1. ExtractTerminate
~ATLAS~
The braille beneath my fingertips tells a story of horror.
Patient files. Mission briefs. Target locations.
All leading to Ravenscroft Asylum.
My fingers dance across the raised dots, absorbing every detail. Every potential threat. Every possible victim. The paper is thick, expensive – Council grade. They spare no expense when sending us to do their dirty work.
Twenty-three patients.
Fifteen staff members.
Eight armed guards.
And one particular subject of interest: Patient 495.
The air shifts – a subtle change in pressure that speaks volumes. Heavy footsteps, slightly dragging on the left. Each inhale a wet rattle, followed by a wheezing exhale that carries the stale scent of cigarettes and that ridiculously expensive cologne he thinks masks it. Spiced wood and tobacco, trying desperately to cover the death he's slowly breathing into his lungs.
Dante.
"You're early," I say, not lifting my head from the documents. "Mission brief isn't for another hour."
He chuckles, the sound rough and gravelly.
"Can't slip anything past you, can I?"
A wet cough follows, one he tries to muffle behind his fist.
"Thought I'd get a head start. What are we looking at?"
The chair across from me creaks as he drops into it. He always sits the same way – sprawled out, taking up too much space. Asserting dominance even when he doesn't need to.
Classic Dante.
"Extraction mission," I reply, trailing my fingers over the next page. "Ravenscroft Asylum. Council wants us to retrieve a specific target." I pause, letting the weight of the next words settle. "They're calling her a M.U.S.E."
The shift in his posture is immediate.
I can hear the leather of his jacket strain as he leans forward, suddenly alert.
"M.U.S.E.? Thought those were just rumors."
"Apparently not." My fingers find the designation again. "Patient 495. They've been running trials on her for years."
The pressure in the room changes again.
Two more distinct patterns approach.
Kieran's footsteps are nearly silent, a predator's walk. But I can feel the slight tremor in the floorboards, the way he favors his right side. The phantom pain of his broken bond makes him walk like he's carrying an invisible weight.
Vale's gait is more pronounced. The shuffling drag of his deteriorating legs, the subtle tap of his cane against the floor. He tries to hide it, but I can hear the way his breath catches with each step. The disease is progressing faster than he wants to admit.
"Started without us?" Vale's voice is tight with pain as he eases himself into another chair. The metal legs scrape against the floor – third chair from the left, his usual spot.
Kieran doesn't sit. He never does during mission briefs. Instead, he takes up his position by the window. I can feel the cold draft from where he's cracked it open.
He always needs an escape route, even here in our own base.
"Just preliminary review," I say, pushing the papers aside. "But this one's different."
"Different how?" Kieran's voice is quiet, measured. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, we all listen.
"Target is an omega," I reply. "But not just any omega. She's been designated as a M.U.S.E."
The tension in the room spikes.
I can hear Vale's sharp intake of breath, the way Dante's heart rate kicks up a notch. Even Kieran's usually steady presence wavers.
"Mentally insane," Vale murmurs.
"Unsatisfactory," Dante adds, followed by another wet cough.
"Scentless," Kieran whispers, and I can hear the frown in his voice.
"Excelled," I finish. "They've been experimenting on her, trying to enhance whatever abilities caught their attention. By abilities, I believe it’s a code name for satanic witchcraft or whatever that shit is that’s portrayed in shows with the fucking board. The reports mention shadow manipulation, though the details are vague."
"Shadow manipulation?" Dante scoffs, but there's an edge of unease in his voice. "Code word for witch fanatic who’s psycho. Brilliant.”
"So were M.U.S.E.’s, until about five minutes ago," Vale points out, making it seem like we all lot in the same pool of mental insanity and dark magic theatrics. His cane taps thoughtfully against the floor. "What else do we know about her?"
My fingers find the relevant section again.
"Name's Nyx Blackwood, though they only refer to her as Patient 495. Age unknown, but estimated early twenties. No living family on record. She's been in Ravenscroft for at least six years, possibly longer."
"Six years?" The horror in Vale's voice is palpable. "In that hellhole?"
I nod grimly.
We've all heard the stories about Ravenscroft.
The experiments. The trials. The screams that echo through its halls.
"There's more," I say, tracking across the page. "They've been starving her. Running increasingly dangerous trials. The last few reports indicate she's becoming unstable. Their word, not mine."
"Shocking," Dante drawls, but the sarcasm can't quite mask his anger. "Lock someone up, torture them for years, and they become unstable. Who would've thought?"
"What's the extraction plan?" Kieran asks, always focused on the practical aspects.
"Standard infiltration," I reply. "But we'll need to modify our approach. The target's condition is...delicate. And there's something else."
I pause, making sure I have their full attention.
The room goes still, even Dante's wheezing breaths quieting.
"The Council wants her alive and undamaged. But they were very specific about one detail – if we can't extract her safely, we're to terminate."
Stating that out in the open makes me frown.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I can feel the rage building in each of them, their scents sharpening with anger. Dante's spiced wood turning acrid, Vale's usual rain-fresh scent taking on an electric edge, Kieran's subtle pine becoming sharp and dangerous.
"Like hell," Vale growls.
"Agreed," Kieran says softly, but with steel in his voice.
Dante just swears, a string of colorful expletives followed by another hacking cough.
"My thoughts exactly," I say, a grim smile tugging at my lips. If we extract what we claim as ours, they can’t terminate anyone, right? "So, gentlemen, shall we discuss how we're going to save Patient 495 and tell the Council to fuck off?"
The energy in the room shifts again, but this time it's different.
Focused.
Determined.
We're killers, all of us.
Broken and dangerous in our own ways.
But this – feels like a life changing mission…one fate seems to present like a wrapped gift of sin.
Is it's because we see ourselves in this broken omega?
Or because we're tired of being the Council's attack dogs?
Or maybe it's simply because it's the right thing to do.
Whatever the reason, one thing is certain:
Nyx Blackwood's days as Patient 495 are numbered.