The smell hits me first. Sweet, almost sickly. Intoxicating.
Two pieces of black bread. A bottle of water, barely contaminated. I've never seen food this good in my entire life.
My hands shake as I unwrap the wax paper. Carefully, like I'm opening something sacred. The bread is real. Hard and dark, but real.
In the ruins, this is worth ten lives. Maybe more.
I break off a small piece, put it in my mouth. Close my eyes. Let my saliva soften it, let the flavor spread across my tongue.
It's like dreaming.
Then a shadow falls over me.
I open my eyes. The scar-faced man stands there, machete in hand. The same bastard who beat me yesterday and stole my meat.
I grab my shortsword, glaring up at him. If he tries to take this bread, I'll put my blade through his heart. I don't care if I die doing it.
"I'm not interested in your food!"
"Then what do you want?"
His eyes flicker. Cold. Calculating. "See that over there? There are only three diggers, but that truck is filled with bread and water. All of us are armed. Why don't we give it a shot?"
I follow his gaze. Three mercenaries. No firearms visible. And a truck full of supplies.
He's planning a mutiny.
"You comin' or not?"
I want to. Every instinct screams at me to join them. More food. More water. A chance to take control.
But I've survived this long by trusting my gut, not my hunger.
I glance at Mad Dog. The big black man is watching us. Not just watching. Studying. Like we're insects under glass.
Our eyes meet.
Ice water floods my veins. His gaze isn't human. It's predatory. Raw. A warning carved from violence and certainty.
You're prey. You're nothing. You're not even worth my time.
Every muscle in my body locks up. I want to look away but I can't. Terror roots me in place.
Finally, I break the stare. I'm drenched in sweat.
"Don't go." My voice comes out hoarse. "You are all gonna die."
The scar-faced man spits at my feet. "You useless piece of crap!" He turns to the others. "Let's kill those diggers, then come back and deal with this piece of trash."
"Alright!"
Twenty scavengers rise as one. Their eyes go flat. Dead. That look means one thing in the Shatterlands.
They've become wolves.
Mad Dog doesn't move. Just keeps smoking his cigarette, utterly calm. But he glances at me. Just once.
A flicker of something. Interest, maybe. Or amusement.
He thinks I'm clever. Smart enough to smell danger. Smart enough to stay out of it.
"Whaddya doing?! You lookin' to die?!"
"You overestimate yourselves, you cockroaches. All of you need to back the fuck up!"
The other two mercenaries notice the scavengers advancing. They pull their weapons, shouting threats.
The scavengers keep walking.
"Eheheh. C'mon, guys. Why you gotta be like this?" Mad Dog's laugh is low, hoarse. Like an owl. The scars on his face twist when he smiles. He grinds his cigarette into the dirt. "Y'know, I was feeling pretty bored. Step aside, rookies."
"Mad Dog, boss, don't..."
The two mercenaries exchange a glance. Then they step back, pity on their faces.
Mad Dog pulls out two massive machetes. Curved blades, wide and heavy. Top-heavy enough that most men couldn't even lift them.
Then he tosses them to the ground.
He balls his fists and walks forward. Unarmed.
What is he doing?
The scar-faced man roars. "Kill!"
The scavengers charge like starving dogs.
Scar-face leads the pack, machete raised high. A man with a metal rod flanks his right. An axe-wielder on his left. The three strongest scavengers, moving as one.
Mad Dog's hand shoots out. Lightning fast.
His fingers close around Scar-face's wrist. Crack. The bones twist backward, poking through skin. Blood pours from the puncture wounds.
Mad Dog's leg sweeps out. A kick like a steel whip. Scar-face's legs bend at an impossible angle. Multiple fractures. Clean breaks.
Then the punch.
Scar-face's chest caves in. Eight ribs shatter. He flies backward, crashing into the scavengers behind him.
The metal rod swings down.
Mad Dog catches it. Pulls. Slams it back through the man's mouth. Teeth explode. The rod punches through the back of his skull. A hole where his head used to be.
"Ahhhhh! Monster!"
The axe-wielder runs.
Mad Dog leaps. Two meters straight up. His leg comes down on the man's head like a hammer.
Crunch.
The cervical vertebrae sever. The head caves into the chest. The body drills into the ground like a nail. Standing upright. Dead.
"Ahahah!" Mad Dog's face twists with manic joy. "C'mon, keep it up! I haven't had enough fun yet!"
Five seconds. Three men dead. Brutally. Efficiently.
He's not human. He's a devil.
-----
The scavengers freeze. Some of them piss themselves.
I stare, wide-eyed. I've never seen anything like this. No one could be this strong.
Mad Dog charges forward, grabbing Scar-face's machete from his corpse.
Then a roar splits the air.
The spiked vehicle flies over a sand dune, airborne. Slyfox is inside, cigar in his mouth. One hand on the wheel. The other pulling his pistol.
He fires without aiming.
Clang!
The bullet hits Mad Dog's machete dead center. Shatters it into two pieces.
Impossible. The shot. The accuracy. Inhuman.
The vehicle crashes down, skidding to a halt.
"Mad Dog, what the actual fuck are you doing?" Slyfox glares at the three mangled corpses. "Messing around and killing one or two of them is one thing, but are you planning to wipe out all of these fuckers?"
"I lost control for a second." Mad Dog shakes his head. "They are still alive, right? No big deal."
"Slyfox, what's the point of you even bringing these pieces of crap with you?" Mad Dog sounds irritated now. "Way I see it, all you are doing is wasting our time!"
"How are you supposed to catch any fish without bait? Alright, stop yapping." Slyfox pats Mad Dog's shoulder. "Our employers for this mission are quite extraordinary, and the mission rewards are quite incredible!"
Mad Dog goes quiet.
Slyfox turns to us. "Enough. Now that all of us are here... listen up, you dirty scavs! I'll give you half an hour to prepare!"
"I'm not going anywhere!" A scavenger shouts, terror cracking his voice.
Bang.
The scavenger's head explodes. Brain matter sprays across the sand. His body twitches, then goes still.
No one moves. No one breathes.
I sit against the wall, finishing my bread. The last piece. Then I drain the water bottle.
The old man's voice echoes in my head.
A man can become either a chess player or a chess piece. Chess players choose. Chess pieces cannot.
Every person has the chance to become a player. But one wrong choice, and you're a piece. Forever.
Anger doesn't matter. Terror doesn't matter. Once you're a piece, your life isn't yours anymore.
Scar-face forgot that. He thought he was a player. Thought he could choose. He was wrong.
I've made my choice. I'll be a good little chess piece.
For now.
I'll wait. Watch. Learn.
And when the moment comes, I'll jump off this board.
I'll become a player again.
Or I'll die trying.