Bombs & Price
Blitz’s team was returning from their first mission, and even though it had gone completely off the rails, nothing could kill the high of completing their first official job. Blitz, true to form, was roasting Moxxie for being a spineless wimp, Millie was glowing with joy, and Loona, as usual, was glued to her phone, silently wishing everyone around her would just drop dead in the most painful way possible. After their cheerful celebration, stuffed to the brim, the mercenaries were sprawled all over the place, suffering from a food coma.
"Oh Beelzebub, why do I always give in to gluttony..." Moxxie whined from the couch.
"Hahaha, you're such a little bitch, Mox," Blitz muttered, barely articulating the words. He was hanging upside down off the armchair, legs hooked over the backrest. "We had to order a SECOND MOTHERFUCKING CAKE because of you!" he added, before pausing as a new wave of stomach pain hit him.
"It's not my fault I stress-eat!" the demon protested. "They blew up an entire house with a family inside instead of making an arrest! Who even DOES that?!" he went on, trying to reach for a napkin to wipe the tears from his eyes. Millie gently patted him on the shoulder.
"Listening to you for one damn minute makes me wanna throw myself off a roof," Blitz deadpanned, staring blankly at the scene in front of him. "Right, Loony?"
Her response was a simple middle finger, raised without breaking eye contact with her screen.
"Fair enough..."
The scene could've gone on for much longer, if not for the sudden ringing of the phone. Despite the gut cramps, Blitz jumped up and lunged for the receiver.
"IMPs office! Who’s up for a one-way express delivery to the afterlife?"
Ares, David, and Lewis were sitting in the back of a luxurious limousine, heading for the same dive bar where they’d been drinking with Cherri Bomb a few days ago. While an armored MRAP would’ve been way more practical for travel through Hell, they were nearly out of fuel — and they'd need the rest for the operation. Lucky for them, the hotel owners had a limo they’d been more than happy to lend out, complete with a driver: a flying demon that looked like a crazy mixture of a dragon and a ram. There were actually two of those guys, both up front in the driver's cabin. As long as they got to the destination on time, the soldiers didn’t give a single damn about how weird things were.
Ares leaned lazily back into the seat, unzipping his shirt a bit. He already missed the familiar hum of their MRAP’s engine — that steady, comforting growl that reminded him they were on a mission, that things were under control. Here, in this stretched-out clown coffin on wheels, everything felt way too quiet.
"Still can't believe we're riding through Hell in a fucking limousine..." David mumbled, tracing his finger along the tinted glass. "It’s so dumb it’s actually kinda funny."
"If someone had told me a few months ago I'd end up in this hellhole, cruising around in a luxury ride, I would've laughed in their face and called the orderly," Lewis added with a shrug.
"Yeah, who wouldn't." Ares replied. "Hell, even if we do make it back, who's gonna believe any of this shit happened... not that we’d actually say anything, of course."
"Please, they'd throw you in a cell before you even said the word 'Hell'," David said. "Big Brother’s always watching."
"Fair. But you're still a wet blanket."
Roughly thirty minutes later, the limo finally pulled up in front of a building topped with a bright neon sign that read "The BoozePub", glowing over a honeycomb backdrop. Less than a week ago, this very spot had hosted their drunken debauchery with some of the locals. Not exactly their best tactical decision, but considering the circumstances… hard to blame them.
Ares was the first out, stretching hard. Despite the limo’s size, it still felt cramped — but then again, it seemed like Ares would feel cramped even on a yacht with three-meter ceilings. Not that they'd gotten the chance to test that theory.
Before heading in, the team scanned the area for any suspicious movement. Seeing none, Ares motioned to the driver — Razzle — to wait. The demon responded with a casual salute. "Picked up a few things while we were stuck here..." Ares thought, shaking his head. It was all still deeply weird, but he tried not to dwell on it. Honestly, the team had adapted surprisingly well to being in Hell. Maybe it was because of the nature of their job — always brushing up against death — or maybe it was just the body’s way of coping with the absolute absurdity of it all. Who knows.
With a cigarette tucked between his teeth, Ares lit the tip and inhaled the bitter smoke. He wasn’t a heavy smoker, but he always kept a few in his pocket, just in case.
He was the first to step inside. An old hag-like creature glanced at them from the hallway — looked like a demonic cloakroom lady, half-covered in scales. Not surprising, considering her job. Despite her intimidating stare, she didn’t even try to stop them — probably due to their gear… or maybe those rumors about the insane trio who wrecked the bar with a shooting and grenade-throwing contest.
The place was packed as always. Booze flowing, air thick with smoke and hookah vapor. Weird flavor mixes, sure, but the air wasn’t as choking as it could’ve been. Ares pushed a little deeper into the room and spotted a familiar one-eyed figure. He was about to head over when a gut feeling told him something was off. A closer look confirmed it — several figures were standing around the table, and Cherri's usual shit-eating grin was nowhere to be seen.
He signaled his squad, and they instinctively reached for their holsters, flicking off the safeties.
Sneaking closer from behind the demons, they caught a bit of the conversation.
"You owe, Cherri. Deadline's up. You either pay up now, or you're settling this... with your soul," one of the strangers growled.
"Guys, seriously, no need to get all riled up. I don’t have the cash right now, okay? Give me a little more time and I’ll pay back every last cent," she bargained, fingers creeping toward the grenade in her left pocket. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement behind the collectors.
Reinforcements. Shit...
Then came three synchronized gunshots.
As the goons hit the floor, Cherri found herself looking at three very familiar faces.
"Motherfuckers, you guys have the best timing!" she whistled.
"Good to see you too," Ares said while Lewis just rolled his eyes. "Seriously, how do you keep getting yourself into this crap?"
"Says the guy neck-deep in it himself," she smirked. "So, boys... you here on business, or just droppin’ by to check on an old friend?"
"Honestly? Bit of both!" David chimed in. "Mind if we join you?"
The Captain sat in an incredibly uncomfortable library armchair, hunched over an old disk-phone. His usually stern, focused gaze had shifted into a disturbingly relaxed expression, concealing the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in his mind. One might think: just pick up the phone, dial the number, and call — but for Andrew, it wasn’t nearly that simple.
"Mercenaries…" he muttered again. That word was more familiar to him than to anyone else. Mercenaries were people who lived by their own internal laws. No, it wasn’t like the family-based hierarchy of the mafia or other criminal syndicates — but among mercenaries, there was still one law for all. What would be a strict prohibition for a regular soldier was often just routine for a mercenary. At first, the news about the mercs had given him hope — after all, who better suited for outrageously dangerous, borderline suicidal missions than them? But that was exactly the catch. The only comfort was that he knew this road — knew how to navigate it.
He lifted the receiver of the old rotary phone and spun the dial a few times to enter the number. The dial tone buzzed for a moment before a cheery voice answered on the other end:
"IMPs office! Who’s up for a one-way express delivery to the afterlife?"
"I need your services," the Captain said curtly.
"Well, if it involves killing, then our agency is your go-to! If it’s an assassination — no problem! If you want to get rid of some annoying bastards — even better! But if you need cleaning, fuck off, we ain’t a janitorial service."
"Now that’s some good fucking service…" the Captain thought with a slight smirk, shaking his head before continuing:
"I'm interested in a targeted assault on a facility. Can you make that happen?"
"Hmm, that’s not exactly our main thing, but hey — any whim for the right coin!" the merc replied. "We can meet and talk details."
"That would be great, though I’m a bit limited in mobility at the moment. Can you come to my location?" the Captain clarified.
"Uhhh, yeah, sure! Just give me the address."
The Captain grabbed a piece of cardboard, squinted, and read off the address:
"Pentagram City, Pitfall Avenue 66/6. I’ll be waiting."
Despite the gunshots earlier, the bar didn’t even flinch. Apparently, gunfire in places like this was just business as usual. The whole scene had that wild west energy, where drunken duels were a staple of any proper drinking hole! Regardless, the trio of soldiers had comfortably settled on a soft couch, with Cherry sitting across from them, legs casually crossed. Despite her usual grin, playful madness, and faux-cheerful attitude, the faint signs of adrenaline still lingered — and Ares’ sharp eyes didn’t miss them. Given how those thugs looked… Cherry had clearly pissed off someone serious. To lighten the mood, the soldiers fished out a wallet from one of the goons and ordered beers for themselves and Cherry.
"Daamn, this sure ain’t German beer," Lewis grumbled, immediately earning a swift but subtle kick under the table from David.
"Well, excuse me, we only got Czech here!" Cherry shot back with a grin. Lewis let out a quiet breath.
"Alright, boys, this is nice and all — though it’d be better with some garlic croutons… which we could totally fix. But first, what exactly are you doing here?"
"Alrighty then! Straight to business. We need powerful, reliable explosives," Ares said, casually gesturing to the waiter. "Garçon, four orders of croutons for the fine folks here, and make it snappy. Now, about that boom-boom."
"Explosives? Me?! Why would you ever think such a thing…" Cherry replied with a huge grin and dramatic sarcasm. "Why do you need it, anyway? Not that I’m judging, buuut I’m curious."
"Does that matter to you?" David asked seriously, his voice low and sharp.
"Not really, like I said — just curious. Yeah, I’ve got some special goods, but they ain’t cheap. Let’s just say, they may or may not be the reason those three ended up paying me a visit," she nodded toward the corpses currently being scraped off the floor by the janitor.
"Interesting. Will it punch through half a meter of reinforced concrete?"
"HA! You boys planning a bank job or what?" Cherry laughed. "Honestly though, you’re insulting me — that thing’s got double the penetration. Told you, it’s premium stuff. But you still haven’t told me what it’s for."
"Classified. Maybe we’ll tell you someday, but not today," Ares replied.
"Pff, you guys are so boring," Cherry waved dismissively. "Alright, you’re cool and all, but I’m not feeling charitable. This stuff ain’t ordinary, and it wasn’t easy to get. So what are you offering in return?"
"How about the fact we just saved your ass?" Lewis snapped.
"Now-now, sure you killed those three — but give it a week or two and they’ll be back on my doorstep. You guys clearly don’t have the money for angelic gear, which means you can’t kill them for good."
"We’re broke," Ares said plainly. Cherry raised an eyebrow.
"In that case, how about I give you the goods on credit. Right now, I help you — later, you help me. And hey, I’m being generous, usually one job isn’t enough for this kind of a deal."
Ares bit his lip. Not an easy choice. On the one hand, Levon needed saving, fast. On the other, getting in debt to a Hell-born demon… Crap.
"Deal," Ares muttered through clenched teeth, clearly irritated.
"Now that’s the spirit!" Cherry replied brightly. Oh, and look — the croutons had finally arrived. Perfect timing.
The rest of the hangout didn’t last long, but the beer and snacks helped smooth things over. Cherry promised not to overuse her favor. Sure, trusting a demon’s word was… questionable, but what could they do? Stepping outside, they made their way to the car in the parking lot. Cherry walked over, pulled out a key, and popped open the trunk. In the center sat a container marked EXTREMELY EXPLOSIVE.
"Alrighty, works basically like C4, only waaaay stronger. Remote detonation — press this cute little red button, and it goes KABOOOOOM!" Cherry explained.
"Great. We’re taking it," David said, grabbing the crate from the left side. Lewis picked up the other.
"Oh, by the way, your pal Angel asked me to pass something on when he found out we were meeting you. And I quote — ah, fuck. Damn it. AngelicSlap."
To Ares’s surprise, Cherri didn’t even react to the soldier’s awkwardness. She stared at him in disbelief for a few seconds, then turned her attention back to the trunk. Surprisingly, she grabbed a handle near the bottom and pulled.
"Huh, false bottom," Ares murmured.
Leaning in, Cherri pulled a rifle from the hidden compartment. It looked remarkably like a Steyr AUG A2, fitted with a fine and well-known LPVO scope on the top rail and a suppressor screwed onto the barrel. It was nearly indistinguishable from the original model, but Ares noticed a strange gleam from within.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Angel left it with me for emergencies—breakouts, escapes, you know the drill. One of Carmine’s finest pieces. Looks like regular gear, but it’s laced with angelic steel. Lethal to any demon. Fully custom order, usually only bought by top-tier mercs. The rounds even pack hotter powder, so the range is almost double. I’m surprised he decided to use it now—and even more so to give it to you guys. Must mean you’re into some serious shit."
"Trust me, we wouldn’t be here otherwise," David said coldly, only to get a sharp chapalakh (slap) on the back of the head from Ares.
"Relax, damn it."
"Touch me again and I’ll fucking end you," David growled.
"You two clowns better calm down," Lewis muttered. No one really acknowledged him, but the bickering did settle.
"Daaaamn, fellas, with that kind of teamwork, I’m starting to think the explosives won’t help at all. Then again… this kind of chaos might actually boost your chances!" Cherri laughed. "Speaking of chaos, the rumors are flying. Word’s getting around about some ‘soldiers’ making the rounds through Hell. Heard they raised some serious hell before New Year’s—literally made the news. People are spotting armored trucks rolling around the streets. You’re drawing attention. Just… be careful."
"Noted," Ares replied. "Alright, guys, grab the crates. Let’s move."
The Captain stood on the steps of a yet-unopened hotel, smoking his usual cigarettes. Between all his responsibilities as team leader, it was his first cigarette in days—the smoke burned his lungs more than usual. One thing was comforting: so far, everything was going according to plan. But that could change fast.
Not if. When.
When they secured the mercenaries, when they closed the deal on the explosives, when they rescued Levon from the hands of their enemies—then, and only then, would the Captain have one final task: get everyone out of this hellhole alive.
Then, finally, he will be able to sleep peacefully.
"Yeah… once this is over, I’m definitely taking a vacation," he muttered to himself. The life he lived would’ve broken most long ago, especially with the worsening health issues lately. War never leaves without scars.
Finally, after a long and silent thirty-minute wait, something resembling a portal sparked to life not far from the steps. Out of it a van burst at an absurd speed, skidding to a halt so close to a column it was a miracle it didn’t crash.
"Aaaaand hellooo again! Was it you who I had the pleasure of speaking with on the phone?" Blitz yelled, hopping out of the vehicle. The Captain gave a curt nod.
"Great! Business it is, then! I’m Blitz, o is silent—and as you’re probably aware, we offer tailor-made homicide solutions. If my memory serves right, and Moxxie didn’t screw up the paperwork again after last night’s wild ride, you’re looking for a terror attack. No need to whisper, this is Hell after all.
"Anyway, I’m yappin’ away and you still haven’t told me anything about yourself."
"Not your concern," the Captain cut him off flatly. The demon’s chatter irritated him, though frankly, it was typical mercenary behavior. "Military secret, my friend."
"Oof, mister important, I get it. Alright, fine, if you won’t share, then I’ll just keep talking…"
As Blitz continued rambling about how he founded his little murder agency, Loona sat up front in the van, eyes glued to her phone. She couldn’t care less about another job, and Blitz—idiot that he was—had decided to drag her along for once. Maybe he was bored, or maybe he’d had enough of the spineless doofus Moxxie and his ever-excited wife Millie sitting in the back, waiting to be summoned.
Not that Loona hated Moxxie in particular—she just hated everything living and breathing within a two-mile radius. So, no special treatment.
But then she smelled something strange. Hounds had way stronger senses than most demons, and that stench—grime and gun oil—didn’t go unnoticed. She glanced around, leaned toward the open window, and then looked behind her.
"Probably just those two clowns…" she muttered.
A moment later, Blitz gave the signal—it was time. Loona looked out again and noticed more armed figures in tactical gear. Apart from who she assumed was the Client, two soldiers stood behind him, flanking both sides in full kit and balaclavas.
"Hey dumbasses, we’re up," she called.
The van doors swung open, and Moxxie stepped out first, followed by Millie. Their energy, as always, was dialed to eleven—though the presence of unknown, heavily armed strangers gave the whole scene a weird vibe.
"Millie… did Blitz ever say who placed the order?" Moxxie asked nervously.
"Not that I remember," she replied. "Chill out, it’s fine. They talk, we get paid. Easy. And hey—we can finally replace that busted old couch!"
"Yeah, sure… but still, something’s off. I mean, look at them. They clearly don’t need us to kill anyone."
"If they’re hiring us, they’ve got their reasons. Moxx, stop overthinking it. We get paid—that’s all that matters!" she said, trying to reassure him, only half succeeding.
"And heeeere comes the rest of the crew," Blitz introduced his team. "These two are Millie and Moxxie, and this is Loony, my daug—"
"Go fuck yourself," snapped the creature that looked like a hellish version of A GODDAMN FURRY. "Call me that again and I’ll gut you right fucking here."
"Aww, isn’t she adorable?" Blitz cooed to the air, his eyes wide in affection. "Anyway, back to business. Maybe we could go inside and talk about the details?"
The Captain nodded and waved his hand. Blitz walked beside him, his team trailing behind, with two armed soldiers bringing up the rear.
As they entered the hotel, Moxxie once again questioned the whole operation. Inside were even more soldiers, all wearing identical balaclavas and bearing black-and-white shoulder patches. "Who the hell are these guys…"
There were four soldiers in the corridor, plus the two from outside and their leader. They stood spaced out like on parade, but their weapons were clearly ready to fire — safeties off, fingers brushing triggers. Moxxie tried not to focus on it, but it was damn near impossible.
Once the group entered a central room, they spotted a couple more armed soldiers, still as statues, rifles in hand. Same story — safeties off, fingers set. Moxxie would’ve bet they weren’t the only ones around; whoever the hell this guy was, he clearly kept troops in reserve. Smart. Not necessary, probably, but it said a lot about how this man ran his business. Whoever they were, IMP might’ve seriously walked into something deep.
Moving down another corridor, some of the posted guards joined the group, reinforcing the rear. Moxxie caught a glimpse of a long strand of hair slipping from under one of the helmets. A girl? Maybe. Not exactly useful info, but still, data’s data.
"Alrighty gang, we’ll go talk shop. You guys hang tight," Blitz told his crew. The Captain gave a subtle hand signal, and the soldiers once again fell into formation. Once the door shut behind them, silence fell like a damn blanket. Only the faint sound of breathing broke the stillness. Every other lamp was dead — burnt out or maybe just the product of a stingy-ass budget. Trying to shake off the tension, Moxxie shifted from foot to foot, scanning the room, but nothing helped.
"Relax already," Millie whispered, nudging him. "What’s got you so jumpy today?"
"I don’t know… this whole job feels off. I don’t get the who, what, why, or where…" He glanced at the soldiers — unmoving, like wax figures. Their faces were hidden behind masks, making it worse — no emotions, no blinking. Nothing.
"Sir, uh, Ma’am, you really don’t have to stand like that… I mean, there’s no parade today…" Moxxie tried, attempting to lighten the mood.
Silence. The soldier, Harper, didn’t even spare the effort to acknowledge him.
"Right… Cool…" Moxxie muttered awkwardly, turning back to Millie. "These guys are creepy as fuck."
Behind the closed doors of the office, the Captain walked to a redwood desk, pulled out a large leather chair, and sat down. He had scouted the room days prior, and once it was confirmed unused, he’d ordered it cleaned and prepped. Now the space looked less like a dusty hole and more like a proper commander’s office. He gestured to one of the chairs across from him, inviting Blitz to sit.
"So, as you’ve been told, I’m interested in an attack on a target. Your objective is to stage a sabotage — destroy one of the structures on the designated site. First phase is quiet: sneak in, plant explosives. When it blows, you make enough noise to draw attention, then immediately withdraw from the zone."
Blitz crossed one leg over the other, fingers interlocked. The mission was a bit specific.
"Alright, dear client," he began, dragging out the words. "First thing’s first… what kind of target are we talking about here? Some warehouse? Rival storefront?"
The Captain didn’t answer right away. He pulled a folded paper from his coat, spread it open and placed it on the desk. A detailed layout was drawn on it, with multiple buildings — one being the infamous Vee Tower. A structure near the perimeter was circled in red. He slid it over to Blitz with a flick of his hand.
"Well, damn, you've got ambition! The Vee Complex is like… the most locked-down place in the whole civilian sector. What’d they do to piss you off? Ah, whatever, not my business, as long as the money’s good. Speaking of which…"
"Name your price," said the Captain.
"This ain’t a cakewalk. Pulling it off is one thing, but getting away clean? That’s the tricky part. 12,000 hellshekels, my friend — and that’s still half what our competitors charge."
The Captain paused. Hellshekels. Of course. Why the fuck wasn’t he surprised? Anyways, they didn’t have a single damn coin, only gear to trade.
"That’s a good appetite. We don’t have that kind of money."
"Hoho, then I’ve got nothing to discuss. You seem like a real get-shit-done type, but I don’t work for charity. If you’ve got nothing—"
"What about a trade? We offer gear and weapons matching the value, and you carry out the job."
"Depends what kind of gear," Blitz replied, clearly uninterested. "Though I’ll admit, I'm not sure if I'm interested in it."
"We’ve got a couple of HK416s, fully kitted. Couple crates of M67 grenades, some Berettas, night vision units, and military-grade thermal optics."
Blitz hesitated. On the one hand, not a bad haul. On the other — office rent ain’t paying itself, and horse figurines sure as hell didn’t buy themselves. No one was dumb enough to buy that stash from unverified demons. And honestly? IMP didn’t need that kind of firepower for civilian hits.
"Nice stash, sure. But I’ll pass. Not interested in bartering, only in the sweet sound of cold, hard cash. If you don’t have it — no point talking further. Goodbye."
Blitz stood and headed for the door.
"Shit shit shit SHIIIIT!" the Captain cursed in his head. Panic was creeping in. Without hired help, the mission to rescue Levon would cost him half his team — if not more. "Think, Andrew. Think…"
And then it hit him. Oh, he really didn’t want to walk that road again… but it seemed there was no other way.
"Auxilium peto, ex pacto veteri," the Captain said.
Blitz froze in his tracks. A swarm of thoughts hit him at once — how the hell did this guy know those words? Who was he?
He turned around, and for a moment, Blitz’s eyes held something he rarely showed: respect.
"Nullum auxilium est sine pretio. Servitium exigetour," Blitz responded with the age-old phrase, nearly forgotten by time.
"Fiat voluntas tua. Vocato, et parebo," the Captain concluded.
Blitz nodded once. The Captain nodded back. And in silence, both gave a short bow.
The ancient pact was sealed… and the deal was done.