The Kiss of The Deep:: Deadmen's Reach

The Invitation

It took a week of relentless work, but I did it. With the help of Lucky Seven and the Young Duchess, we built an army—a small but brutal force ready to cleanse the city of its filth. We were equipped to fight, armed with Combat Stems, Cosmic Stems, trench shotguns, and Tommy guns. We had 300 to 400 battle-hardened prisoners, 150 to 200 armored dry suits, and a name that would strike fear into the hearts of those who had wronged us: The Deep Keepers OF House of Steel.

The city's streets ran red with the blood of those who had hurt us. We tore through the cultist's hidden strongholds burning them to ash and we burn even that, along with anyone inside. The bodies of those we killed weren't spared either; we torched them without a second thought. But for those we left alive, the real horror began. We didn't just kill; we made them watch as we destroyed their corrupted churches, forcing them to witness the devastation we brought down on their once-proud empire that snaked their way into our city.

We spilled the blood of vengeance, and the streets were our battlefield. With each kill, I could feel the grip of my humanity slipping away, the anger and violence consuming me. It became harder to stay in control of the suit and keep my mind from shattering. My boots, soaked in blood, felt heavier with each step as if the weight of our mission was dragging me down.

I remember the day everything seemed to spiral further out of control. In the heat of battle, my Gatling rifle jammed. With no time to fix it, I grabbed a cultist by her leg and swung her into the crowd, using her like a weapon. Her screams echoed in my ears as her body became a tool for my violence. I swung her into one man's skull, then into another woman's chest, the wet crunch of bone filling the air. The grotesque act was like something from a nightmare, but I didn't care. I did it over and over again, tearing through their ranks until her broken, mangled body dropped at my feet.

It wasn't just her I was killing, though. I realized I was losing pieces of myself with every swing, every kill. Something was anchoring me to this madness, and it wasn't just the blood on my hands. I felt a strange weight on my back—an anchor, taped there. My hands trembled from the experimental implants coursing through my body, and my mind was slowly slipping into madness. I tried to hold on, but the harder I fought to remember my name, to remember who I was, the more the city consumed me. The only thing I could recall clearly was the destruction of everything around me. My past? It felt distant, unreachable.

I pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand. But then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around, but there was no one there. Just a whisper in my ear: "Little bro needs you. End this madness. Use the Blessed Eye."

The words haunted me, but before I could think too much about it, I heard footsteps. The Young Duchess's massive bodyguard and Salvaje—covered in blood and guts—stood on a hill of dead cultists. Salvaje jumped down, pulling me into a tight hug. It was something I needed, a small moment of comfort in the madness. But the bodyguard, stone-faced and grim, handed me a blood-red letter.

I opened it and read the contents, my eyes scanning over the words. It was from someone we hadn't seen coming.

"Hello inmate 7287624# you have been chosen for the Dog Collar Program, or rather D.C.P. for short. My daughter sees potential in you and your team. You will be given probation and work if you survive your mission to save your teammate. Do impress me. I'm waiting to meet you. P.S. Don't keep me waiting."

For the first time in a long while, I smiled. There was hope. A way forward. A chance at something better.

But hope is fragile, and nothing good lasts forever, especially not at the bottom of the ocean. As if to prove that point, speakers around the city crackled to life, and a voice echoed through the streets, giving directions to the outskirts of the city. We all knew what that meant: an invitation. But not just any invitation—this one was bold. The worst kind of invitation.

A bold enemy meant they had something up their sleeve. A final, cruel trick before they struck the killing blow. And as I stared out in the direction of the invitation, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were walking into a trap.

But there was no turning back now. This was it. We either ended this madness or became part of the machine. And I wasn't going to let them win.