The Kiss of The Deep:: Deadmen's Reach

The Rebuilding

The months after everything had gone down felt like a blur. Everything shifted so fast, I could hardly catch my breath. I had to come to terms with Antonio's death—still can't say his name without it stinging—and with my new role as the team leader. And then there's my new eye. Every time I open it, it's like I see the world as a blueprint—a series of interconnected lines, wires, and mechanisms. It's useful, sure, but unsettling, like my humanity is slipping further away with every glance.

At least it helped when I was working on my new power armor dry suit. I got it from Antonio. Turns out, he'd been saving up, using the money we'd earned to buy it as a surprise gift, making sure I was ready for the arena. Hell, he even got The Kid a custom-made Thompson submachine gun. He keeps it on him all the time, cleaning and maintaining it like it's his lifeline. Guess it's how he copes with everything that happened, and I get it. We all need something to hold onto.

I, on the other hand, threw myself into more work for Lucky Seven. Things were falling apart in the city after the massacre. A lot of rich people either ended up dead or maimed, and with the chaos, you can guess what happened next: the rich, petty as ever, started putting bounties on anything that resembled a cult or monster. What a surprise.

But the suit, damn it... it's not just armor. It's... something else. Eldritch creature fused with military-grade ballistic protection and a Lovecraftian mechanical drysuit, designed for maintenance under crushing water pressure. Now, it's a tool for survival, but it tries to take control sometimes. I can feel it in my bones. The wires and coils hooked up to my nervous system? Yeah, 20% of my nerves are artificial now. Implants that I can't reverse, like a permanent reminder of how far I've gone.

That suit, though, it gives me power. I've customized it—added a powerful magnet on the back to hold my anchor, a custom-built ammo pouch for my Gatling rifle. And yet... here I am, getting sidetracked. I'm supposed to be updating my journal.

Señorita Salvaje's gear, too, got a major upgrade. I took some old drysuit parts, random scrap metal, and made her new armor. She loves it, though if I'm being honest, it's mostly cosmetic. The real strength is in her. Her skin is thicker than Kevlar, her muscles more durable than steel. I've seen her take a bullet to the shoulder, shake it off, and five seconds later, crush a cultist's skull with that same arm like it was made of paper. She's been modified beyond human, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit I'm starting to think I'm not much different anymore.

We've all been altered, changed by the things we've had to survive. But it's the cost, isn't it? Implants, upgrades—what we've had to do just to stay alive. The Kid lost an arm. Antonio's dead. Salvaje's barely hanging on after saving us from the cultists. And I'm here with a busted leg, a cursed eye, and an unshakable thirst for blood.

I've seen myself slip. I've seen the way I start to enjoy the killing, the violence. The suit's whispering to me, getting into my head. But I can't stop now. I can't afford to. The team needs me, and there's no way I'm backing out of this fight. Not with everything we've lost, not when there's a chance to make it all mean something.

This city's chaos, the way it's falling apart—it's like we're the only thing holding it together, for better or worse. But as long as we can still fight, as long as we can still breathe, we'll keep moving forward