The wasteland stretched for miles, a broken land of cracked earth and forgotten ruins, bathed in the eerie glow of a dying sun. The air was thick with the acrid stench of crude oil and burnt chemicals. This was the true world—beyond the cold metal walls of the Citadel.
Poppy fields, vast and crimson, painted the landscape like spilled blood. They swayed in the dry wind, their delicate petals concealing a brutal reality. In the distance, crude processing facilities churned—turning raw opium into heroin, morphine, and high-grade painkillers. Nearby, rows of cannabis fields provided ganja and THC extracts, while hidden underground labs refined stimulants and synthetic drugs for the Republic’s endless hunger. Workers, some enslaved, others simply too broken to resist, toiled under the watchful eyes of armed enforcers. The Mutation Republic, twisted by their own unnatural biology, consumed these substances in obscene amounts—not for pleasure, but for survival. Their bodies, warped by generations of radiation and genetic decay, required constant sedation just to function.
And where there was need, there was profit.
Beyond the drug fields, ten towering oil rigs loomed over the horizon, skeletal giants pumping thick black gold from the earth’s dying veins. Armored trucks trailed between them, transporting crude oil to refineries controlled by the only force in the wasteland more ruthless than the Republic.
PMC Bermuda.
On a rusted shipping container overlooking the poppy fields, Darius "Brimstone" Kova sat, boots kicked up on a crate, eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his Personal Development Device (P.D.D.). The numbers blinked back at him in cold digital precision.
* Credits: 103,487,950
* Assets: (3000 ACRES) 12 sq. km of drug fields, 10 oil rigs, 4 refineries, 540 "laborers"
* PMC Bermuda Rank: Founder
He smirked. A hundred million credits. Enough to buy a hundred lives. Or take a thousand.
Around him, nine others stood, watching the fields like predators eyeing their prey. These were the warlords of PMC Bermuda, each with their own domain, their own blood-soaked specialty.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
* Darius "Brimstone" Kova – The Commander. Cold, calculated, wielding an M4A1, he built Bermuda from the ground up, forging it into a mercenary empire.
* Lana "Iron Viper" Moreau – The Enforcer. A former Citadel executioner turned rogue, she carried twin Glock 19s, her kill count in the triple digits.
* Reza "Ghost" al-Salim – The Assassin. Silent, deadly, a suppressed MP5 in one hand, a combat knife in the other.
* Hector "Mad Dog" Ruiz – The Muscle. A beast with a sawed-off shotgun and a temper that turned every negotiation into a massacre.
* Nikolai "Specter" Volkov – The Sniper. His Remington 700 had ended more lives than most small wars.
* Aisha "Black Lotus" Khan – The Smuggler. No one moved weapons, drugs, or people like she did. Her Uzi was always close.
* Vincent "Doc" Holloway – The Surgeon. Not a doctor, but a specialist in extracting information. His scalpel did more talking than his Colt 1911.
* Bao "Rat King" Wu – The Tracker. If someone needed to be found, he’d do it. His Mac-10 made sure they never escaped.
* Selene "Red Widow" Petrova – The Diplomat. Silver-tongued, poison-hearted, her FN Five-seveN was as deadly as her words.
* Elijah "Wraith" Carter – The Saboteur. Explosions were his signature, his AK-74 a backup when things got personal.
Together, they controlled the wasteland’s black market empire—guns, drugs, oil, and flesh. Unlike Phoenix Corp, which served the Citadel’s interests, Bermuda answered to no one. They didn’t take orders. They gave them.
And they had crossed lines no one else dared to.
A low rumble echoed across the fields. A convoy approached.
Darius flicked his P.D.D. shut, standing. He already knew what this was. Another delivery, another deal. Bermuda supplied everyone—Mutation Republic warlords, rogue PMCs, even corrupt Citadel officials looking for off-the-books stims and oil.
As the trucks rolled in, an explosion shattered the quiet. A fireball erupted in the distance, consuming one of the processing plants. The radio on Darius’s hip crackled.
"Boss! Incoming! It’s the Republic—they’re raiding the fields!"
Darius’s smirk widened into a grin. "Let them come."
Lana, her glocks already drawn, chuckled. "Guess they didn’t like our last shipment."
Hector pumped his shotgun. "Then we’ll send ‘em another. With a few extra holes."
The sky darkened as a swarm of Republic fighters surged across the fields, armed and desperate. Mutants—raging, drug-fueled monsters, driven by pain and addiction.
Darius pulled his M4A1 to his shoulder.
This was the law of the wasteland.
The strong ruled.
The weak served.
And PMC Bermuda was about to remind everyone who owned this war.