Long journeys through the depths were rough half the time, but they did make for good scouting. Especially for hidden gems. Underrated restaurants, for example.
Massiah stopped outside a small building, its perimeter half-heartedly fenced with barbed wire strung between crooked sticks. It wouldn't stop anything dangerous, but maybe it wasn't meant to. Sometimes a warning was all you needed.
They stepped inside.
The place was a diner, old-world style. Wide, dusty windows. Rows of tables off to the side. A long counter stretched across the front. Behind it stood two figures with their elbows resting on the countertop. One of them had a shotgun next to him, not glancing up as they entered.
The other perked up immediately.
A teenager, maybe sixteen, hurried over with a notepad and pen clutched in hand. She beamed at them. "You're exterminators, right? I saw some of you guys a few years back! You fought myutants like they were nothing. It was so cool!"
"Yeah..." Dahlia replied, offering a polite smile. "Though... not a lot of people in here today." She glanced around at the empty booths, then down at the girl's yellow top. A faded name tag clung to the fabric: Celia.
Celia followed her gaze and shrugged. "There's this other place, Trailing Rose or whatever. They've been stealing our customers lately." She pointed past the door, though nothing could be seen through the dusty windows. "But forget them. What do y'all wanna eat?"
Massiah picked up a half-torn menu from the table, flipping through it lazily.
Celia turned to him next.
He was sweaty. The desert sun hadn't been kind. His black hair clung to his forehead in thick strands, nearly covering his eyes.
"Is this your kid?" Celia asked, turning to Dahlia. "You should get him a juice, cool him off."
Dahlia nearly laughed, but Massiah's piercing glare shut her down fast.
"I will take a juice though," Dahlia said quickly, playing it off. "What kinds do you have?"
Celia perked up again. "Bitter lemon, sludge strawberry, wildberry, and bladegrass."
"Those all sound terrible," Dahlia replied, raising a brow. "But... I'll try the wildberry."
"I'll have a taco," Massiah muttered, setting down the menu.
"We don't have tacos, silly goose," Celia said with a bright smile. Then, without asking, she reached up and tried to slick his hair back. "You want a burger? We can get you a burger, can't we, miss?"
Dahlia covered her mouth to hide the laughter bubbling up. "Yeah," she said softly, holding back a smirk. "We definitely can."
"Will you be having the same?" Celia asked.
Dahlia nodded. Celia offered a grin, then skipped off behind the counter and through a swinging door, passing the man hunched behind a faded newspaper. The print had long since blurred, so much that he may as well have been staring at a blank page.
"This seems like a nice spot," Dahlia said, eyes drifting across the worn booths, the chipped counter, the dust dancing in the windowlight. "How'd you find it? One of your trips?"
"No. It's close to my hometown," Massiah replied. "I used to eat here when I was a kid. Her mom used to serve me." He looked away. "She's gone now."
"Oh..." Dahlia watched through the kitchen window as Celia moved in and out, humming a soft tune. "Do you know what happened to her?"
"I killed her."
The air flattened.
Dahlia didn't speak. Her eyes flicked toward the newspaper, pretending to read its faded pages. She already knew Massiah had a complicated past, most exterminators did. Following him meant choosing not to flinch when the blood trailed backward.
"Why?" she asked, finally.
"She nearly drowned a kid. Beat him half to death. Got put on a hit list. I was sent to take care of it."
"That was how you survived," Dahlia murmured. "Before... Sabrina."
Massiah nodded. "It was the only thing I knew. Morality? I didn't even understand what that meant."
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
"Yeah."
Celia returned then, placing two burgers on the table with a proud smile. She followed with two glasses filled with a light purple drink and gave a cheerful, "Enjoy!" before dancing back into the kitchen.
"I think you have to regret that kind of thing," Massiah said softly. "It still eats at me."
"Was it just for the money?"
Massiah picked up the burger. His hands trembled slightly as he raised it.
"Yeah. I was an assassin. There wasn't some deeper reason. I didn't do it to make the world better or anything."
Dahlia noticed the tremble in his hand, subtle but there. In the background, Celia's soft humming blossomed into a quiet song, light and carefree.
"How do you live with it?" she asked.
"I don't. Not really. I just... carry it. Try not to dwell, but try not to forget either." He paused. "That, and trying to live out whatever days I have left."
"Won't going back to your hometown stir it all up again?"
"Probably," Massiah said, eyes locked on his plate. "But I'm not going for nostalgia. I'm there to see someone... and to pick up a new scythe. We won't stay long."
"See someone?" she repeated, "Who?"
He took a slow bite of the burger. Chewed.
"My old boss."
Dahlia stared at him. She could feel her heart sinking, not from the words, but from everything he wasn't saying. His hand still shook slightly.
She didn't ask anything else.
She couldn't.
Instead, she forced a smile and picked up her own food. She chewed slowly, quietly, as Celia's singing continued to echo.
A few minutes later, Massiah stood at the counter, swiping his card.
—7000cr.
"Bye!!!" Celia shouted from behind the kitchen door.
They stepped back into the desert. The sun was relentless now, blistering, pressing down on them like it hadn't floated billions of light years away. Both of them peeled off their overcoats, tying them loosely around their waists as they trudged forward.
Alast had once been a flourishing haven, not as renowned as New Haven, but famous in its own right, as a tourist attraction. Just like Raval.
Its claim to fame: a flower garden that housed the rarest, most exotic strains in the hemisphere. Half its citizens had become florists, cultivating blooms that couldn't grow anywhere else.
It had become a staple of the world, a place where people came not just to bask in serenity, but to remember the old times. When it had all been fine.
But that was over a decade ago.
A myutant attack had reduced the haven to bones. Its government collapsed. Its businesses shattered. What remained was a shell ruled by blood and barter. Only those willing to get their hands dirty would eat.
They moved through the streets in silence. The buildings around them sagged inward, breaking concrete falling against them. Tarps were stretched across rooftops overhead, offering a break from the sun's heat, and while it wasn't as hot anymore.
Still, the air felt tight between them.
Since entering the haven, Massiah hadn't spoken a word. He hadn't needed to. Dahlia could feel the shift. His calm eyes had gone cold. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. He looked straight ahead, but she could tell, he was seeing everything.
Beside him, she felt like she was walking through needles.
Then a voice slithered out from a nearby staircase.
"If you're here for the myutant," the man rasped. He was sickly, hunched on cracked steps, his eyes locked on the white coats tied at their hips. "It killed a bunch of us and left a while ago. Did your cards not beep fast enough?"
Dahlia turned her head toward him. His arm ended just below the elbow—a scarred stump.
"Fucking scum," he snarled, louder now. "You're not welcome here!"
He spat.
A thick glob of yellow saliva landed square on Massiah's boot.
The exterminator stopped, turning slowly to his left, his eyes locking on the man.
Recognition bloomed on the man's face, raw, immediate, and full of fear. Like he'd just seen death itself.
Just as quickly, he scrambled from the steps, tore at his own rags, and began wiping the spit from Massiah's boot.
"Please don't tell Balalaika. Please, I don't want to die. Forgive me, I was just ignorant. I wouldn't have done it if I'd known, if I'd known it was you—"
Massiah said nothing.
He simply turned and continued walking.
But the damage was done. The moment the man uttered that name, the entire haven shifted.
Assassins hiding in corners scattered. Drunkards roused themselves, stumbling away from the streets. Mothers pulled children into shacks, and doors slammed shut like war was coming.
"Who's that?" Dahlia whispered, glancing around. Every alley seemed to crawl with fearful eyes and still fingers.
"Her demon is back," someone hissed.
"I thought he was gone!"
"Didn't he leave us alone? God, why now, why art thou forsaken me!"
Massiah turned a corner. Dahlia followed, glancing at his face, but there was nothing there. No anger. No smugness. Just nothing.
They stopped at a house.
No—a palace.
It stood tall and clean, its walls untouched by the decay that seemed to envelop the haven. At its front, a garden bloomed with rare flowers, and two men tended it, trimming leaves and watering stems.
Then, the gardeners looked up.
One of them began to step forward, but the moment he saw Massiah's face, he froze, went pale, then turned and ran toward the doors. His footsteps echoed down the halls, just as fast as his breathing.
Moments later, two men emerged.
Their suits were spotless. Guns holstered against their hips, hands clasped behind their backs.
"The boss has accepted your entry," one of them said. "Welcome back... Harbinger of the South."
Massiah nodded. He and Dahlia walked past them, up a staircase, and into a chamber so strange it could've been holy.
Rows of flowers stretched across the room, each organized by color to match the painted walls. Red on red, yellow on yellow, violet on violet.
Dahlia took it in, breath caught somewhere in her chest. Then she saw a woman.
She crouched near the far end of the room, fingers gently stroking the petals of a violet bloom.
Two guards flanked her. Two more stood behind Massiah and Dahlia.
Then, one of the woman's men stepped forward, just a few feet away, close enough that Dahlia could see the slight sheen of sweat running down his face.
"Ty znash, chto za flova eto?" the voice came from the lady next to the flowers, her voice soft and melodic despite how rough the language sounded.
"Lady Balalaika wants to know if you recognize the flowers," the man next to them—who served as a translator explained.
"Daffodil," Massiah replied calmly.
Balalaika's laughter filled the room. "Haroshka, haroshka, Mass malyk. Ya vsegdushka znala, moi nauk prilepil k tebe do samka konetska."
"She says it's good that you remembered her teachings," the translator interpreted.
Massiah didn't say anything else.
"Nu sho, za chemka ty syuda prishol? Ne veru, chto skuchalka po mne." Balalaika's voice came again.
The translator cleared his throat. "She asks why you're here. She doesn't believe you came back just to see her."
"I want the second scythe I was promised before I left," Massiah replied bluntly.
Balalaika's laughter grew louder, her hand slamming against her lap. As she rose, her presence seemed to expand, growing larger and more imposing with each step.
Dahlia took a small step back, unable to tear her eyes away.
Balalaika was stunning—a tall woman with fiery red hair that matched her fierce demeanor. Her sharp eyes glinted like a predator's, her body wrapped in a black dress adorned with hundreds of fresh flowers.
"Govorilka byla, 'Ne prishol bolshe!' A teper begi k bryunushke shlyunushke za kosoy."
The translator paused. "She says, go back to your brown-haired... whore... for a scythe. When you left, it didn't seem like you'd be back."
"Sabrina?" Dahlia whispered, eyes wide.
"I want the scythe, Balalaika. I finished the task that earned it." Massiah said. "Aren't you the one who speaks so highly of honoring your word?"
Balalaika raised an eyebrow and flipped him off. "Fuck yourself."
"I understood that at least," Dahlia said with a dry chuckle, turning to Massiah.
Massiah's gaze hardened, staring directly at her. "Give it to me."
"Vsyo vy, detushki ubivashki, odinakushki. Para ubivoshek, I uzhe v sopelki." Balalaika clicked her tongue and turned away. "Kakaya zhe zhalushka."
"She says you child assassins need to suck it up. It's pathetic how often you cry despite all she does for you," the translator spoke quickly.
"Is she giving me the scythe or not?" Massiah asked, his hand moving toward Dahlia's back and gripping the handle of her hammer.
Balalaika glanced over her shoulder, her voice chilling. "Vsegdushka golodnoy na boechka, nu ladna, dam tebe kosilka." She turned her attention to one of the men behind her. "Levushka, prinesi malchishkinu igrushku iz musorka."
The man nodded and left, returning moments later with a black scythe in hand, pristine and whole, an exact replica of Massiah's old blade, though it still carried the freshness of something unused.
Massiah let go of Dahlia's hammer and stepped forward, his hand outstretched.
The man with the scythe stepped forward as well. But just before the blade could leave his hand, Balalaika spoke again.
"No vot, est odnoho, chto ya hochu ot tebyashka, menka za etu lezviyushku." She glanced at Dahlia with a look of amusement. "Devchushka za spinushka tvoey, khoroshushka. Ona menya uteshit, da."
The translator hesitated before speaking. "She wants to make it a trade, based on your previous words. She wants the girl behind you..."
"That's not happening."
Balalaika laughed, her deep chuckle echoing through the room.
She stepped forward—her large form looming over both of them—and snatched the scythe from the man's hand. Her grin widened as she held it up, her gaze never leaving Massiah.
"Ya ne sproshushkala."
The translator shifted nervously behind her, even more sweat streaking down his face. "She says... she wasn't asking."
Massiah's gaze locked with Balalaika's. His hand moved to Dahlia's war hammer, ripping it from the strap with a swift motion.
"Neither was I,"