Pleasure and the Prisoner

  Location: Gun’s Office – Mini-City of Chemult (Region 97 HQ)

  The HQ in Chemult is a fortress of metal and wood. On the upper floor, Gun’s office smells of expensive whiskey, gunpowder, and the sweat of a man who feels like a God.

  Upon the solid oak desk, maps of the fourteen nations and invasion plans have been tossed to the floor. Gun is in control; his movements are raw and rhythmic, carrying the euphoria of the discovery in the bunker. He hasn't removed his leather mask; the zipper at the mouth is open, and his heavy breathing echoes through the room like a furnace bellows.

  Freya Holster is beneath him, her back pressed against the cold wood of the desk. Her fingers dig into Gun’s shoulders, and she lets out groans that he interprets as passion, but which are, in truth, a survival technique. While her body responds to his, her mind is miles away. She stares at the ceiling, imagining Silas’s face in the Project file. Every touch from Gun now feels like an ice burn.

  — "Feel this, Freya..." — Gun growls through his teeth, his voice vibrating against her neck. — "This is the rhythm of the new world. With those twenty rockets, I’m going to blast open the doors of every nation. I’ll give you the whole world on a silver platter."

  Freya tilts her head back, closing her eyes. — "The world is yours, Gun. I am merely your shadow."

  He pauses for a moment, cupping her face with both hands, staring at her through the single hole in the mask. — "You are no shadow, my Goddess. You are the reason I haven't burned it all down yet."

  The Awakening of the Convoy

  While the "King and Queen" finish their power ritual in the office, the Chemult courtyard is a beehive of activity under the glare of floodlights powered by noisy generators.

  Henry sits on the ledge of a railcar, wiping away the dried blood from his fight with Mickey. He watches Gun’s soldiers paint the number "666" in white on the sides of the trucks carrying the rocket launchers. To Gun, it’s a joke; to the survivors of Oregon, it is an omen of the end.

  Colt walks through the yard with his clipboard, checking fuel levels. He stops in front of Henry.

  — "The Chief wants the convoy on Route 97 in two hours," Colt says, his voice devoid of emotion. — "He’s dubbed the mission 'Route 666.' We’re heading down to the southern border. He wants to test the first rocket on a real structure."

  — "And what’s the target, Colt?" Henry asks, standing up.

  Colt looks at Henry with icy indifference. — "The Wickiup Dam. If we take down the dam, we cut off the water to the independent communities that still refuse to pay tribute. It’s efficient. It’s final."

  The Silent Farewell

  Before departing, Henry manages to pass through the detention area. He sees Solomon Vane through a reinforced window. Solomon makes a discreet hand signal—a gesture that, in the language of the Heretics, means "The wind is changing direction."

  Henry knows he can no longer wait. With the rocket launchers on the move, the time for diplomacy is over. He looks up at the top floor, where the lights of Gun’s office are still on. He catches a glimpse of Freya’s silhouette at the window, smoothing out her dress.

  The silence in the office was absolute, broken only by their heavy breathing after the act. Freya sat on the edge of the oak desk, the silk of her dress still disheveled, while Gun finished adjusting the leather holster across his chest.

  With her heart thumping against her ribs, Freya broke the silence with a voice that wavered between vulnerability and calculation:

  — "Gun... I’m afraid to ask, but I need to know." — She searched for his only visible eye through the mask. — "Do you truly love me, or do you just see me as another object of pleasure, like a possession?"

  Gun stopped instantly. The psychopathic leader, who seconds before seemed focused only on war, softened his posture. He walked toward her with a solemn slowness and placed his calloused hands over her face. His gloved fingers caressed Freya’s short blonde hair with a tenderness that was almost terrifying.

  — "I love you truly, Freya." — His voice came out in a low, husky tone, devoid of its usual aggression. — "Only the men down there are objects to me. They are tools, cattle, cannon fodder. But you... you are my Goddess. My Queen. My Angel."

  He leaned his face close to hers, the leather of the mask brushing against her forehead.

  — "You are mine, and no one else’s. Never doubt that. Everything I conquer, every drop of oil and every gram of gunpowder, is to strengthen the throne you sit upon."

  Freya closed her eyes, feeling his touch. On the outside, she was the picture of devotion, but inside, the words "and no one else’s" echoed like the deadbolt of a maximum-security cell. She hugged him, hiding her face against his chest so he wouldn't see the conflict in her eyes. She had the "love" of the monster, and that was what kept her alive—and a prisoner.

  The tone of the expedition shifted from a war march to a blood transaction. After the moment of vulnerability in the office, Gun stepped out onto the HQ balcony, his leather mask gleaming under the floodlights. He looked down at the forty soldiers set for the mission and fixed his eyes on Henry, who waited by the lead truck.

  — "Listen up!" — Gun’s voice echoed, amplified by the base’s loudspeakers. — "Route 666 awaits us, but before we turn that dam into smoke, we have business. Henry, you will lead the convoy to the east junction. There, you will meet 'Los Rodoviários'."

  Gun let out a short, dry laugh. — "Dante Korthas’s crew. Thirty bikers who think they own the asphalt just because they make noise. We’re going to deliver the fuel they need for their useless machines, and in exchange, they’ll hand over the survivors they captured in the nearby villages. Human resources, Henry. Arms for the mines and flesh for progress."

  He adjusted his Magnum holster and stared at the horizon. — "While you handle the trade, I will rest. I’ll drink a fine wine and enjoy the silence of Chemult. Go! And bring me no excuses—bring me the captives."

  The Explosive Bartender

  The scene cuts to the makeshift bar in the center of the Chemult mini-city. The atmosphere is rustic, with plywood walls decorated with traffic signs riddled with bullet holes.

  Behind the counter, Steve "Piro" is in a position he hates. The Heretics' demolition expert, the man who lives to watch the world burn, has been reduced by Gun to the role of a bartender. His hands, accustomed to handling napalm and blowtorches, were now polishing dirty glass cups with a grimy rag.

  The door swung open, and Gun walked in alone—without his personal guard, but carrying the aura of a man who owns every atom of that place. He sat on a high stool, drumming his fingers on the wood.

  — "A whiskey, Piro. The good stuff," Gun ordered, leaning back. — "And don't try to spike it with anything flammable. I’d smell it from miles away."

  Steve poured the drink with tense movements, the amber liquid overflowing slightly. He looked at Gun, hatred burning behind his wide eyes, but his Torch Gauntlets had been confiscated and were locked away in the armory.

  — "The convoy has already departed, sir," Steve muttered, his voice hoarse.

  — "Good. Henry is efficient under pressure." Gun took a long sip, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. — "You know, Piro... I put you here because you understand mixtures. Alcohol, fire, adrenaline... we’re alike. But you serve Solomon, a man who wants to put out the flames. Me? I want them to light up my empire."

  Gun stared at Steve’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. — "Have a drink with me. It’s a historic day. Today, the Rodoviários eat out of the palm of my hand, and tomorrow, the whole of Oregon will be a short fuse."

  Meanwhile, the asphalt of Highway 97 looked like a black scar under the pale moonlight. The convoy advanced on two fronts: ahead, the main cargo truck driven by Henry, escorted by two jeeps with ten soldiers each; right behind, maintaining a tactical distance of fifty meters, the second truck was led by Colt, surrounded by twenty more elite men from Region 97.

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  Henry gripped the truck's steering wheel so hard the old leather groaned. In the rearview mirror, he saw the headlights of Colt’s jeep, shining like the eyes of a metallic predator. In the back seat of his truck, two of Gun's guards dozed off, trusting in the scout's forced loyalty.

  Colt... — Henry’s thought was icy, a silent death sentence. — You’re the military brain of this piece-of-shit empire. If I put your lights out now, Gun loses his compass. You’re just one more name I’m crossing off the list before dawn.

  The opportunity arose as the convoy entered a zone of sharp turns surrounded by volcanic rock canyons. The radio signal there was unstable, and the dust kicked up by the lead vehicles created a curtain of blindness for those following behind.

  The Tactical Takedown

  Henry looked at the dashboard. He knew Colt’s truck was carrying the fuel barrels for the Rodoviários. If he could isolate Colt’s vehicle, he could cause an "accident" that would look like a mechanical failure to anyone watching from a distance.

  — "Hey," Henry called out to the two guards in the back seat, his voice hoarse and controlled. — "The rear axle is vibrating. I think the rocket load has shifted. I need you to get out and check as soon as I slow down at the next turn. If this thing blows, Gun won't have anything left to reign over."

  The soldiers, fearing Gun’s fury more than anything else, nodded. Henry downshifted sharply at a stretch where the road narrowed. The two men jumped out the moment the truck paused for a second, rushing toward the rear.

  Henry didn't wait. He slammed the gear into reverse with violence.

  Henry’s truck, a heavy metal monster, recoiled like a battering ram against the escort jeep following right behind, crushing the smaller vehicle's engine against the canyon wall. Before Colt’s soldiers could realize what was happening, Henry leaped from the cab with a gravity-defying agility.

  Colt, sensing the maneuver, jumped from his own jeep with carbine in hand. — "Henrikson! What are you doing, you idiot?!" — Colt shouted, firing an electric dart that grazed Henry’s shoulder.

  Henry didn't answer with words. He sprinted through the shadows of the rocks, using parkour to scale the canyon wall and position himself above Colt’s convoy. From up there, he saw Colt’s twenty men fanning out, trying to figure out where the scout had vanished to.

  Twenty to one, — Henry thought, as he pulled a serrated combat knife he had hidden in the truck's lining. — The odds have never been better.

  Blood on the Asphalt

  Below, Colt was surrounded by his men, but the dust and the chaos of the crashes made everything confusing. Henry launched himself from above, landing silently on the first guard and driving his knife into the base of the skull before the man could scream.

  Colt spun around, firing his carbine blindly. — "Circular formation! Protect the fuel! Mickey, where are you?!" — Colt shouted into the radio, but Mickey was miles ahead, unable to hear due to the interference from the rocks.

  Henry moved like a specter. He wasn't looking for a fair fight; he was looking for extermination. He took down the second and third soldiers using the momentum of the crashes themselves, turning the confined space of the canyon into a silent slaughterhouse.

  Colt realized Henry was hunting them one by one. He dropped his carbine, which was too slow to reload in close quarters, and drew his oversized Bowie knife.

  — "You want my head, Brazilian?" — Colt challenged, his cold eyes focused on the shadow moving between the trucks. — "Come and get it. But know this: Gun will burn every single one of your brothers when he finds out you betrayed the deal."

  Henry moved through the shadows of the truck’s chassis, listening to Colt Revolver’s shouts echo through the canyon. The air was saturated with the smell of leaking diesel. Henry knew that against twenty trained soldiers, brute force was a mistake. He needed chaos.

  With a swift motion, Henry slashed the tarp of Colt’s truck. He didn't go for the rockets, but for one of the fuel barrels meant for the trade. Using the strength of his shoulders, he tipped the barrel over, letting the highly flammable liquid pour onto the road, creating a black river that snaked between the boots of Gun’s soldiers.

  — "Now, Colt!" — Henry yelled from the shadows, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

  He flicked a tactical lighter and tossed it into the fuel.

  BOOM!

  A wall of orange fire exploded, splitting the canyon in half. The flash was blinding. Soldiers screamed as the curtain of flames isolated Colt and three of his men on one side, while the rest of the group was trapped behind the fiery barrier.

  Henry leaped from the roof of the truck like a hawk, landing exactly in the space where Colt was trying to regain his vision. In seconds, Henry disarmed the first soldier with a kick to the trachea and used his body as a human shield when the second one fired.

  Colt drew his Bowie, the blade gleaming with the reflection of the flames. — "You’re good, Henrikson. But fire attracts flies."

  The Cyan Roar

  Before Henry and Colt’s blades could clash, a sharp, deafening sound tore through the air. It wasn't the thunder of Gun’s weapons, but the scream of high-revving engines.

  From both ends of the road, cyan lights sliced through the mist and smoke. The Rodoviários had arrived early, and they hadn't come to negotiate.

  Thirty cyan-blue motorcycles, painted with military precision, emerged in a "V" formation. At the front, Dante Korthas revved his machine, the drive chain spinning at his side like a deadly propeller.

  — "?Miren este desastre!" — Dante shouted over the roar of the engine, his voice amplified by his blue helmet. — "Gun promised us fuel, not an Enforcer barbecue!"

  The Rodoviários didn’t slow down. They entered the battlefield like demons on wheels. The bikes, equipped with steel bidents on the front, began to impale Gun’s soldiers, who were still dazed by the fire. Dante swung his chain; the serrated metal struck a soldier’s chest, ripping him off the ground with the centrifugal force of the bike at 80 km/h.

  Blood Truce

  Henry and Colt were forced to retreat to the same side of the road as the bikers circled the rocket truck, swinging their bladed chains. It was a lethal ballet of cyan and steel.

  — "They’re stealing the cargo, Henry!" — Colt shouted, momentarily forgetting their feud as he saw Dante Korthas signal his men to hook the rocket crates with grapples attached to their bikes. — "If Dante takes those LAWs, Gun will kill us all!"

  Henry looked at Dante, who was performing a "doughnut" maneuver around them, kicking up dust and smoke. The Argentine leader raised his black visor, revealing eyes bloodshot with adrenaline.

  — "The deal has changed, Enforcers!" — Dante mocked. — "With these rockets, I don't need your fuel anymore. I will be the master of Route 666!"

  Henry felt the weight of the combat knife in his hand. He looked at Colt, then at the cyan bikes slicing through the air with their chains.

  — "Colt," — Henry said, his voice cold and resolute. — "If you want to live to tell Gun what happened, shoot those fuel tanks on the bikes. I’m going after Dante."

  Colt nodded, picking up his carbine from the ground. The Scout and the Tactician now had a common enemy moving at a hundred kilometers per hour.

  Henry watched Colt silhouette as he took his position. The Enforcer tactician had his back turned, carbine braced against his shoulder, focusing his sights on the tanks of the cyan bikes roaring around them. Colt’s adrenaline was peaking; he truly believed that in the face of a shared danger, the scout would honor the truce.

  — "On my signal, Henry!" — Colt yelled, finger on the trigger. — "I’ll take down the scouts, and you charge Dante!"

  Henry gave no signal. He moved like a specter, using the deafening roar of the Rodoviário’s engines to mask his footsteps. The moment Colt was about to fire, Henry wrapped his right arm around the tactician’s neck, locking it with his left in a perfect and devastating rear-naked choke.

  Colt’s eyes widened, dropping the carbine. He tried to dig his fingers into Henry’s arms, kicking the air in desperation, but the Heretic’s technique was absolute. Henry squeezed with every ounce of hatred he had built up since Solomon’s arrest.

  — "Shh..." — Henry whispered into Colt’s ear, his voice icy as he felt his enemy’s body go limp. — "The truce only existed in your head, Colt. Tell hell that Henry says hello."

  With a muffled snap of cartilage, Colt’s resistance ceased. Henry held the body for ten more seconds to be sure, then dropped it like trash onto the hot asphalt.

  — "One more name crossed off the list..." — Henry spat on the ground, looking at the corpse. — "You’re next, asshole."

  The Price of Vengeance

  As Henry executed Colt, the surrounding chaos took its toll. Dante Korthas, witnessing the turmoil between the Enforcer leaders, let out a cackling Argentine laugh that echoed through the canyon.

  — "?Gracias por el espectáculo, idiotas!" — Dante shouted.

  With surgical precision, the Rodoviários hooked the crates of M72 LAW rocket launchers with steel grapples attached to their cyan bikes. In one synchronized motion, the thirty machines popped wheelies, burning rubber and vanishing into the mist of Route 97 at high speed. The trail of blue light disappeared on the horizon, leaving behind only the scent of scorched rubber and the silence of death.

  Henry was alone. The remaining soldiers of Gun had been impaled or slit across the throat by the chains. The trucks were either destroyed or out of fuel. He looked down at his bloodstained hands and out at the empty road. He had eliminated one of Gun’s generals, but the "King" now had twenty rocket launchers lost in the hands of a pack of nomadic psychopaths.

  The Way Back

  The sun began to rise, painting the sky a sickly orange. Henry walked on foot along the shoulder, a lone silhouette cutting through the vastness of Oregon. Every step was agony in his wounded ribs, but his mind was focused on the lie he would have to tell.

  He needed to get back to Chemult. He needed to look Gun in the eye and tell him that the Rodoviários had betrayed the alliance and killed everyone—including the "loyal" Colt.

  The Return to Chemult

  Henry enters through the gates of the mini-city, exhausted, dragging his feet. He walks straight to the bar where he knows Gun is waiting.

  Gun is sitting on the same stool, his whiskey bottle almost empty, and Steve Piro is still cleaning glasses under pressure. Seeing Henry enter alone and covered in blood, Gun rises slowly, his hand moving toward the grip of his Magnum.

  — "Henry..." — Gun says, his voice dangerously low. — "Where is my fuel? Where is Colt? And why don't I smell my rockets coming home?"

  Henry stops before Gun, holds his gaze from behind the mask, and takes a deep breath.

  The silence in the Chemult bar grew so dense that the sound of Steve Piro’s rag on the counter felt like thunder.

  — "They caught us at the canyon turn, Gun," Henry said, his voice hoarse and devoid of emotion. — "Dante and that damn troupe in blue. They didn't want the fuel. They wanted the LAWs. Colt... the forty soldiers... all dead. Impaled by the bikes and dragged by chains until there was nothing left but pieces on the asphalt. They took everything."

  Gun’s reaction was instantaneous and violent. He roared, a guttural sound that echoed off the wooden walls, and hurled his whiskey glass with all his might against the wall. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces next to Steve Piro’s head, who didn't even blink.

  — "A THOUSAND TIMES DAMNED!" — Gun screamed, kicking the metal stool, which flew across the bar. — "My rockets! My legacy! Dante Korthas will pay with every inch of his skin for this betrayal!"

  Gun stopped, his heavy breathing making the zipper of his leather mask rise and fall rapidly. He turned to Henry, eyes bloodshot with fury and suspicion, and walked until he was inches from the scout’s face.

  — "And how did you survive, Henry?" — Gun growled, his voice laced with venom. — "Forty trained men, the twins, Colt... all under the ground. And of all of them, only you come walking back? How?"

  Henry didn't flinch. He held Gun’s gaze, maintaining the icy expression Solomon had taught him for life-or-death moments.

  — "It doesn't matter how I survived, Gun. I’m here, aren't I?" — Henry took a step forward, invading the leader’s personal space. — "The fact is, I’m better than Colt. I’m better than the twins. They failed and they’re dead. I’m alive. If you want someone who can actually protect what’s left, I can be your high-end bodyguard. But stop crying over lost lead and focus on who can actually get the job done."

  Gun fell silent, his hand trembling with rage hovering over the Magnum. The entire bar seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, the leader let out a dry, sickly laugh.

  — "You’ve got balls, scout..." — Gun murmured, wiping a drop of whiskey from his mask. — "Colt was a tactical bureaucrat. You are a predator. Maybe his death was the upgrade my guard needed."

  Gun turned to Steve Piro. — "Pour another whiskey. For me and my new bodyguard. We have a road to burn and twenty rockets to recover."

  The Queen's Gaze

  Upstairs, on the HQ balcony, Freya watched the scene through the cracked window. She had seen Henry arrive alone and heard Gun’s screams. She knew the truth: Henry was clearing the board, piece by piece.

  She gripped the wooden railing, her eyes fixed on Henry’s figure below. Solomon’s plan was moving forward, but the price was getting higher and higher.

  End of Chapter

  Faction Data (Lore)

  The Rodoviários: A group of 30 nomadic Argentine bikers that dominates Highway 97 and the region’s old gas stations, utilizing circuit bikes modified for stunts and high-speed maneuvers. Their modus operandi and negotiation tactics are based on looting supplies and kidnapping travelers; although extremely hostile to strangers, they maintain a strategic alliance with the Enforcers, serving as their primary suppliers of live captives in exchange for the fuel needed to keep their machines running. Their territory markings consist of scorched tires along the asphalt and several tampered traffic signs that read "Route 666," delimiting their hunting zones and warning outsiders. Their weaponry is integrated into the movement of the machines: their blue bikes feature sharpened steel bidents on the front to impale targets during charges, while members wield long chains with bladed tips that spin with centrifugal force as they ride, allowing for mid-range attacks without reducing speed. The standard base uniform is 100% cyan blue, consisting of military apparel, gloves, and helmets of the same color with opaque black goggles, matching their bikes' paint perfectly and creating a technical and intimidating visual unity that dominates the highway horizon.

  Character Data

  RODOVIáRIOS:

  Dante Korthas (38 years old, Argentine): Leader of the Rodoviários. A speed enthusiast who transformed Highway 97 into his personal kingdom. He is arrogant and lives for the adrenaline rush. Dante views the world as a racetrack where only the fastest survive. He is Gun’s primary commercial ally.