The smell of the poor... I hated it. It clung to the air, like something rotting—a reminder of everything I despised, everything I was desperate to leave behind. Even the sight of one of them—one of those peasants—was enough to ruin my whole day. It was like stepping in shit, every goddamn time.
And here I was, walking through a crowd of them, just to get to the other side of this godforsaken wall. Ahead, the gates loomed in all their terrifying glory. Two massive structures, each one more imposing than the last. The first was the old, rusted gate—part of the long-standing Sentinel Wall that had once been the only defense against the outside world. A monstrous door of rusted iron, still functional but covered in the scars of years of neglect and survival. Thick iron bolts ran across the seams, some welded in places where time had worn thin. No one ever talked about it like it was a relic, but standing in front of it, I could feel the age of it—old and battered but still standing strong.
The gates groaned open with a loud, mechanical BEEEP, the first sign of our journey ahead. Beyond, I knew there was nothing but death and decay, a vast wasteland taunting us. The small crowd of mercenaries ahead of me parted, passing through this worn gate like they had done a hundred times before.
But it wasn't just the old gate that held the real threat. Not far from it were the actual protective shields—the Aeon Fields—glimmering faintly with energy. The shields protected the dome and were as impenetrable as anything the world had left. But as we approached, a narrow slit in the energy field opened up in front of us. It wasn't a permanent opening—it only lasted long enough for our group to pass through, designed for these rare forays into the wasteland. A temporary rift, one that closed the second our group passed through, ensuring nothing dangerous made it inside. The thought alone made me feel safer than I had any right to.
I checked my suit, ensuring the seals were tight. The equipment wasn't fancy, just the bare minimum for a job like this. My suit was simple: a dark carbon fiber exterior with a lightweight tactical frame designed for mobility and utility. The visor on my helmet was scratched, but still functional—everything to help me survive in the damn wastelands. Nothing glamorous, nothing special.
But then, I looked over at the old man next to me. His suit was a different breed entirely.
The guy was an absolute beast. His armor looked twice as thick as anyone else's, with pieces of jagged, darkened steel that could withstand nearly anything thrown at it. The torso was reinforced with overlapping plates of plated armor, patched in some places with crisscrossing patterns of scarred metal, reminding me of someone who'd survived countless brutal encounters. The helmet was more reinforced too—built for nothing but pure brute force. You could see the way the light glinted off the sharp edges, designed for heavy combat and intimidation. No doubt about it, this was the suit of a soldier who'd earned their reputation and built it in blood.
I knew it well enough—the old man wasn't here because he needed the work. He was an Ironclad veteran, and from the looks of it, this suit was a special modification for pure brawn: stronger joints, added plating for extra impact absorption. Hell, even his gauntlets were fitted with what looked like built-in shock absorbers that could deliver a punch capable of smashing skulls. Not just for protection; it was built to take the fight to anyone, and to never back down from a challenge. If anything went sideways, it wasn't the armor's fault. It was the sheer force behind those fists.
"You make sure you don't go getting yourself killed out there, pretty boy?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, just enough to make the hairs on my neck stand on end. His suit creaked as he shifted, every move as controlled as his expression.
I would've loved to hit him back with a sarcastic comment, but I didn't. One, because I didn't feel like pissing off someone who could literally flatten me, and two... it was bad luck to argue with someone ranked above you.
"Yeah, Cap," I replied with a forced grin. "Don't worry about me."
The old man didn't say anything else. Just a grunt as he moved forward, and the way his armor seemed to effortlessly absorb every step was enough to send a silent reminder that this guy was built for a battle—something far beyond what any of us might face out there
Standing at attention by the gates were two guards, standing like mountains made of steel, watching the entrance like hawks. Both of them were humongous, easily over 7 feet tall, their bodies glistening with powerful armor and an aura of intimidation. The first guard, to the left, was a thick, barrel-chested man whose shoulders looked as if they were made for nothing but warfare. His jaw was a slab of muscle, his eyes hidden under a darkened visor, but you could feel him staring you down from beneath it. The second was even bigger—leaner, taller, but no less terrifying. His long arms hung down, not relaxed but coiled, ready to strike at any given moment. These were no mere gatekeepers. These were soldiers, hardened by years of experience in the chaos outside. They made it clear we weren't the ones in charge here.Two armored guards stood at the posts beside the gates, like stone statues, each of them scanning the crowd with the focus of someone who'd seen things—things that never should've been. Their suits gleamed under the harsh light—tactical, reinforced armor built for both defense and lethal aggression. Each soldier wore a tactical helmet, visors tinted dark. A heavy, black composite of metal and plating covered their bodies from head to toe, emblazoned with the insignia of the Ironclad Brotherhood, a symbol known to strike fear into anyone who'd ever crossed their path. They were silent, alert, ever watchful, their eyes unwavering as we passed. The posts themselves were little more than narrow towers, where a handful of guards could keep watch, always keeping the gates secure—always alert for any sign of danger.
As we walked up, I saw a small exchange happen between the old man and the guards. Neither of them said a word, but when the veteran stepped forward, the two guards recognized him instantly. One of them, the bigger of the two, gave him a barely perceptible nod—nothing too friendly, just a nod of mutual understanding and recognition. The kind of nod given only by those who'd lived through hell and fought beside you. The old man barely acknowledged it, just a small grunt, and moved forward without missing a beat.
I followed, pulling myself into line with the others as we neared the threshold of the shield. With my helmet sealed tight, and the metallic clinks of the old gate closing behind us, I took a final breath. No turning back now.
In the back of the group, the three scientists had begun to prepare. They weren't much to look at, not for someone like me. The first one, a fat man in his 60s, waddled along with all the grace of a winded cow. His sparse, thinning hair barely made it past his scalp, and his thick, wrinkled face had a permanent layer of sweat clinging to it. Everything about him seemed past his prime—the body sagged under the weight, and his eyes were half-lidded, half-focused, maybe on the research and half on keeping his breath steady. I couldn't understand how someone that soft and slow could survive out here. But he did.
Beside him, there was the second man. A black man in his 40s, dressed in a long, worn lab coat that nearly dragged the floor. His glasses reflected the dull glow from the shield rift, and a scholar's glint was evident in his dark eyes. Where the first man's suit was sluggish and tired, this one looked sharp—like someone who would've stood in the classroom giving lectures, but that academic poise had clearly served him well in surviving whatever insanity this world now required. Even with that calm gaze, you could tell he was different from the rest. Always calculating. Probably smart enough to figure out things in this wasteland, assuming he survived long enough to do so.
And the third one... the girl. She looked so out of place, almost like a kid trying to survive grown-up shit. No older than twenty, she wore thick glasses, her messy brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. The way she clung to her pack like it was a lifeline told me she'd never stepped foot outside before, let alone survived a real excursion. She had that classic 'nerd' vibe—too eager, too terrified, trying to seem like she had it all together but failing. I'm not one to care about most people, but seeing her already struggling to lug her equipment made me feel a slight pang of sympathy. Her entire demeanor screamed 'disaster waiting to happen.'
They were part of the Restoration Society, sure. But I couldn't help but think that all they were was a bunch of glorified theorists. If the damn mutants didn't get them, their ignorance would.
"Ready?" The old man's voice boomed from ahead of me, causing me to snap out of my thoughts. His heavy suit creaked and groaned with each movement, an almost mechanical rhythm. He was ready.
"All set, Cap," I said along with the rest of the squad , adjusting my equipment and making sure there was nothing wrong with my weapons. As we stepped outside the rift and onto the wastelands.