I was expecting it.

“I figured as much,” you look at Arabella and the twins as they make a loose half-circle around you. “Stay out of trouble, and maybe mingle with your new…uhm, coworkers.”

“But what if we run into Mandy?” Mikko frowns.

“It's best not to engage with her,” you say, explaining your stance.

“What if we have to?” Gwendolion says.

“Arabella will take care of it,” you look at her for confirmation, and she smiles at you.

Scarlet waves you over as the Softspot. There is No Slack and Hard Spot return, likely because Scarlet is here to rally the small crew together for your morning meeting. She looks at the rather, and you see her hiding her disgust. This wasn’t her idea of a perfect crew. “I suppose we should find a seat and get to talking, right?”

The men, including yourself, agree and depart from the hotel. In under an hour, a metal tray with an array of breakfast foods, most being freeze-dried. However, you didn’t expect anything else, so don’t complain.

There are eight contractors at the table: You, Scarlet, No Slack, Hard Print, and Softspot. The others are Sevens, Fifth-Finger, and Half-Gob.

You vaguely remember seeing a “Sevens” in your first year as an independent contractor. It was difficult to say this was the same one, however.

Fifth-Finger was missing a thumb on his left hand, which was off-putting for the first time. He was old, probably cutting close to his 50’s. He also didn’t seem like the type that would want to depend on for something vigorous.

Half-Gob was a girl with short black hair and almond-shaped blue eyes. She was short and athletic, and her arms were inked with oriental designs and animals. The ink rolled past her shoulders and to her fingertips. Like most female contractors, her makeup was light, but Half-Gob’s right eye was accented with red eyeliner, which complimented her blue eyes. Like the other girls, she was wearing a romper dress.

Hard Print was an older gentleman, as you recalled the first time you saw him. So was No Slack. You wondered how long they’ve been in this line of business, as people who lived this lifestyle typically didn’t last that long.

Softspot, the youngest at the table, kept talking about something, aiming to make Scarlet laugh or to get her attention, but it didn’t work. He had short, messy blonde hair and gray eyes that focused in and out of things around the room. People, food, the buildings outside… Anything that moved or that was colorful.

Your meeting acts more like an introduction to the team. The only person that sticks out to you is Half-Gob. Her title suggested a much uglier face than the one you were seeing. Her personality was lackluster, though; she ignored everyone at the table unless they were speaking to her directly or if Scarlet was addressing the whole table with expectations and activities that required the presence of everyone…

“To evaluate everyone’s abilities, though. I want to take us to a gun range,” Scarlet pokes at her tray with a plastic fork. “To be clear, this isn’t a pissing contest, so don’t show off. No offense, Fifth Finger, but with your fucked up left hand, I’m curious what you bring to the table.”

Half-Gob leaned into the table with her chin resting on her open palm. “If you’re curious about our specialties, you can just request our paperwork for your own review,” she says. “Going out to target practice is utterly pointless.”

Scarlet glares at Half-Gob. “There’s easier ways to say you’re a shit shot.”

“Easier ways to see which one of us is underqualified to work,” she offers, avoiding negative undertones.

“This is how we’re going to do it,” Scarlet says, providing no hint of other options.

Half-Gob looks down at her tray and starts to eat. Softspot leans in, chewing loudly. “I’m going to make all of you look like newborns at the range. High speeds, baby. No drag!”

“Good Jesus,” Scarlet sighs under her breath.

Hours after breakfast, you go to the outskirts of town. You’re equipped with your gear, while everyone else came with theirs. Softspot arrives with an overloaded pistol belt and a handgun with all the new tech available in the region: a red dot, light, extended magazine, and muzzle device.

In the meantime, Scarlet has her 1911 with nothing on it. It’s just black and polished, reflective in the sunlight.

When you rearmed yourself, you left behind your pocket Jäger Pistol and took something full-sized instead. You didn’t usually use your S&W Model 439, but it felt appropriate to carry it this time.

Sevens and Fifth-Finger carried revolvers'. They were heavier and longer than anything else anyone brought. The grips were rubberized, and the barrels shone- no doubt harnessing the 357 caliber.

Lastly was Half-God. Another semi-automatic, but unlike the rest of you, she wasn’t reduced to using pre-war tech or refurbished designs. She had a Japanese model unfamiliar to yours. The slide indicated it was chambered in 9mm, but the name “SCK2000” was foreign in more ways than one. She had a light attached to hers, but unlike Softspot, that’s as far as modifications go.

The range consisted of metal plates, already hit by past practice runs—poppers, dueling trees, and the Texas Star. You were accustomed to these sights, having a considerable background in sports shooting in your youth.

Scarlet rolls her neck, her exposed shoulder pinkish beneath the sun. “I don’t need to explain what any of this is, right?” She wore black jeans, sneakers, and a black tank top. You must like yourself; only you opted for a T-shirt.

You shook your head, looking at everyone’s gear sprawled on the table. Everything was different- down to the kind of bandages you carried inside your IFAKs. The only person who seems to have everything as closely ordered as you and Scarlet is Half-Gob. By now, you had been suspecting her to be a contractor of high standards, dealing with gigs outside of your typical range, unlike the others who probably left the state or picked up a job that required a high skill rating. Not all Contractors are trained equally, anyway. At least everyone has hearing protection...

“We’re just shooting, right?” Softspot said, chambering his pistol and pointing it down range, mimicking gunfire and recoil. “This’ll be easy. Let me have the first run.”

“Unload your magazines and fill them up with these instead,” Scarlet tosses you, Softspot, and Half-Gob with a plain box of training mutations. It’s unmarked, and the bullets look old. “For the others, double up on your speed loaders.”

“We only have three-speed loaders. Is that alright?” Sevens says, Fifth-Finger nodding.

“That’s fine,” she says. “Have your loose bullets easily available then. Whatever ammo you shoot, I’ll pay for.”

“No worries, girl,” Seven starts clipping his bullets into place. “I can replace whatever I shoot.”

“Same,” Fifth-Finger says, a slight southern accent peaks. He’s also preparing his rounds.

Scarlet looks at you, and Half-Gob has you speedily unload and reload your magazines. Softspot quickly followed the given task and didn’t fumble a single round. “Warren,” Scarlet calls. “Step and deal with the targets.”

“No rules?” A familiar since of excitement shoots through you. You did this for months before becoming a guild member to start your contracting career.

Scarlet smirked, shaking her head. “Of course not. Just hit the target. Clear the stage.”

You cock the hammer back on your pistol and pressure-check to ensure you’re chambered. You already knew, but this kind of fidgeting made your mind free. Scarlet produces a handful of peanuts from her pistol belt and stuffs one into her mouth. She chews and works her tongue around the shell before spitting it out. “Shooter, are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She spits again. “Beep.”