The air in Oregon smelled of rotting pine and oxidized metal. From atop a leaning transmission tower, Henry Henrikson watched the world through the slit of his wooden mask. The blue of his utility jacket was the only color that didn’t belong to the gray of the ruins. Between his eyes, the cross of dry twigs seemed to watch the horizon, unperturbed.
Below, on the cracked asphalt road, the world seemed to have stopped in time.
Twenty members of the Gunpowder Cross surrounded a small group of survivors. There was no sound of gunfire, only the metallic clink of chains and the dragging of machetes on the ground. In the center of the circle, a shirtless "Crusader," covered in scars and red paint, held an object wrapped in filthy velvet.
He raised it to the cloudy sky. It was an empty brass casing. A 9mm bullet shell, spent and dull, but to them, it was a fragment of divinity.
— Behold the relic! — the man screamed, his voice trembling from the chemical euphoria of PCP. — Where there was thunder, today there is silence for the impure! Kneel or feel the steel that purifies what gunpowder abandoned!
Henry gripped the handles of his brass knuckles. He felt the cold of the metal against his fingers. He felt no anger, only a deep weariness. Solomon was on the radio, his paternal and serene voice echoing in Henry's ear.
"They worship the vacuum, Henry. They cult what destroyed the world. Do not let their blood soil your faith, but do not allow them to extinguish one more light."
— Understood, Solomon — Henry whispered, his voice muffled by the mask.
He signaled to the shadow on his right. Kane Sterlow was crouched on the edge of an old gas station roof, his eyes fixed on the position of the guards. Kane didn't need orders. He was the wind before the storm.
Henry jumped first.
It wasn't an attack jump, but an infiltration. He slid down a stretched steel cable, crossing the void between the tower and the gas station marquee without making a sound. His boots hit the concrete with the lightness of a predator. On the other side, Kane executed a fluid parkour maneuver, descending an external pipe and positioning himself above the cult leader.
The leader of the Gunpowder Cross kicked one of the civilians, laughing as he prepared his brush machete for the "baptism."
— The metal demands tribute! — he shouted.
At that instant, a sharp, mechanical sound ripped through the sermon. Kane leaped, activating the saw gauntlets. The hiss of the spinning disc was the only warning. Kane hit the ground between the leader and the victim, the saw disc passing millimeters from the fanatic's face, forcing him to retreat in a clumsy stumble.
Henry gave no time for reaction. He emerged from the side shadows like a blue blur.
A Crusader advanced, roaring with eyes dilated by the drug, brandishing a combat knife. Henry dodged with brute elegance. The first punch hit the attacker's temple with the weight of the steel brass knuckles. Before the man could fall, Henry pivoted his wrist and drove the serrated knife into the base of the enemy's neck.
The Crusader didn't even try to stop the bleeding; under the effect of PCP, he only tried to bite Henry's arm before his nerves finally shut down.
— Heretics! — the cult leader roared, regaining his balance and pointing his machete at Henry. — Cursed be those who deny the sanctity of lead! Kill them! May their blood lubricate the path to paradise!
The fanatics advanced in mass, without fear of death, their machetes shining under the dull light of Oregon. Henry breathed deeply behind the wooden mask, smelling the sweat and chemicals coming from his opponents.
He didn't need ammunition. He was the weapon.
The fight escalated in an instant. What was once a fanatical sermon transformed into a whirlwind of steel and flesh.
Henry didn't fight like a soldier; he fought like an urban predator. While the Crusaders advanced with the chaotic coordination of those intoxicated by PCP, Henry used the setting to his advantage. He jumped over the hood of an abandoned car, using the momentum to deliver a knee strike to an attacker's chest, feeling the ribs give way under the weight of the impact.
— Kane, left flank! — Henry commanded, his voice coming out raspy from behind the wood.
Kane Sterlow was a blur of movement. He didn't stay still long enough to be hit. He ran along the brick walls of adjacent buildings, jumping over the heads of the Crusaders and coming down with his portable circular saws. The sound of the saw was the only "shot" heard in that world: a high-rotation whine that ended in a wet snap when it met the resistance of enemy bones.
— They don't stop, Henry! — shouted Kane, kicking the face of a fanatic who tried to grab his leg even after losing three fingers to the saw. — This crap they inject... they are laughing at the wounds!
It was true. A Crusader, with his red shirt already soaked in a darker tone, advanced against Henry, completely ignoring the serrated knife embedded in his shoulder. He sought the embrace of death, trying to wrap around Henry so others could stab him.
Henry spun his body, delivering an uppercut with the brass knuckles. The metal hit the man's chin, throwing his head back with a force that would have knocked out any normal human, but the Crusader only staggered, displaying a bloody smile.
— Piro! Now! — Henry ordered over the radio.
From the end of the street, a roar of combustion drowned out the war cries. Steve "Piro" emerged from behind a tire barricade. He didn't use blades. Attached to his forearms, the Industrial Torch Gauntlets expelled jets of blue and orange fire that cut through the air like spears of light.
Fire was the greatest fear in that world of scarcity. The intense heat made the Crusaders retreat, the instinct of self-preservation finally fighting against the drug delirium.
— Purification, huh? — Piro shouted, his voice distorted by the mask. — Let's see how you deal with the sun in the hands of a Heretic!
The jet of fire was not meant to kill everyone, but to create a barrier. Henry took advantage of the distraction to grab the arm of a child who was among the refugees and signaled for the civilians to run toward the forest.
— Get out of here! Now! — Henry ordered the survivors.
While the civilians fled, the leader of the Gunpowder Cross, still holding his sacred casing in one hand and the machete in the other, growled with hatred. His eyes were red, the veins in his neck bulging.
— You... the man in blue... — the leader spat, pointing the machete at Henry. — Vincent Malakor will see your head on an altar! You are the void that gunpowder came to fill!
— Vincent will have to wait — Henry replied, his voice cold and deadly. — The metal you worship is nothing but trash. The only thing sacred here is the life you tried to take.
Henry made a tactical hand signal. Kane and Piro retreated immediately, climbing the side of an overturned bus with an agility that the heavy, drugged Crusaders could never replicate. Henry was the last. He ran toward a vertical wall, digging his hands into cracks in the concrete and boosting his body upward with a burst of strength in his legs.
From up there, he looked down one last time. The Crusaders were standing in the middle of the street, enveloped by the flames Piro had left behind, screaming curses at the sky. They looked like demons in a hell they created themselves.
"Mission accomplished, Solomon," Henry said internally, as he began the long journey across the rooftops toward central Oregon. "But they are getting bolder. The Cross is growing."
Solomon's voice returned, loaded with a concern he rarely showed.
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"Come home, Henry. I heard about the resource theft in the north. The world is getting smaller for eleven men."
Henry didn't answer. He simply leaped across the abyss between two buildings, his blue jacket floating like a solitary flag against the leaden sky.
The journey back to the center of Oregon was made under the mantle of twilight. Henry moved with an economy of motion that only years of survival could teach. When they finally spotted the silhouette of the fortified building — an old government structure of concrete and steel that the Heretics called home — exhaustion began to take its toll.
The Heretics consist of eleven members: Henry (blue), Kol (gray), Kane (light green), Piro (red), Leo (brown), Vane (purple), Beck (orange), Mika (pink), Elena (white), Tara (dark green), and Solomon (who wore the gold mask and jacket before injuring his leg and retiring).
They entered through one of the elevated routes, a hidden metal walkway that led directly to the third floor. After passing through the rigorous security of Beck Volter, who checked every seal and latch of the mechanical weapons, Henry was finally able to remove the wooden mask.
Henry's face was a cartography of scars and determination. He sat on a cold metal bench, feeling the weight of the brass knuckles still attached to his hands. While the distant sound of Mika training with her naginata echoed through the hallway, Henry closed his eyes.
His mind, as it always did in the silence, traveled to the past.
Ten years.
It felt like an eternity since the "Fall" began. Henry could still feel the humid heat of Brazil and the panic in his parents' eyes as the world collapsed. They had spent every cent, every favor, and every ounce of hope to put him on a cargo ship destined for the United States, believing the northern hemisphere would have reserves, that civilization there would resist.
They were wrong. Human progress was nothing more than a house of cards that the lack of fuel blew away. His parents died believing they sent him to salvation; in fact, they sent him to the epicenter of the end.
Orphaned in a strange land, Henry learned the language of steel even before mastering English. It was Solomon who found him in an alley in Portland, being hunted by looters. Solomon didn't just give him food; he gave him a purpose and a mask.
Gasoline. Minerals. Gunpowder. Henry thought, opening his eyes and staring at his calloused hands.
Everything was extinct or limited. Iron was precious, lead was mystical. Whoever held the last firearms on the planet was not just a leader; he was a living god, bearer of a deadly magic that no one else could replicate.
— I hope never to meet one — whispered Henry to the darkness of the room. — A man with a bullet is a monster who doesn't care about justice.
He stood up, walking to the reinforced window from where he could see the pale lights of distant fires in the ruined city.
— But I won't stop — he promised himself, his Brazilian accent still lightly marking the end of the words. — As long as there is a child going hungry while the factions stockpile grain, I will be there. I won't let those maniacs of the Cross, or the Railwaymen, or any of those shit tyrants hurt anyone else. If they want to be gods, let them learn that even gods can bleed by a Heretic's blade.
Henry felt a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The smell of machine oil and the rhythmic sound of the tactical cane hitting the floor announced the mentor's presence.
— Thinking about the past again? — the voice of Solomon Vane was deep, like thunder before rain.
Henry looked at the master, the man who transformed a scared boy into the right hand of the silent revolution.
— Thinking about what comes next, Solomon. The Gunpowder Cross is getting stronger. They are using fear to fill the void that the lack of ammunition left.
Solomon walked to Henry's side, watching the same desolate landscape.
— Fear is a powerful weapon, but silence is more. Come. The others are waiting. We have information that one of the Fourteen Nations is sending an emissary to negotiate with Malakor. And if they bring real fire, Henry... our wooden masks won't be enough protection.
The meeting room in the heart of the building was lit by oil lamps and the faint glow of old monitors that Beck Volter kept alive with recycled batteries. The eleven members were there. Tara Gearheart cleaned the dried blood from her vault door shield, while Mika Thorne sharpened the tip of her naginata in meditative silence.
Solomon approached a worn world map, pinned to the wall with duct tape and marked with red circles.
— The world we knew died, but the corpses of the great powers still refuse to lower their guard — Solomon began, pointing to the fourteen nations that maintained some mockery of government. — USA, Canada, Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay form the Americas bloc. In the rest of the globe, Japan, South Africa, Spain, France, England, Germany, European Russia, and Ukraine. And, of course, Bosnia.
— Why is Bosnia still spared from incursions? — asked Leo, the youngest, while adjusting his climbing claws.
— Cotton, Leo — replied Vane Zadeko, the Bosnian of the group, crossing his arms. — We are the textile lung of what remains. Everyone needs fabrics, uniforms, and bandages. Attacking Bosnia is ensuring your army dies of cold or infection. It is the only country that the thirteen remaining nations agreed to leave in peace. For now.
Solomon tapped his cane on the floor, bringing the focus back.
— A cargo plane coming from Bosnia, loaded with medical supplies and high-quality fabrics, crashed on the outskirts of Portland. It didn't crash due to mechanical failure. It was shot down. If the supplies are intact, they can sustain the hungry communities of Oregon for months.
— The problem — interrupted Elena Vesper, emerging from the shadows of a corner of the room — is the territory. The crash site is a dead zone, protected by geography and by remaining patrols of local factions. To get there quickly and bring the cargo back, we can't go through the rooftops. It's too heavy.
— We need rails — Henry concluded, understanding Solomon's plan.
— Exactly — said Solomon. — We need to negotiate with the Travelers. Arthur Volkovich controls the underground railway network. If we can get one of his maintenance trains, we can reach Portland, load what we can, and leave before the Gunpowder Cross or others notice.
— The Machinist doesn't do charity — reminded Kol Valet, his raspy voice reminiscent of the trenches in Ukraine. — He will want something in return. And he knows the value of a train in the current state of the world.
Henry looked at Solomon. He knew this mission was what the group needed to change the game in the region, but the risk of going down into Volkovich's tunnels was immense.
— I will lead the negotiation — said Henry, picking up his blue wooden mask from the table. — Kane and Elena come with me. We will need speed and eyes in the shadows. If the Machinist tries to sell us out, we'll need an escape route he doesn't know.
Solomon nodded solemnly.
— Be careful. The world is changing, Henry. Everyone is starting to look at Oregon with hunger again. If one of them gets their hands on the technology or resources of that plane before we do... the era of gunpowder might not be over for good. It might just be waiting for a spark.
Henry put on the mask. The human face disappeared, giving way to the cross of twigs and the cold gaze of the Heretic. The mission was set: descend into the darkness of grease and the Cyrillic alphabet to ensure the light for those who had nothing.
End of Chapter
Faction Data (Lore)
The Heretics: This group of assassins operates in the shadows of scarcity, following a code of redistributive justice where they steal resources from dominant factions to sustain hungry populations; although they are men of faith who believe in God, they vehemently reject cults that sacralize war or blood, being called "heretics" for defying dominant religious interpretations. Their operating mode and negotiation focus on infiltration and surprise attack, using parkour to navigate rooftops and ruins, ensuring superior mobility and escape routes impossible for other groups; their base of operations is a fortified building in central Oregon. Their territory markings are crosses made of tied dry twigs or carved into wood, signaling locations under their protection. Their weapons are visceral and mechanical, prioritizing close combat with blades and customized devices using circular saws and fire. The standard base uniform consists of utility jackets and carved wooden masks, each member identified by a unique color — like the blue of the protagonist Henry — featuring a twig cross in the center between the eyes, uniting forest rusticity with urban aggression. Despite being trained assassins, they are a small group with only 11 members, thus they are careful not to suffer casualties.
The Gunpowder Cross: This fanatical religious cult, with 75 followers, believes that the world's ultimate salvation will only be achieved through the power of firearms, treating gunpowder and lead as sacred elements, although, ironically, they use machetes and knives as their primary weapons. They are known for their extreme cruelty and instability caused by the constant use of PCP and other chemical inhibitors, drugs that render them insensitive to pain and psychotically aggressive during attacks. Their members, called "The Crusaders," see each confrontation as a purification ritual and do not shy away from death. Their territorial demarcations are marked with the symbol of two crossed rifles painted with blood or ashes from burned sites, serving as a warning that the area belongs to their "holy war." The type of weaponry used focuses on heavy blades, such as machetes and combat knives, which they use to mutilate enemies in the name of their faith. The standard basic uniform consists of black trousers and plain red shirts, while their faces display a blood-stained cross, formed by the drawing of two crossed rifles, symbolizing their baptism into violence.
The Travelers / The Railwaymen: This group of survivors composed of 100 people is mostly formed by Russian immigrants who inhabit the depths of the underground, holding total control of the old subway network and railway tunnels. Their operating mode and negotiation are guided by pragmatism and survival: although they are naturally hostile and territorial, they rarely seek unnecessary conflict, almost always willing to guarantee safe passage or transport by rail in exchange for food and basic supplies. Their territory markings are made with the Cyrillic alphabet and the drawing of gears on steel gates, signaling the tunnel entrances under their jurisdiction and the surface limit. The type of weapons reflects their working-class origin and the confined environment where they live, prioritizing the use of heavy maintenance tools, such as sledgehammers and pipe wrenches, but they compensate for the lack of firearms with advanced technical knowledge in creating Molotov cocktails and other improvised incendiary explosives. The standard base uniform consists of industrial-style black clothes and old military gas masks, all constantly impregnated with layers of grease, oil, and coal dust, giving them a somber and mechanical appearance that camouflages perfectly in the darkness of the tunnels.
Character Data
HERETICS:
Henry Henrikson (29 years old, Brazilian/American): Solomon's right hand and future field leader. Brought to the USA as a young to escape the war, Henry grew up shaped by loss. He is 1.75 meters tall and has light brown or neutral skin and black hair styled in a warrior cut. He is a man of few words but explosive action, balancing Brazilian aggression with American discipline. He is the heir to Solomon's ideals.
Solomon Vane (53 years old, American): The leader and founder of the group. Solomon is the moral compass and the master who trained each of the other ten members in the art of survival and combat. Being older and lacking the agility for parkour, he commands operations strategically from the base in Oregon. His presence is imposing and paternal, keeping the faith alive in the group.
Kol Valet (31 years old, Ukrainian): A survivor hardened by the ashes of Europe. Kol is the group's silent executioner; his experience in trench warfare made him a master of ambushes in confined spaces. He is extremely loyal to Solomon, whom he credits for his sanity after the Fall.
Steve "Piro" (29 years old, American): The demolition specialist and the most volatile member of the group. Piro is fascinated by purification through flames and acts as the Heretics' shock force. His personality is as unstable as the fuels he manipulates, often being responsible for creating smoke screens for the group's escapes.
Kane Sterlow (27 years old, English): Former military scout, Kane is the group's eye in the heights. He is the fastest in parkour and possesses a characteristic British coolness. Kane does not feel vertigo and is responsible for mapping escape routes on Oregon's rooftops.
Beck Volter (33 years old, German): The technical intellect behind the equipment. Beck is pragmatic, methodical, and responsible for maintaining the base and the group's cutting tools. He rarely smiles and sees fighting as an engineering problem to be solved with efficiency.
Leo Halkirk (21 years old, Scottish): The "youngest" and most agile. Leo compensates for the lack of physical strength with superhuman speed and a typical youth audacity. He sees the other Heretics as older brothers and is primarily responsible for performing quick thefts while the others distract the guards.
Vane Zadeko (35 years old, Bosnian): The group's diplomatic link. Coming from Bosnia (the cotton country), Vane understands the value of weaving and basic resources. He is the most balanced and always tries to find a solution that does not involve total extermination, although he is lethal when forced to fight.
Elena Vesper (28 years old, Spanish): Specialist in intelligence and stealth. Elena is the shadow that moves between the lights. She is responsible for infiltrating territories like the Machinist's to gather information before the attack. Her movements are precise and silent like a professional killer.
Mika Thorne (26 years old, Japanese): The group's weapon master. Mika fused traditional Japanese combat with street brutality. She is responsible for training the younger members in contact martial arts, ensuring that even without weapons they are dangerous.
Tara Gearheart (30 years old, South African): Brute force and healing. Tara is the group's "tank," capable of taking physical punishment while protecting the others' retreat. She also has basic medical knowledge to treat the Heretics after confrontations.
TRAVELERS:
Arthur Volkovich "The Machinist" (55 years old, Russian): Leader of the Travelers/Railwaymen. A pragmatic man, a former railway engineer who sees the world as a broken machine he needs to keep lubricated. He is fair but implacable: if you don't have something to trade, you don't board. He inhabits the underground and rarely sees the light of day.
GUNPOWDER CROSS:
Vincent Malakor (42 years old, American): Leader of the Gunpowder Cross. An ex-convict who found in the "sanctity of ammunition" a way to control the masses. He is charismatic, dangerous, and lives in a state of euphoria induced by drugs (PCP). He genuinely believes that Henry is a demon who needs to be purified.
