We are all going to die very soon. A grisly death at the iniquitous hands of spontaneous combustion awaits everyone and everything. Even the paranoid few who prepared an expensive bunker to bake in. They’ve built themselves a spacious microwave. Even the lanky old postman who never failed to ask me how my nonexistent dog was doing, mistaking me for my neighbor every time. Even the nice cashier at the grocery store who always slipped an extra pack of Skittles for my...

Whoever named this place The Hole in the Wall was a perceptive one indeed. This rundown basement doubling as a bar and strip joint was haphazardly shoved into one side of an alleyway, away from the prying eyes of any Ark Sec Officer who happened to be prowling the streets. They wouldn’t dare set foot in here, if they even knew of its existence. Maybe that sounds comforting to some, like some kind of safe haven against the Ark’s Loyal Enforcers. In some ways it is exactly that. That is, if you don’t mind stepping into a steaming cesspool of mercs, small-timers, and general shitbirds.

The rifle feels heavy in my child sized hands. It takes a lot of effort to raise the rear sight up to my eye. My father moves the stock snugly under my arm. I stare down the length of polished wood and metal for a moment before I lower the gun, letting the barrel dig into the snow that cakes the grass under my boots. My gaze shifts to Dad as he sighs heavily, his breath visible against the cold air. He rummages through his coat pocket and produces a half empty pack of Marlboros. With his mouth he plucks out a cigarette and jams the pack back where it came from.