[Life is Good] Chapter 63

What can I say about the trip to the target zone? Absolute garbage. Flying on that rustbucket of a chopper sucked ass. After two hours of rotor noise and collective silence, we landed at another rinky-dink airport that looked like it had been abandoned by civilization sometime in the '70s. Then we switched to a small plane that matched the setting perfectly. Don’t ask me the model—I’m pretty sure dinosaurs built it. And the smell in that thing? A brutal mix of sweat, unwashed rags, and some kind of “air freshener” that had to be older than sin itself. Possibly made from sin.

It was so nose-melting that I clipped my helmet filters back on just to survive. Breathing through them wasn’t ideal, but anyone who's ever worn a gas mask will tell you—it beats huffing prehistoric BO. I think even the vampire scrunched in disgust behind their helmets. The only one unaffected, of course, was Yuriko, who marched up to the cockpit with Punisher like she was about to casually fix a broken turbine mid-flight. Girl can pilot, too. I swear, she’s a walking multi-tool with a death glare.

But if it had just been the stench and the charming post-apocalyptic aesthetic, I could’ve endured. Problem was, the damn plane rattled, creaked, and groaned nonstop. I’m not a religious man—not really. Even with the whole rebirth thing, the supernatural circus of this world, and knowing a woman possessed by an actual demon. I believe, sure. If there’s a Hell Lord, logic says there’s gotta be some sort of counterpart. But praying? Not my thing.

Unless I think I’m about to die. Which I did. Frequently. Every ominous clang, every groan of stressed metal, had my heart plummeting into my boots, cold sweat trickling down my back, and me reflexively switching between mentally invoking the local Goddess and the Emperor. Sometimes both, in stereo.

Worth noting: everyone was tense. Even Sabretooth was throwing suspicious side-eyes toward whatever hellish squeal came next. The only one completely unbothered? Deadpool. Wanda had adapted, slumped across a barely-passable seat, snoring. How she slept through it, I’ll never know. Probably some mutant version of “sleep like the dead.”

Anyway, I hated flying. Hated it so much that, once we landed, I turned to Yuriko and flat-out said I was not flying back on that deathtrap—even if it meant torching the thing myself. She raised a brow, thought for a second, then gave me the smallest nod.

“Yessss!” Deadpool fist-pumped. “We’re hitchhiking back superhero-style! Plan: everyone hides in the bushes, and Salamander jumps out to flag a ride! When you get one, you wave us in! Sure, the driver won’t be thrilled, but, like, who cares? I’ll bring beer and pizza!”

Punisher shook her head. The vampires sighed in perfect sync. Sabretooth muttered, “I already regret this.” And me? I was grinning ear to ear under my helmet. Say what you will, Pool might be nuts, but she’s got a good vibe. Honestly, I don't get why everyone reacts so harshly—her jokes are funny.

Next came a bumpy ride in a cramped van to some half-deserted property with a big ol' barn. Vampires, Pool, and Punisher hopped out there. Yuriko, Victoria, and I drove on to the weapons test site. The barn was buzzing with vamp signatures—at least thirty, maybe more. I mentioned it to the girls. Oyama just nodded. Creed shrugged and said, “That’s the plan. Bloodsuckers are our stormtroopers.”

Cool by me. If the fang squad wants to play cannon fodder instead of mutants? No complaints here. Just as long as Deadpool doesn’t get eaten. When I said that out loud, Sabretooth murmured, with a trace of hope in her voice, “If only.”

We hit the testing site—some dusty canyon—unloaded a stash of weapons, set up recording gear, and got to work. The machine guns? Chef’s kiss. Once demonized, they basically turned into high-speed grenade launchers. That triple-barrel rotary cannon—I forgot the model—would’ve made even Doomguy cry tears of joy.

Then came the “Vampir” RPG, straight outta Soviet hell.

Let’s just say we ended the test by flipping our car back onto its wheels and noping the hell out. I was fine, thanks to my powers—shielded me from the sonic blast and only yeeted me a dozen meters across the desert. Like a tumbleweed. A very pissed-off, armored tumbleweed.

The girls? Not so lucky. If they weren’t regenerators, they’d probably be deaf. Blood from the ears, a broken arm for Creed—which she just snapped back into place with a wince and waved off my apologies. “That’s what tests are for. Next time, we won’t be idiots,” she said, patting my shoulder with her good arm. Yuriko just nodded and started the engine like she hadn’t almost eaten a warhead.

We made it to the temporary base without incident. No choppers, no jets, no nosy patrols. Bless this desolate wasteland. Either we weren’t noticed, nobody gave a damn, or someone’s planning to investigate that boom later.

By the time we rolled up, it was nearly morning. The op itself was scheduled for after sunset, so Yuriko ordered me to bed.

Daytime sleep? Not a fan. Head was heavy, mood was worse. I rolled into the briefing with a grumpy scowl—not that anyone could see it under the helmet.

The plan was simple: some “friendly assets” would cut off all comms to the base, wired and wireless. Vampire squads would surround the perimeter to catch any runners. Our team would kick down the front door. Literally.

Center of the base had a bunker entrance to the underground facility. My job? Melt the doors open—either with thermite or good ol’ plasma cutting. Sabretooth voted for the latter: “No, fuuuck that, Yuriko. He’ll burn straight through three floors, and there’s mutants down there.”

Once inside, we head to a control room on the second sub-level—where the cameras and partial base schematics are stored. Those, we download and wipe. Then, using the maps and real-time surveillance, we locate the captive mutants, break them out, and bounce. The base staff? Left to the fangs. Literally. The vamps get to do with them as they please.

At that part, Sabretooth shot me a worried look. I just shrugged. I wasn’t about to start moralizing over soldiers who “were just following orders,” not when those orders involved this kind of shit. No battlefield, no combat stress, just calmly maintaining a prison for innocent people. Screw that.

So yeah. No tattered-shirt heroics. No beating my chest yelling “save them all.” Sorry, Vic. Not happening.

We entered the base territory without much trouble. I mean, sure, the guards in the towers—and probably their surveillance systems—spotted the vampires tearing through the darkness at ridiculous speed pretty quick. Sirens started wailing, spotlights swung around like frantic drunks trying to catch shadows, and then came the crack of rifle fire. A few seconds later, the heavy chatter of machine guns kicked in…

But the bloodsuckers didn’t give a single shit about all that lead flying around. A few bullets might knock one off her feet, but three to five seconds later? Boom, she’s back up and sprinting toward the base like a feral goth track star.

“Uhhh…” I muttered, watching the chaos through my night-vision. “Sensei? Remind me again why we were needed? These red-eyed ladies seem to be doing just fine on their own.”

“Let’s move,” Yuriko replied instead of answering, pushing up from the ground and starting toward the gates at a casual jog.

Punisher and Sabretooth followed suit, then me, and finally Wanda fell in behind. The vamps were already vaulting the fence like Olympic gymnasts on crack. Judging by the sudden silence from the turret guns, the vanguard had already cleared a path.

“We’re needed, Salamander,” came the calm voice of Punisher as we ran. “Because if this little uppity nest pulled this off on their own, the other vampires—the aristocrats—would just wipe them off the map.”

She paused, focusing on the run, and Wanda took over like a relay baton.

“Top-level vamp ladies like things quiet. They’ve got blood to spare, and most of the old fangs don’t even feel the thirst anymore. Their herd dies off from age, not bites. And since those old hags spent their centuries stacking political and financial clout, they don’t want anything messing with their comfy status quo. They run conglomerates, corporations, even a few micro-nations. Revolution? Not on their to-do list.”

“Wait—people actually know about them?” I was honestly floored.

“Well, not everyone...” Deadpool said with a grin, placing a casual hand on my shoulder as Victoria and Yuriko slipped through the now-open gates. “But folks who know their way around the darker corners of this world? Yeah, we’re in the loop. Lucky you, you roll with professionals.”

“Zip it, lovebirds,” grunted the redhead with the skull print. “We’re moving.”

And so we did. Pool kept chirping the whole way in with a bright, “You did notice how well we click, right?” while swinging her guns around like she was at a damn parade, not even pretending to duck. Punisher, sighing, kept low and moved in short bursts after the other mutants heading toward the bunker entrance.

I figured I should probably follow the military vet’s lead—no need to waste energy shielding from random bullets. And I’d really prefer not to test what a direct RPG hit would do to my mighty chest. Shit was popping off deeper in the base, and one stray shot could ruin my whole aesthetic. The vampires? They were using shock batons, tranquilizers, even bondage gear—because apparently, "non-lethal takedown" now means "Fifty Shades of Nightstalker."

“Anyway,” Wanda kept chatting as bullets zipped somewhere overhead, “you’ve got aristos living large and peaceful, and then nests like this—small, scrappy, not part of the inner circle. They stay quiet, don’t cause waves, and the big girls ignore them. But our little op here guarantees this nest a tidy supply of blood-bags—er, rations—with none of the usual heat.”

“OW—you bitch…”

Deadpool spun around, having just taken a bullet to the shoulder. She raised her other hand and casually fired a shot into the shadows.

“Eat lead, asshole. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation with a gentleman?”

I darted in, grabbed her by the waist, and dragged her behind a sandbag nest some poor bastard soldier had left behind.

“It’s fine, Sal,” she said, waving it off like a scraped knee while jamming her fingers into the wound. “Oof—flattened on the bone.”

“Pool, please,” I muttered, unclipping my helmet and popping it off, leaving just the thin undersuit mask. Dumb move, maybe, but hey—my powers can handle it. “Can you not be a bullet antenna for once? It actually sucks seeing you hurt.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then casually popped the bullet out and flicked it aside. Her eyes softened, and she nodded. Then, with a mischievous little grin, she tugged up both our masks just enough to press her lips to mine.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” came the furious voice of Punisher right next to us. “What’s next, you gonna fuck him right here?”

“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” Deadpool giggled, then leaned in and whispered in my ear, her fingers stroking my cheek—still slick with her blood, ew—“This is way better than a romantic date.”

We reached the objective fast. A few narrow spots in the corridors put us in a literal bullet storm. The vamps couldn’t push through—too much lead flying around—but I grabbed a pair of riot shields, amped them up with demon juice, and charged the front lines. Behind my DIY fortress wall, our stormtroopers piled in.

The control room was decked out: massive monitors showing feeds from every corner of the base, desks full of computers, and a few poor techies tied up and unarmed.

I checked the base schematics. Four more levels down. Two of them were labs—human experimentation, mutant tinkering, the whole mad science buffet. Third was holding cells—test subjects, more labs. The last level was small: storage, utility rooms, and… a morgue.

Experiments. Mutants. Military. Something inside me clenched. My heart skipped a beat.

I looked over at the labeled monitor sections. Giant display, full grid. My blood was roaring in my ears. I did not want to see what I might find—but I stepped forward anyway, legs suddenly heavy, like walking through syrup.

Four bodies. Uncovered. Cold metal slabs. All of them bore signs of autopsy. Two adult women… and two little girls. One with jet-black hair. The other…

Flaming red.

Just like—

“Sandy…” I whispered under my breath, trembling. The name cracked out of me like glass breaking. The memory of that sweet kid I’d tried to bury deep came flooding back. Bitter, sharp, and raw.

The girl turned her head toward the camera, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

A heartbeat later, my chest felt like it was going to explode. My pulse thundered in the silence, pounding against my ribs with enough force to crack them. Her death-filmed eyes stared straight at me—again. Cold. Indifferent.

"You’re late, fake hero," a soft, distant voice pierced the blood-drum roar in my ears. "Again. How many more little girls have to die before you start showing up on time?"

"I…" My eyes burned. My mouth dried out. A lump the size of a fist wedged in my throat. My heartbeat stuttered into chaos, but her voice, that dead girl’s voice, was impossibly clear.

"Late," she said, flat and final. "Maybe try hurrying, before my friends end up on the tables next to me?"

I snapped my gaze to the other camera feeds in a panic—soldiers, lab techs in white coats, frantically hauling out the few remaining prisoners. I darted my eyes back to the morgue feed. The girl was lying still again. Eyes closed.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.

"Late… late…"

"Salamander?" Wanda’s voice cut through the phantom stillness behind me.

"I was late again…" I whispered. They're killing kids. Again. Those fuckers.”

"Sal, are you okay?"

But the drums in my ears had changed their rhythm. No longer panic.

Rage.

The Flame inside me, snarling louder and louder, poured fuel on the inferno growing behind my ribs. The air around me shimmered.

"But no more…"

The horror and helplessness were gone, burned away by fire and hate. The Flame howled in my veins, and I heard nothing but its madness.

"They won't kill any more children," I growled under my breath, my voice catching on something strange in my throat—teeth? Talking was getting… difficult.

I turned toward the others, and my lips—dry and cracked like the desert outside—peeled back into a vicious smile.

Around me stood people. Humans… and not so much. My gaze swept over the vampires, frozen mid-motion, all staring at me.

Their faces were hidden behind cloth masks, but I could feel it.

Fear.

Deadpool’s face was unreadable, but her stance screamed surprise. Punisher was tense, ready to strike. Victoria’s eyes were narrowed, focused. Yuriko… Yuriko was interested. Curious. Almost… eager?

Hope she doesn’t end up disappointed, I thought, sharing a crooked grin with the Flame, which cackled inside my bones.

“We need to hurry,” I said aloud, though I barely recognized my own voice. It scraped the air like a rusted blade against glass, hissed like an old, busted speaker. But whatever.

I turned and walked out of the control room.

Someone asked a question behind me—I didn’t hear it. The drums in my head were screaming.

The vamps were bogged down again in another corridor. Not my problem. No time. I pushed forward, noting how the bloodsuckers instinctively parted to let me through.

I reached for my Colt. It was already transformed—like everything I wore now. The grip felt odd in my hand—my claws had torn through my gloves and were getting in the way—but I could manage.

I stepped out into the hail of gunfire, lifted my arm… and aimed.

“Crush the vermin,” I snarled, pulling the trigger. The barrel of the Anaconda belched a twisted solar flare. I barely understood the growl-screech-hiss that escaped my own throat.

“Annihilate the enemy,” I said, firing again. The shot exploded in the ranks of the defenders like a bomb, hurling bodies like ragdolls.

“In the name of the Emperor, I bring death!”

My claws scraped against the metal floor with each step. My boots were torn. Good. Easier to run that way.

Gotta hurry…