Chapter 01

Her gas mask was the first to come off. The low hum of the fans was accompanied by fresh, clean air. She took a deep breath, pushed her hood away and walked past the worn-out wooden office desk, and closer to the wall-rack she had installed to hang her sword on. Slowly, she raised her tired arm, blade still in an iron grip, she positioned her hand right above it. Her thumb and pointing finger slowly let go of the scabbard, and the rest of her jagged fingers followed in jittery movement. The sword fell perfectly on the rack, sitting still, where it should be.

Turning away from the rack, she reached for her right glove, slowly peeling it off to reveal a junky mechanism where her fingers should have been. Three iron claws were attached to the stumps of her pinky, ring and index fingers. They were a mockery of real fingers, a superstition, but they served their purpose. And to her, that was all that mattered. The joints and gears were slowly rusting away. No glove could protect against the blood she shed.

They need a replacement soon, she thought, before pressing buttons and pulling the latch that attached the prosthetic to her wrist. Pulling it off, she rested it on the desk beside the countless documents and gadgets that were indistinguishable from junk. She took off her other glove. A few rustles and zippers later, her jacket was resting on the chair, and she had taken off for a shower.



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Her junkyard of a base was located close to the abandoned wood factory in the forest. Not close to be spotted by prying eyes, but not too far for a walk to resupply on gear. The area was clean of toxic waste and devoid of gas, making the air as breathable as could be in the eastern part of the country. Yet that was not enough to ease her mind. With the help of a few guide books and words she'd heard from various people who knew better, she had managed to install an air purifier for her isolated base, keeping it safe from any storm that could carry the toxic fumes.



Past the mismatched furniture of the living room and the door to the shower that was actively running, there stood an iron door. Although the hinges were rusted and squeaking from decades of use, the door still worked. Beyond it, there was the room she'd turned to her work station. Various tool boxes and repurposed scraps of wood and metal scattered around the room. Some beneath the work bench, long forgotten in dust as they were deemed beyond use. Some on the edges of the room, some beneath the tarps and some piled beside the work bench. Half-finished products that she promised to finish on a day that seemed farther the more red marks appeared on the coffee-soaked calendar pages.


Steam filled the corridor as she emerged from the shower room, her shoulder-length hair already half-dry from the blue towel on her shoulders. She switched it with the smaller green towel that was free of darker stains. Now with a fresher mind, she quickly finished her routine and dressed in her work attire. Her favorite black shirt was slightly ripped on the collar, not big enough to need mending, not small enough to ignore.


She briefly thought of her pajama and the sofa's comfort, but she brushed aside the thoughts. There was a job to be done; The Iron Grip needed to be fixed before her next battle.


The hairbrush fell on the desk with a quiet thud, and she held up her hair with the two fingers while the other hand reached for the grey hair band. Once her hair had been firmly tied in a ponytail, she set out for her workstation, grabbing the Iron Grip and a ration on her way.


She planned to work until her stomach begged for food, so the ration's plastic wrap was soon dropped into the overflowing bin in hopes that the tasteless snack would satisfy her hunger for at least an hour or two. Work began soon after as she settled on her chair and lit up the desk lamp.


Replacing the gears and hinges of the prosthetic was routine for her. The skills needed to take apart and fix such mechanisms were something she earned long after the loss of her fingers. The biggest obstacle in her way was learning to use tools with her undominant hand, yet that issue had been left decades behind. The only worry for her, at that time, was the near-empty box of replacement parts for Iron Grip. Two more repairs, and she would be out of materials. She decided to make her next trip to the factory on the weekend, instead of the usual date.



Her eyes twitched for a moment, losing focus on the amalgamation of rust and iron. She rubbed her eyes after putting down the screwdriver. She had done it again. The sun had set, the music tape had long stopped playing, and her empty stomach had nearly given up the attempt at gaining her attention. She sighed, and decided to finish up replacing the last claw as soon as she could. Picking up the screwdriver again, she wondered; For how long, exactly, had she been fiddling with the screws around the prosthetic, not progressing the repair? Still, the images kept themselves glued to her mind.

A comrade, rolling on the floor as they cradled their intestines. - The prosthetic's joint cover falling on the side, its loose screws drifting off as she reached for new ones.

Dirt and blood under her nails, broken and jagged. Her fingers, bent and bruised. Burnt and scarred. - Each screw rotating in its place until it came loose, setting the final claw free.

A knife, dull and old. Three fingers, each leaving the comfort of their place in exchange for a wish. Life, Time, Strength. Mere *fingers* in exchange for what humanity treasures most. A small price to pay, for what she needed the most. Life; for a comrade. Time; for duty. Strength; For herself. All in exchange for three measly fingers.

How she missed those fingers.


The public radio comms system emitted chatter from various people in the area.

"Hey, this is Volkov speaking. The infested area near Jerry's is entirely devoid of life. I only see monster corpses. Anybody know who took them out?" A rough masculine voice came from the speakers.

"It has to be them. They know what they're doing. Hail the Station!" Spoke another man.

"The Station here, it wasn't one of our boys." Replied a woman, shutting down the suggestion.

"Weren't the monsters nesting there actually hoarders? I bet that place is a treasure trove right now." A young man's excited voice came through.

"I'm looking through the buildings, shit. You're right." The original voice replied back. "Wonder why the attacker didn't loot the place."

"Maybe they did. They took all they could."

"Only a single pile of the goods in this room is missing. By your logic, that means a single person attacked. That's all one person person could carry."

"I ordered the wipe-out." A man said, his voice old and worn.

"Mercs, huh."

"No. Freyja."

The intercom quietened for a few seconds, swallowed by static. Her hands paused momentarily at the mention of her name.

"Yeah, I figured." Volkov replied. "Only she's brave enough to take them head-on. On her own, no less."

"You mean crazy." The woman at the Station interjected. And Frejya could not contain the amusement that curled her lips to a grin. The ache in her nape reminded her not to slouch over the table of screws and scrap metal. She leaned back on the chair, and heaved a sigh.



"Would you look at that," Spoke a muffled, masculine voice, not through the intercom, but from behind the dark green tarp that hung on the wall. "You are famous."

"Yeah. I've been getting quite the reputation around these parts."

"I see. It seems that our cooperation will be more fruitful than I estimated."

"Told you, it won't be something you'd regret." Freyja finished reattaching the plate, covering the mechanical parts of the prosthetic. A moment of silence passed, and the voice spoke again.

"Freyja..."

"No." His inflection of words was enough for her to reach the conclusion.

"At least uncover the mirror in the living room."

"The house is off-limits. I already told you that. Plus," She paused, raising her prosthetic. The plate had countless scratches and dents on it, but it was reflective enough for her to see a distorted image of herself, and the inhuman silhouette of black mist behind her. She knew to not turn back. It was no use, she could only see him in reflections. And, judging from his words, Freyja concluded that he could not see well through a scratchy piece of metal. "You see just enough."

The misty figure tried to speak, not that Freyja paid any further attention to him. Her stomach had been grumbling for a while, and it was about time for her meal. She reattached the prosthetic to her hand and left her makeshift workshop.

She scoured the backpack she'd thrown on the table moments after entering her base, in search of something to eat. Recalling the numerous cans she shoved into the front side, she reached there and grabbed the first then her fingers landed on.

A can of... "Beans?" She tilted the can, rotating it about in search of a word she could read. There was no image on the scratched can, only words in a language she recognized, but could not understand. Screw it, she thought as she put it on the stove. It was either edible, or spoiled.


The comfort of the sofa; The reward she craved. Freyja let herself fall to its clutches. The springs squeaked under the sudden weight, and she took a mental note to look into repairing it once one of them finally flung loose. She started recounting the events of her day as she awaited the food to heat up.

Mr. Shimmers had contacted her that morning in a private frequency with a tempting job request. Wipe-outs were not uncommon. However, a person paying a large sum of money to clean an area that no one traversed was out of the norm. She had questioned him, and her answer had been less interesting than she had hoped. A set of cargo trucks, coming from the west. There were clearer roads, sure. But they were filled with bandits, and the cargo had been too important to risk it.

Medicine, was her guess. The west had been in a much better shape than the east. Mr. Shimmers was an old trader. And selling medicine seemed like a good idea to anyone.

The job was less taxing on her body than she expected. A few slashes, a few bullets, a few scares as the black mist reflected in the pools of blood, and then all was quiet. She had damaged the prosthetic by accident, but that was an issue left behind. Inside the rooms, there were countless corpses. Some had already decomposed, some still fresh. Poor bastards, she had thought to herself as she shifted through them in search of a hiding beast. Once she had made sure the area was safe., she quickly gathered some supplies off of the backpacks. Canned food, ammo, medicine and... "Documents!" She reached for her own backpack and brought out the neat folder of official-looking papers.

They could be blueprints for a new weapon, or a gadget she could make. They could be the coordinates for a hidden stash of goods. They could be a recipe for food, they could have been anything. And yet they chose to be medicine papers. Of all things, they were something she couldn't understand. Disappointed, she threw the papers on the desk and leaned back again.


Food should have been ready by then. She turned the stove off and picked the can, only to be stopped by the voice.

"Shall I help you open that?" He sounded oddly amused. She looked around herself, checking her surroundings. The hand mirror had been in the trash can, the wall mirror was covered with a cloth, and what remained of the windows were covered by curtains.

"Here." He called back, redirecting her attention to the twitching black mist that reflected on the stove's metallic side. She groaned in defeat. No matter what she did, he would always find a way to peek into her base.

"I'll handle it." She sat down and began enjoying her meal before bed. Stealing a glance at the documents again gave her ideas for the day that was to come.


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"Ah crap-"

"Make your way back to base-"

"We'll get you patched up."

"I told you this was a bad idea."

Radio chatter, occasionally interrupted by static.

"I'll make them pay." - "You're too stubborn." - "Just let it go." - "Volkov's telling the truth."

"Maybe you should've thought about this more carefully." - "You were quick to get caught up in that mess. Come back." - "If I come back, then it'll be for nothing!" - "*Your sacrifice was for nothing.*"

Eyes wide open, sweat dripping down her forehead. She'd fallen asleep on the couch, again. Her shoulder ached, and her vision was slightly clearer than a total blur. Grumbling, she used her other arm for support and sat straight.

"Was it, though?" The young man's voice from last night was speaking on the radio again. "The way I see it, the risk was worth taking. If only they'd sent someone more skilled."

"Get off your high horse, Brad. I'll skin you alive."

"Relax. A bite won't kill you."

"How about you two calm down, and we can tackle this thing once you're safe." Volkov spoke again. His voice always came through clearer than others. But Freyja could not waste time on their conversation. She rubbed her temple and questioned what they'd put in that can of beans.

A few minutes off of her morning routine, she grabbed a ration bar, reached for the documents and shoved them in her backpack again. Securing it on her back, she started her checklist before heading outside. Sword and sheath on her hip, gas mask on her face, and her hoodie up. Freyja was ready to leave.