The block held as Finn''s hook connected. Vern grunted and jumped back, maintaining his distance. Finn didn’t press his advantage, yet. Vern cursed under his breath, shaking his hand. Finn seized the moment, feinting high before lunging in for a grapple. Vern dodged on reflex, sidestepping and shoving Finn away to avoid his grip.


    Finn lost balance, but rolled with grace before laughing. Without hesitation, he charged again. His posture shifted, Vern could see he got serious–and so did he. Finn was relentless, punching with strength and precision. Vern was losing ground to the assault, methodically retreating while blocking each attack. Reach was a problem—Finn stood a head taller, and his bulk alone gave him an overwhelming advantage. Adding his extraordinary skill on top of that? Vern had no realistic chance, but somehow he was holding.


    I have to counter.


    The opening appeared—Finn overextended, his stance too wide. Vern didn’t block the punch, letting it miss, pulling Finn further off balance. He aimed a kick at Finn’s front leg and missed.


    A trap.


    Finn had anticipated it, snapping his leg back and turning the tables. Before Vern could recover, Finn tossed him to the ground and locked him into a chokehold. Vern struggled, kicking and twisting in desperation, but Finn’s hold was like a vise, squeezing tighter and tighter. With no other option, Vern tapped the training mat.


    Finn released him and rolled onto his back, laughing between breaths. “I had to go all out there, little brotta. Only won because of experience. You’d have seen my trick otherwise, and we’d still be at it.” He lifted his right arm, rubbing it. “Whatever’s happenin’ to you, it’s changin’ your body. Felt like I was hittin’ iron every time you blocked.”


    Vern stared at the gray gymnasium ceiling, chest heaving. “You’re right. It was more subtle before, but whatever happened on that tram.. amplified it. It feels… strange.”


    “Your walk’s changed.”


    Vern turned to him. “My what?”


    “Your walk, it’s true. Dangerous people walk a certain way—it’s natural.”


    “You’re so dumb.”


    Finn laughed. “You don’t have to believe it, it’s still true. It’s survival, brotta. Humans have a way of sensin’ danger. I’ve felt it myself in the pit. It’s like you just know when someone’s a cut above the rest. My theory? We subconsciously pick up on a thousand little signs, and the brain puts it all together. A dangerous gait is one of those signs—maybe the most obvious.”


    “Hmm. So, what’s ‘putting it together’ for you, seeing as you don’t have a brain?” Vern grunted as Finn smacked his ribs. “But seriously, you’re starting to sound way too philosophical. Your ‘dumb brute’ act is slipping.”


    Finn grunted as he stood up. “Guess I’ll have to grow up someday—but not yet.” He extended a hand to Vern, who took it. “We’ll keep sparrin’. Your instincts’ll sharpen, and soon, I’ll have to work hard to keep my champion title.”


    “We’ll see.” Vern picked up their water bottles, tossing Finn his. “I still can’t believe that device fixed you up in just a couple of days.”


    Finn put a hand on his ribs. “That rustsucker had somethin’ like that, and kept it all for himself.” His hand dropped. “Imagine the lives he could’ve saved. Bet he’s got more Concord tech stashed.”


    “I’m just glad it helped you.”  Vern fidgeted with water bottle cap, “If you’d died because of my incompetence—”


    Finn punched Vern’s shoulder. “Stop it, you saved us.” He took a swig from his drink. “How are the headaches?”


    “I haven''t had any since the tram.”


    Finn scratched his beard. “Good, that worried me. Can you… uh, see the thing?”


    Vern laughed. “Yes, I just need to focus my eyes a certain way. And It’s called Aether, apparently. I can influence it to some extent.” He quickly scanned the gym, relieved to see no one paying attention. A couple of others were busy with their workouts and sparring. Vern focused and lifted his arm, gently pushing Aether away from him.


    Finn jumped back, instinctively raising his arms as iridescent air rippled and shimmered around Vern, reflecting a spectrum of colors like oil on water. “That’s so weird.” The shimmer vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, and Finn tried moving his hand through the air where it had been. “Well, as long as you feel better.. I don’t mind some weirdness.” He grinned.


    Vern looked at the chronometer on the wall, “We should be going, meeting time approaching.”


    Finn finished his water bottle and tossed it into a bin. “You think it’s even worth meetin’ him? Blaine’ll probably just tell you what suits him best, not the whole truth.”


    “I don’t know,” Vern admitted. “But he already kept his word—your old man’s been reassigned. And… he acted strange when I woke up. He was less… less Blaine i guess.” Vern hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Finn, you should’ve seen him. He was actually rattled. Said he needed time to think and then kept us waiting for almost a week. He looked down. “I don’t think he’s lying about Mareen. We need to go meet him.”


    Finn picked up his towel and said. “I understand, let’s go.”


    Vern did the same, and they left the gymnasium. The compound sat just down the street from HQ, its entrance spilling into the ever-busy main road. As they walked in HQ, they passed familiar faces, some indifferent, others still wary. The hostility they’d met a week ago had faded, but not entirely. The building’s interior was a stark contrast to the street’s chaos—clean, organized, and unnaturally warm compared to the sector’s chill. They climbed to the third floor, where their rooms waited at the beginning of the long hallway leading to the rest of the floor. Finn’s room was directly across from Vern’s, a simple but functional arrangement. New clothes had appeared in their closets the day they arrived. Each piece fit perfectly, tailored with an uncanny precision that left Vern uneasy. He chose a tight black shirt with an unusual design—its high collar hugged his neck, stopping just below the jawline. Loose black pants and sturdy boots completed the look. In the warmth of the building, no jacket or extra layers were needed.


    They walked to the lounge where Blaine had left him last time. A few sofas were occupied by Blaine’s officers—common members weren’t allowed on the third floor. Vern recognized two of them from the tram job, and they waved. He nodded back, noting how quickly respect was earned when you proved yourself in the field.


    Grabbing a couple of sweet, carbonated drinks from a nearby counter, they didn’t have to wait long before an elderly man appeared, gesturing for them to follow.  The man carried himself with quiet authority, and the way others acknowledged him made it clear he was well respected. He was known simply as a steward. As they moved down the hallway, the decor became increasingly extravagant. The walls now boasted large paintings, some tall as the hall itself and even a pair of crossed swords. Vern’s eyes lingered on the swords—polished and ceremonial, yet still carrying an air of menace. At the end of the corridor, they turned a corner and continued until they reached the last door.


    The steward opened the door without knocking and stepped inside. Vern and Finn followed into a large, dimly lit room. Blaine and several lieutenants were seated in a sunken area by a broad table, their conversation low but intense.


    The room had a unique scent, of old paper and oil. One wall caught Vern’s attention immediately—a long bookshelf packed with paper books, their spines worn but well-kept. Must be hundreds. On the opposite side of the room, an arsenal of weapons lined the entire wall, each piece meticulously displayed, cleaned, and cared for.


    Finn let out a low whistle, stepping closer. “I don’t know what most of these are.”


    Vern smirked, his unease giving way to curiosity as he examined the weapons. They stopped moving at a specific part and gawked. “Most of these are energy weapons,” Vern said in disbelief, he only read about them.


    Finn moved further down the wall, scanning the array of weapons. He gestured to one with a bemused grin. “Look at these!”


    Vern trailed after him, his brow furrowing at the strange designs. “Yeah… What even are those? How do you grip that thing?”


    “Humans don’t,” Blaine said, his voice cutting through the room as he approached. “Exogen relics. Artifacts from extinct species.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and strode back to the table. “Come.”


    Most of his lieutenants had cleared out, leaving only Zarri. She sat at the table, her bright red hair twisted into a messy bun, emerald eyes watching them with quiet reservation.


    They followed and took their seats. Finn leaned forward immediately, helping himself to the dried meat on the table. His casual chewing felt deliberate. Vern, too tense to eat with his stomach being in the knots, sat stiffly, his hands clasped on the table.


    Blaine sat at the head, his glass full of brown liquid resting before him. He took a moment, exhaling deeply before he spoke, his voice edged with rare sincerity. “First, I owe you both an apology. The intelligence was flawed. I underestimated the mechhead, the fault lies with me,” He paused to sip his drink, then turned to Finn. “Your father’s reassignment to the drill planning team is already done. The guild leader assured me he will look after him.”


    Finn shrugged, not bothering to look up. “Ye, he’s happy.” He reached for another piece of meat, his attention fixed on the platter as if Blaine weren’t even there.


    Blaine’s gaze lingered on Finn for a moment before shifting. “You both handled yourselves well. If you want to part ways now, I’ll see to it that you leave with a substantial credit in your pocket. But I think cutting ties now would be unwise. Mareen gave you both an advantage—education. The Vigil keeps dwellers ignorant on purpose. They… you… don’t matter to them, you’re just manual labor and healthy genetic diversity.”


    Finn’s scoff broke the silence. “You’re no saint, Blaine. You exploit people just like the Vigil. Difference is, you don’t bother hidin’ it.”


    Blaine gave a slight nod. “I won’t deny it. I played the hand I was dealt.”


    Finn tossed his napkin on the table and leaned back. “You make lives worse. We won’t be your muscle.” His gaze hardened. “We’ll return to ignorin’ you after you give Vern what you promised.”


    “You could do that, I won’t stop either of you. You’re right that I exploit the base human urges, there is someone like me in every single sector. Vigil moves dwellers like figures on a board game, what I propose,” He paused looking at all three of them, “let’s walk away from the board altogether.”


    Vern looked at Finn, who raised an eyebrow in skeptical curiosity. Across the room, Zarri straightened, her expression betraying her surprise. Clearly, she hadn’t seen this coming either.


    “What do you mean, boss?” Zarri asked, her voice breaking the tension.


    Blaine’s eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on each of them. “What we’re about to discuss doesn’t leave this room, even if you decline. Does anyone have a problem with that?”


    A round of silent nods followed. Blaine’s shoulders relaxed, and he stood, his presence commanding as he addressed them. “Even the poorest dwellers know why we’re here—buried like rats on this sorry excuse of a planet.”


    “Survival,” Zarri said, her tone neutral.


    Blaine looked at her, “Yes, but that’s the only thing they’re told.” Then he turned to Vern, “I assume Mareen taught you some history.”


    “The Ark Projects,” Vern added. “Forty projects to ensure humanity’s survival.”


    “Wrong,” Blaine said, lifting a finger. “Thirty-eight launched. Two were destroyed when Nova Prime burned, wiping out the council.”


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Finn leaned back in his chair, his expression unimpressed. “And how exactly would you know? Who’s to say what’s true anymore? You act like you know everythin’ and we know how good you’re at manipulatin’.”


    Blaine’s voice turned cold as he said, “Finn Ashford.” He let the name linger, cutting through the air. “The only Concord noble left amongst the dwellers.” He took a deliberate step forward, locking eyes with Finn. “I know the Ashfords well. My first deployment was under Cassian Ashford—the man who raised your family to the nobility.” His gaze shifted to Vern. “You were wearing one of his trophies when you walked into the audience chambers, ignorant of their meaning.”


    Vern’s brow furrowed, suspicion in his voice. “The frames? Also The Last Vigil got buried 241 years ago. You’re telling us you served in the Concord fleet? How are you alive?”


    Blaine’s tone softened for a moment. “Not in the fleet, per se, but I’m alive the same way Highmarshall Cardenas is.” He scratched his face absently, his eyes distant. “If you’re important—or useful enough—you go through a procedure that extends your life drastically. They start with gene therapy to prep your body, then implant microscopic machines called nanites to halt the aging process. They self-replicate as long as they have what they need. But after two centuries without proper maintenance… without the right supplements…” He let out a harsh sigh. “My nanite network’s lost its critical mass. Soon, I’ll start to age—maybe rapidly.”


    The light hit Blaine’s face just right then—those weren’t just signs of exhaustion. The dark marks under his eyes looked almost like black spiderwebs. Silence stretched for a few moments. “Can it be reversed? Fixed?” Vern broke it.


    Blaine nodded, “With a specialist and appropriate tools. There is one in Vigil, but those doors are closed to me.” He started to pace, looking down, “Cardenas would execute me immediately if he figured out who I really am. I’m hiding in plain sight, it only works because they don’t care about criminal elements outside of their precious Vigil who are not affecting the sector''s production.” He cleared his throat, “The true enigma,” Blaine said, his glowing eyes narrowing, “is you, Vern. Answer this—have you ever heard a voice when you’re alone? One that isn’t yours?” Blaine said, his voice lowering.


    Vern frowned. “No...”


    Blaine barely reacted. He just flicked a silver coin from his pocket and rolled it across his knuckles. “What about recurring figures in dreams?”


    “I don’t dream. Or if I do, I don’t remember.”


    Blaine exhaled slowly, studying Vern like he was looking for something beneath the surface. The coin flipped between his fingers, catching the dim light. “There are beings beyond what we can perceive—entities we call Scions. They’re… different. Not flesh and blood, not bound to this world the way we are. Each has its own personality, its own motives. When they take an interest in someone, they grant abilities. It changes the body. The eyes change first—the iris shatters and reforms. Then the bones, the muscles, the nervous system. But those changes are more subtle and gradually change.” The coin stopped rolling. Blaine clenched it in his fist. “From what I know, those changes always start with a direct contact with a Scion, both of you must agree to it.” His ember-colored eyes burned a little brighter as he met Vern’s eyes.


    Vern’s jaw tightened. “No one approached me,” he said. “I’m not lying.”


    Blaine nodded, but his expression darkened. He leaned back, rubbing the heel of his hand against his brow. “I believe you. But your case… it doesn’t fit.” His voice dropped slightly. “You’re changing without a Scion’s touch.” He let the words settle, then sighed. “We call them Weavers. The people who made that contract. At least, that’s what we called them in Concord. They’ve been called countless other things over the course of our history.” He tapped the coin against the table. “But one thing never changed. Every last one of them was chosen by a Scion. Given a sobriquet, a new name they use, and most importantly, given a—”


    “A writ.” Vern’s voice came out low, but the word carried. The others turned to look at him.


    Blaine’s eyes glowed a little brighter, his gaze narrowing with a flicker of suspicion. “Yes. Exactly. A writ.”


    Vern shifted, rolling his shoulders. “After I passed out the other day, I heard voices. Arguing. One of them mentioned a ‘writ’ and was confused that I didn’t have one.” His gaze flicked to Blaine. “I didn’t understand what it meant until now.”


    Blaine studied Vern for a long moment, nodding slowly. “Truth is, I don’t know much. Weavers aren’t ones to spill details—especially not about their dealings with their patron Scion. All I ever got was their given sobriquet and the type of writ they carry.” He paused, letting his words hang. “What I do know, Vern, is that Aether is volatile. Using it in its pure form, like you did, is risky. It can kill you.”


    Vern’s brow furrowed. “How do they use their abilities, then?”


    “Now, those are the details I was never given, but I connected a couple of dots. They have an internal source of energy, and sometimes mix small amounts of Aether with it.”


    “How do you know?” The quiet Zarri found her voice.


    “The shimmer. Even us normal people can see Aether being manipulated if you know what you’re looking for. However my weavers often used their abilities without it. I only noticed the shimmer in prolonged operations, when the exhaustion started.”


    Vern’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information.


    Wait,” Finn interjected, his tone shifting as he eyed Blaine carefully. “Your weavers? And that… therapy—you’re a noble, aren’t you?


    Blaine laughed. “I’m too effective to ever be a noble. My family served a noble house. After my top-percentile aptitude scores, they gave me their sponsorship—first to the Service Academy, then to Fleet Officer College.” Blaine sat back down in his chair, and pulled out a cigar out of his breast pocket, which he lit. “I rose above my birth station, something I always wanted, then in my last year I was approached by the Black College, one you can’t apply to, you got to be chosen.” He paused to take a drag of the cigar.


    “What’s that?” Vern shifted in his chair.


    “Every military force needs its clandestine branch—assassins, spies, saboteurs, infiltrators, combat operators. I was chosen and trained to lead a Special Operations Team,” Blaine’s measured tone completely grabbed the attention. A soft laugh broke through as he continued, “I’m not sure what metric they used, but my selection suited me like nothing else ever did. The Black Branch operated independently, not answering to the Fleet or the Sentinels, although we were often attached to their units to launch our operations.” His eyes locked on Finn as he added, “That’s how I know Cassian—my team served on his flagship for fifteen long years.” After emptying his drink, a wry smirk appeared. “He was adored by his men, yet he never cared much for me. Shows he had a good intuition.”


    Finn straightened up. “He could still be alive then? Did he also have that therapy?”


    “He was a High Admiral, so yes, he went through it. Biologically, he could still be alive.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, though. Last I heard, he pulled back for the last stand on Nova Prime.” A beat passed. “And we know how that ended.”


    Finn’s fingers curled slightly before he looked down at his hands. “I see.”


    Vern cleared his throat. “From what I read, we barely put up a fight. What happened?”


    Blaine’s jaw tightened. “Complacency and arrogance from the High Council.” His voice carried an edge, but he shook his head. “Not getting into that now—it’s irrelevant.” He turned his focus back to Vern. “Mareen is a Weaver.”


    “I assumed...”


    “She had a bit of a reputation,” Blaine said, the coin started rolling over his knuckles. “Rumor was she had a profaned writ.” His eyes flicked toward the floor as if considering something. “If that was true, how she escaped execution is beyond me. The Abbey didn’t tolerate that kind of thing. Their Oversight office had real power in Concord, and they were ruthless when it came to anything they deemed heretical.”


    He let the coin flip once before catching it between two fingers. “I’m glad none of those fanatical simpletons made it onto our ark.” His gaze settled on Vern. “You know what she did was real, and that title she used, a Veil Speaker is ancient, and tells us those rumors about her were true.”


    Vern slumped his shoulders. “She brought closure to people. She helped them. Why would that be heretical?”


    Blaine’s coin stilled between his fingers. “Vern, she brought the souls of dead people back. That’s not natural—no matter the reason. I sent someone in my employ to test it out, he swore Mareen did allow him to talk to his dead mother, even see her.” He exhaled. “The Abbey doesn’t tolerate abstract writs like that. Weavers like her are simply not tolerated.” The coin slipped from his grip, clinking against the table. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Part of my duties was hunting profane Weavers.” His fingers traced the edge of his eye socket. “That’s how I lost these.”


    Vern’s breath caught. “She’s not like that, she helped,” he said, voice trembling as his hands clenched into fists, “Not just with her powers. She tried protecting people, gave advice, and took care of children and elderly. How is that heresy? She’s a good person.”


    “I’m not denying that, not all of them were evil, some just had writs that could manifest power in unpredictable and dangerous ways.” Blaine leaned back, eyes distant. “I don’t know her well enough to judge.” He reached for the bottle, poured another drink. “But when she arrived in this sector, I was sure Cardenas had figured out who I was.” The liquor sloshed as he filled his glass. “Instinct guided me, I had to kill her first and go deeper into hiding.” He downed half the drink, then set the glass down with a quiet thud. “But then I saw her with an infant and... I froze… I never freeze.” Blaine’s grip tightened on the rim of his glass. “I was half a sector away, watching you two through a scope. She turned—looked straight at me.” His thumb ran over the condensation. “And then she just shook her head. Turned away. Ignored me completely.”


    “I wouldn’t be alive without her,” Finn growled. “My father was dragged away, limp and bloody.” His hands balled into fists. “When I tried to stop them, I got kicked in the head. The enforcers left a bleeding kid on the floor.” A single tear streaked down his cheek. “She took me in, made sure I was healthy, fed, and schooled. Why would she do that if she deserved to be killed?” He wiped it roughly with his sleeve.


    “I never claimed that. I’m simply telling Vern all I know, as per our verbal contract.” Blaine’s voice lacked its usual quiet intensity. “When I confirmed she left I got curious, that’s why I dragged you two before me, your abilities were not what i expected Vern, not in the slightest. ”


    “So, she’s back at Vigil?” Vern cut through the silence.


    “I don’t have it confirmed, but I believe so.” Blaine stood and straightened his clothes. “I brought the three of you here for a reason.” He paused, thinking. “I have no soldiers. I have thugs, disciplined through fear, greed, or addiction to the feeling of superiority. Never needed anything more. But now I do, I’m not dying sitting down in a gilded cage.” His expression hardened, the glow in his eyes sharpening as he planted his hands on the table and leaned in. “If you want to keep scraping by in this tetanus trap you call home, be my guest. But if you want something more out of life, join me. More likely than not, we die.” He let that hang, gaze flicking between them, then exhaled. “It won’t be easy. But if we die, it’s by fighting for something that matters.” He pushed off the table. “Think it over. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, he walked out.


    Finn lounged back in the chair and laughed. “That was intense, brotta. Wadya think? We already know what his bootlicker’s gonna do.”


    “Rust off!” She stood up, knocking the chair back. “He did to me what Mareen did to you. Stop acting like a slag.” Zarri slammed the table. “Yes, I’m loyal. I owe him. And besides, I do want something more.” She spread her arms. “More than this, Finn. Is that so rusting bad? You’ve been throwing jabs at me since you came here.”


    Vern raised his hand. “Peace, Zarri.” He cleared his throat. “This is a big decision for all of us.” He rested his chin on his hand, staring down at the table. “We all suffered. When Penno and Lela got killed last year, it broke something in me. We grew up together, and…”


    Finn placed a hand on his shoulder, staying quiet.


    Vern exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against the table. “I… I’m tired of people dying. I’m tired of living in this rusting hole.” He put his hands on his face.


    Zarri pulled her chair back to the table and sat. “I heard about that. Enforcers again?”


    Vern nodded, not lifting his head.


    “Overaggressive rusteaters. Same thing that happened to me. Their parents got arrested for ‘spreadin’ dissident’—when in reality, they just complained.” Finn started to spit but caught himself, remembering where he was. He turned to Vern. “At least she knew how you felt, brotta, and you had a good last year together.”


    Vern sniffed, raising his head, regaining composure. “No one should have to find the person they love with their head split open—especially when they did nothing wrong.” He turned to Finn. “I know how you feel about Blaine, but we have to do something. I don’t know his plan or what he wants to do, but I want to hear it, I’ll go insane if I stay here.”


    Finn looked at Vern, then nodded. “I still don’t like the rustsucker, but there’s more to him than I thought.” He glanced at Zarri. “Also, sorry.”


    “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.”


    “Alrighty then. I’m down. So… we decided?”


    Vern and Zarri both nodded.


    A couple of minutes passed in thick silence. The dim overhead light cast jittery shadows across the table. Then, footsteps approached—steady, deliberate. The door creaked open, and Blaine stepped inside.


    “Suspiciously good timing, Blaine,” Vern said, eyeing him.


    A slight hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Blaine’s mouth. “I have excellent time management.” His gaze swept over them, the glow in his eyes steady. “So, are you all ready to start your new life?”


    “What’s the plan?” Finn asked with a sigh.


    Blaine moved to the head of the table, his posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back. “Before the war, I was promoted to Commander, got myself a ship command. Trepidation, my frigate is on this planet, submerged a couple thousand kilometers away—waiting on the seabed.”


    All three of them exchanged stunned looks.


    “Wait, you want to leave the planet?” Vern stood, visibly shaken. “I… I wanted to help the dwellers in the sectors.”


    “That’s impossible,” Blaine said bluntly. “The Sentinels have tens of thousands of trained soldiers, led by experienced, competent leaders. We wouldn’t stand a chance.” His gaze flicked between them. “Our only option is to leave. The original plan was to drill a tunnel toward my ship—hence my interest in mechheads. Each one would’ve sped up the drilling considerably.” He exhaled sharply. “But with recent developments, I’m short on time. That plan would take decades, possibly a century.”


    “But… the enemy is still out there?” Zarri’s eyes were wide.


    “Correct. Concord didn’t come to dig us out, which means they lost.” Blaine’s tone was measured, controlled. “But the galaxy is far larger than someone raised in this cramped hole can comprehend. We will find refuge.” He let that sink in, then asked, “Does hearing the plan change anything?”


    “No.” Zarri answered sharply.


    “Correct me if I’m wrong, aren’t we underground so we’re not detected? A random ship lifting off can tip them off that this planet has life. We can doom all of them.” Vern’s voice was strained.


    “Trepidation’s specialty is stealth, we will not be detected simply by leaving the atmosphere, I can guarantee that.”


    Finn and Vern exchanged a glance.


    “What choice do we have, brotta? We’re still in,” Finn said.


    Vern’s shoulders and head slumped, but he nodded. “So, what’s next?”


    Now Blaine grinned, full and toothy. “I’ll use my expertise to transform you dweller rats into the deadliest team on this horrendous excuse of a planet. That’s step one.”