red tie that stood out like a warning. He looked more like a butler than a lieutenant, but make no mistake: Anders was Butcher’s right hand. His enforcer.
Ben didn’t like him. Neither did Clay. The feeling was mutual – cold, quiet, and constant.
Ben remembered the last time they worked a job together – a weapons exchange gone sideways in the northern district. One of Anders’ own men questioned an order. Just hesitated for a second. Anders didn’t even blink. He drew his pistol and put a round clean through the man’s skull. Then calmly turned to the others and finished giving instructions, blood still wet on his sleeve.
That was all Ben needed to know. They kept it professional, but it was thin ice – and everyone knew it.
Ben stubbed out his cigarette in the chipped ashtray, the embers hissing softly. Without a word, he followed Clay across the creaking, dust-covered floorboards toward the looming red double doors. Anders waited for them there, flanked by two silent guards in black tattered suits and tinted visors.
His pale gaze, sharp behind thick black glasses, was fixed on the brothers like they were already guilty of something. He didn’t smile. “Follow me,” he said coldly, extending one arm toward the doorway without taking his eyes off them.
Ben followed Clay and Anders through the red doors, leaving the bar behind. The hallway beyond was dim and narrow, lit only by a series of flickering ceiling bulbs that hummed like dying insects. Their dull yellow light barely cut through the haze that hung in the air like a fog.
The stale reek of old liquor quickly faded from Ben’s nose, replaced by the heavier stench of cigar smoke and burnt-out cigarettes that clung to the walls like mildew. The muffled hum of voices and clinking glasses behind them faded into silence, until all that remained was the echo of their footsteps on the warped wooden floor.
The walls were once blue, maybe decades ago. Now they were a sickly, peeling shade, patches of wallpaper curling and crumbling, exposing the bare rotting plaster beneath. Dirt-streaked picture frames hung crookedly, their contents so faded and dust-covered it was impossible to tell if they’d ever meant anything.
They turned right at the end of the hall, and the narrow corridor opened up into a broader artery of activity. Ben immediately noticed the shift-people moved with urgency, brushing past one another as they darted in and out of open rooms. Members of Butcher’s organization filled the space like ants in a disturbed nest.
Some carried crates stacked high with supplies. Others hauled rusted rifles, scavenged helmets, tangled wires, and even cracked pieces of old armor. The clatter of gear and hurried boots echoed off the walls.
Ben slowed his pace, his eyes scanning the organized chaos. Moving gear wasn’t unusual-but this volume, this frenzy, felt different. There was too much being shuffled around too quickly. Like they were prepping for something.
Ben glanced at Clay, but his brother seemed unfazed, as if he’d seen it before-or wasn’t in the mood to ask questions. Ben, on the other hand, felt that familiar tug of unease and curiosity twist in his gut.
Something was going on.
Anders led the brothers deeper into the bowels of the building, guiding them through a maze of dim corridors before ascending a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, he stopped in front of a solid, metallic gray door.
“Through here,” Anders muttered. He pushed it open, and the three of them stepped inside.
The room was surprisingly well it. Soft, dark red carpet stretched across the floor, though time had not been kind to it – blackened stains dotted the surface like old wounds. The walls were paneled in dark wood, worn and cracked in places, and plastered with faded posters and framed photographs. Many featured the long-defunct Detroit football team, whose stadium they now stood within.
At the far end of the room, a wall of tall, smudge-covered windows overlooked the stadium’s field below. What had once been sacred turf was now a ramshackle sprawl of sheet metal stalls and wooden booths – the marketplace of Butcher’s domain.
In front of the windows sat a long, red wooden table, curved in the center like a crooked smile. Behind it, hunched slightly in a worn leather chair, sat a man. He wore a pristine suit, light gray.
He looked to be in his early fifties, with graying hair slicked back from his weathered face. A lit cigar burned between his fingers as he sifted through stacks of tarnished coins and yellowed papers. The smoke curled around his head like a slow-moving storm.
Butcher.
Butcher looked up as the three men approached his desk. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his eyes settled on Anders – then shifted to the brothers.
“Ah… the Scouts. You’re finally here.”
The Scouts – a name that carried weight within Detroit’s crumbling walls. The brothers were part of this secretive mercenary group, known for their willingness to venture beyond the city’s fortified perimeter – into the irradiated ruins – for scavenging runs, retrieval missions, or high-risk contracts. More than that, the Scouts had a reputation for standing up to the DSF, Detroit’s self-declared security force, whenever its brutal methods pushed too far. Their defiance earned them respect from the people – and a spot on the DSF’s most wanted list.
Ben and Clay had managed to avoid the worst of that life. Most of their contracts stayed within the safety of the walls. But every Scout knew the risk: any day could be the day the job took you into the unknown.
Butcher leaned back, his voice gravelly and relaxed. “Take a seat, you two. We’ve got business to discuss.”
He motioned toward the battered sofa chairs positioned across from his desk – dark leather, worn thin by years of tense negotiations.
“Sounded pretty urgent in your message, Butcher,” Clay said, settling into his seat.
Ben followed, sinking into the worn leather. It sagged under his weight, offering little support. His lower back ached almost immediately, but he said nothing.
Butcher leaned back in his chair, puffing on the stub of his cigar. He exhaled slowly, letting a thick plume of smoke drift lazily toward the ceiling.
“These are urgent times, boy,” he said, his voice low and gravely. “I’ve been hearing things – strange things – from my ears around the city. Rumors. Whispers. Pieces are starting to move on the chessboard.”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that? What pieces?”
As far as he could tell, nothing felt especially out of the ordinary. The DSF were still assholes, the streets were still dangerous, and people still died for nothing every day. Business as usual.
Butcher shook his head, waving off Ben’s question like an annoying fly. “Don’t worry about the specifics. That’s not what I pay you for.” He took another drag from his cigar, then taped the ash into a tin tray already overflowing with gray dust and old burn marks. “I’ll just say this – the DSF seem to be up to some weird shit.”
Clay scoffed. “When aren’t they? Nothing good ever comes from the DSF.”
Ben didn’t respond right away. Instead, he glanced over at Clay. Clay met his look with the same quiet unease Ben felt building in his gut. No words were exchanged – they didn’t need to be. They’d done this long enough to read each other clearly. Something about this felt off.
Butcher nodded slowly, as if Clay’s disdain for the DSF only strengthened his resolve.
“That’s true enough,” he said. “Detroit won’t survive this wasteland with them sinking their claws deeper into it. If this city’s ever going to crawl back to its feet, the DSF has to go.”
Butcher leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
“There are only a handful of people left in this place with the spine – and the reach – to make that happen. I’m offering you a way to be a part of that.”
With that, Butcher reached beneath his desk, retrieved a small black case – no larger than his hand, smooth and matte like it had never seen sunlight. He set it down on the desk with a soft thud, letting it sit between them like a coiled secret.
“I need this delivered to the West District. Directly to Damon.”
Ben stared at Butcher, brows knitting slightly. Clay mirrored his expression, both of them clearly caught off guard.
Damon?
He was another major figure in Detroit’s fractured underworld – sharp, calculating, and notoriously untrusting. A tactician who ran the Northwest District with a quiet authority, his base of operations was the gutted remains of an old casino, now converted into a fortress of neon lights and steel reinforcements.
While Butcher ruled the Northeast, Damon held his own ground – and the two had rarely, if ever, seen eye to eye. Years of bad blood, clashing territory lines, and mutual distrust had kept their gangs cold towards one another, if not outright hostile.
So, a request to deliver something to Damon? That didn’t just raise suspicion – it lit it up like a flare.
“Since when do you deal with Damon?” Clay asked, voice sharp. “Didn’t know you two were buddies.”
Butcher smirked, the kind of expression that never reached his eyes, and waved off Clay’s suspicion with a flick of his fingers.
“You’d be surprised what a little common understanding can do between two men in our positions,” he said coolly. “Damon’s no fool. He’s seen the same things I have – heard the same whispers. And like me, he knows this city doesn’t stand a chance if things keep heading the way they’re going.”
He took another long drag from his cigar, holding it for a moment before exhaling a thick stream of smoke that drifted across the desk like a fog. “We share a similar vision for Detroit.”
Ben leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “So… are you talking about some sort of rebellion, or what?”
Butcher chuckled, clearly amused by Ben’s question.
“Would a rebellion be so bad, boy?” he said, leaning back witha sly grin. “Rebellions were potent things in the old world. Hell, this country wouldn’t even exist without one.”
The amusement lingered for a moment, then slowly drained form his face. The grin faded. His voice lowered. “But it’s too early to talk about rebellion. We don’t know the full picture yet – not really.”
“You do know how to spark some mystery, Butcher,” Clay said, sitting up straighter in his seat. A sly grin formed on his face. “But let’s talk about the real matter here – our payment. You said this job had added urgency, so I imagine that comes with a little added compensation.”
Butcher’s smirk vanished. His voice turned cold.
“Careful, boy,” he snapped. “Don’t let your ambition cloud your place. There are plenty of Scouts in the city I can call on. Hell, other mercs.”
Clay didn’t flinch. He kept his grin, but his tone was firmer now. “Sure. But you called us. Because you know we’re reliable – and we get the job done.”
Butcher sat silently for a moment; eyes fixed on the brothers across the desk. Ben and Clay held his gaze – steady, unflinching, their confidence clear.
Then, slowly, a grin crept across Butchers face. A deep, bellowing laugh followed, echoing off the wood-paneled walls.
“I like you boys,” he said finally. “Of course you’ll be paid a little extra – assuming you complete the job to my satisfaction.”
Clay nodded, satisfied. He reached toward the case on the desk. “So, you want this delivered to Damon? At the casino, I presume?”
Butcher’s hand shot out and smacked Clay’s away before he could touch the case.
“Listen carefully,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp and heavy. “Your success in this delivery could alter the state of Detroit itself. I’m not just paying you for the drop – I’m paying you for your silence.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, then tapped the top of the black case with two fingers.
“The case is sealed. Damon will know it it’s been tampered with. It’s for his eyes, and his eyes only. Do you understand?”
Both brothers nodded.
“Good,” Butcher said, easing back in his chair. “I trust you know how to bypass the patrols and checkpoints to get into the Northwest District?”
“Sewer and maintenance tunnels,” Ben said, drawing Butcher’s attention. “The DSF avoid them – too worried about mutants. We’ve got a good map. If I remember right, the tunnels run close to the outskirts of the casino.”
Butchers grin returned, slow and satisfied. “I knew I could count on you two. Just remember – Damon needs that case by tomorrow. Time isn’t something we’ve got in great supply, I’m afraid.”
Ben’s ears perked up. ’Tomorrow? Is someone else after this package that we should know about?”
Butcher rested his hand on his chin, letting out a low, thoughtful hum. “I can’t say for certain,” he said at last. “But this city’s filled with snakes – waiting in the shadows, ready to bite you when you least expect it. So stay alert. You know the risks.”
He tapped the ash from his cigar into the overflowing tray, then gestured toward the door with a casual flick of his hand.
“Now go.”
Both Ben and Clay rose from their seats. Clay was quick to reach down and take the case, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. With a final nod to Butcher, the brothers gave their goodbyes and followed Anders back into the maze of dimly lit halls.
It was a simple deliver – at least, that’s what it was supposed to be. But the urgency, the secrecy, and the strange alliance between Butcher and Damon felt out of place. It all made Ben uneasy.
The questions lingered in his mind like a growing storm.
What kind of information was Butcher getting? Why were he and Damon suddenly working together – and for what purpose?
And above all ese, what exactly were they smuggling?
What was inside that small, unassuming case now resting in Clay’s pocket – sealed, hidden, and meant for eyes not their own?
