Beyond the fields, ten towering oil rigs loomed in the distance, belching smoke as they refined stolen crude. A convoy of five massive trucks rumbled down the cracked highway, each loaded with chained slaves—Renegades and Mutation Republic captives. These poor bastards had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, now doomed to be sold, broken, or used for pleasure.
In the truck, Dominic "Vulture" Hayes, the leader of PMC Bermuda, lounged with a cigarette in one hand and his Personal Development Device (P.D.D.) in the other. His credits, property, and land were all displayed—proof of the empire he and his crew had built from blood, drugs, and corruption.
- 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 exhaled smoke, glancing at his lands, his crew and P.D.D . Ten people—vicious, greedy, and loyal only to themselves. They had all earned their place through violence, and now they were about to make another fortune selling off the weak while buying stronger slaves for labor and pleasure.
"Alright, you bastards," Dominic grinned, flicking his cigarette away. "Let’s get rich."
The convoy rolled to a stop near a rundown trading outpost about 50 KM from the Bermuda base. A place where anything could be bought or sold—if you had the credits and the stomach for it. The air reeked of sweat, piss, and desperation. Shackled men and women, former Renegades and Mutation Republic captives, huddled in the truck beds, their eyes filled with hopeless dread.
Standing near the center of the market was "Butcher" Salazar, a slave trader known for his lack of morals and love for profit. The greasy bastard licked his lips as he eyed Bermuda’s cargo.
"You boys bringing me more garbage?" Salazar sneered, spitting onto the ground.
Dominic cracked his knuckles. "We bring you business, asshole. You don’t like money?"
Salazar chuckled. "Fair enough. Show me what you’ve got."
Two of Bermuda’s crew—Mikhail "Bear" Ivanov and Reaper Liu—yanked the truck doors open, dragging the slaves out one by one. Some of them stumbled, weak from hunger, while others tried to resist—only to be met with a boot to the ribs.
"Shut the fuck up and stand still," Mikhail growled, his thick Russian accent making him sound even more menacing.
Salazar walked along the line, inspecting the slaves like cattle. "Tch. Some of these look barely worth feeding."
Dominic smirked. "That’s why we’re selling these ones. Weak, useless, or too fucked up to work. But don’t worry, we’re buying too. Got anything strong? Maybe something worth… breaking in?"
Salazar’s eyes lit up at that. "Oh, I got exactly what you need."
Salazar whistled, and two of his men dragged out a group of new slaves—fifty in total. Unlike the ragged weaklings Bermuda was selling, these were prime stock—strong men with muscle and endurance, women with healthy, attractive bodies, all looking just scared enough to be controlled but not so broken that they were useless.
"These are fresh," Salazar bragged, patting one of the captives on the back. "Picked them up just a few days ago. Fighters, laborers, some nice company too, if you catch my drift ahh."
Dominic grinned as he looked them over. His crew murmured among themselves, already deciding who they wanted.
Mikhail "Bear" Ivanov grabbed a tall, dark-skinned man with a soldier’s build. "This one’s mine. Strong bastard. I'll fuck him first then work or die trying."
Reaper Liu, the silent, sadistic sniper, tilted his head toward a petite redhead. "I’ll take her. I'll lick her hard. HAHAHA" His voice was cold, devoid of emotion.
"Finally, someone with taste," laughed Sophia "Blitz" Morales, one of the few women in Bermuda PMC. She sauntered up to a shackled blonde, running a hand along the woman's face. "You’re coming with me, sweetheart."
Some took theirs for work, others for pleasure.
Lena "Pixie" Volkov, a known lesbian sadist, grabbed two young women, her eyes gleaming with wicked delight.
Dante "Riot" Quinn, a brutal enforcer, picked a muscular male, dragging him forward. "You belong to me now. You fight, you work, or I fucking break you."
Each of Bermuda’s crew claimed their pick, leaving the rest for general labor.
"Looks like we got a deal," Dominic said,
P.D.D Credits Transection.
- Credits: 103,487,950 Credits
- Items Purchase: 2,000,000 Credits
- Items Sold : 300,000 Credits
- Balance : 101,787,950 Credits
shaking Salazar’s hand. "Pleasure doing business."
Salazar grinned, counting his credits as Bermuda’s crew led their new ‘property’ back to the trucks. The convoy was headed home—back to Bermuda Base, where things would get even worse for the captives.
The convoy rumbled down the cracked highway, a trail of dust and exhaust fumes kicking up behind them. Inside the trucks, the new slaves sat in silence, too afraid to speak, while their captors laughed, smoked, and snorted lines of coke off the metal dashboards.
Dominic sat in the lead truck, leaning back as he rolled a cigarette. "Another good haul," he muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke.
Dante "Riot" Quinn chuckled, kicking his feet up. "Hell yeah. Sold the useless ones, got some new meat. Fuckin' win-win."
Beside him, Lena "Pixie" Volkov was playing with her new toy—one of the young women she’d picked. The girl flinched as Lena ran a blade across her collarbone, not deep enough to cut, just enough to feel. She took it further down until she see's those small pink nipples.
"She’s a pretty one," Lena cooed, licking her lips. "I think I’ll have fun breaking her in."
Sophia "Blitz" Morales grinned, sitting on the lap of her own pick. "You’re taking your time, Pixie. I like to get straight to the fun." She tugged the blonde’s hair back, forcing her to look up. The fear in the woman’s eyes made Sophia shudder with excitement.
In the back of another truck, Mikhail "Bear" Ivanov had his new slave chained to the metal floor. The strong, dark-skinned man glared at him but stayed silent.
"You got some fight in you," Mikhail mused, tapping a cigar against his boot. "That’s good. You’ll need it."
Across from him, Reaper Liu had barely moved, his chosen redhead curled up in the corner, trembling. He simply watched her, expression unreadable, as if he was deciding whether she was even worth his time.
The drugs, laughter, and cruel games continued as the convoy neared their destination—Bermuda Base, their lawless, debauched kingdom.
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But the night wasn’t over yet.
As the convoy neared Bermuda Base, the landscape shifted from open wasteland to fortified chaos. The makeshift stronghold was built from salvaged metal, stolen prefab structures, and towering walls of scrap. Armed guards stood on the perimeter, some half-dressed, others so high on stims they could barely stand straight. Floodlights flickered, illuminating the filthy, lawless empire these bastards called home.
Dominic leaned forward, watching as the gates creaked open, revealing the den of vice and violence inside. Music blared, drunk mercs stumbled through the dirt streets, and smoke from burning trash and narcotics filled the air. This wasn’t just a base—it was a kingdom of sin, run by the worst of the worst.
As soon as the trucks stopped, chaos erupted.
"Get the new ones out!" Dante "Riot" Quinn barked, grabbing a whip and cracking it against the truck walls. The slaves flinched, their bodies instinctively reacting to the sound.
The back doors slammed open, and Bermuda’s crew dragged their new ‘property’ onto the dirt. Some slaves stumbled, others were yanked forward by their chains. The strongest were separated for labor, while the most attractive were taken elsewhere.
Some were chosen for pleasure immediately.
Sophia "Blitz" Morales and Lena "Pixie" Volkov wasted no time, pulling their picks aside near a stack of crates. "I don’t like waiting," Sophia purred, pressing the blonde against the metal as she tore at her clothes.
Lena grinned, her blade tracing her slave’s hip. "Neither do I."
A few feet away, Dante "Riot" Quinn shoved his new male slave to his knees, gripping his hair tightly. "Welcome home, bitch. Get used to this. Now suck."
Some of the crew didn’t even bother going inside.
Near the entrance, a few mercs openly indulged, using stims and taking their slaves on the spot. Some laughed and cheered, others focused on their own depravity.
But for Dominic and a few others, work still had to be done.
The air inside Bermuda Base was thick with smoke, sweat, and the pungent stench of burning chemicals. The moment the convoy rolled in, the true nature of this place revealed itself. Gunfire echoed in the distance, likely a drunken argument ending in someone’s death. A few heavily armed guards stood lazily at their posts, passing a bottle of bootleg whiskey while ignoring the screaming coming from the lower levels of the base.
As soon as the slaves were processed, the real work began.
Dominic and a few key members of the crew moved toward the command center—a rusted-out bunker covered in gang markings and bullet holes. Inside, maps of poppy fields, oil rigs, and trade routes were pinned to the walls. Stacks of credits, ammunition, and drugs littered the room.
Mikhail "Bear" Ivanov lit a cigar, exhaling slowly. "We made a decent cut tonight, but we need to move more product. We can’t sit on weak slaves for too long."
"We sold the useless ones, but we need more supplies," Dante "Riot" Quinn muttered, running a hand over his shaved head. "We’ve been burning through stims and ammo too fast. If the Mutation Republic gets desperate, they’ll come after our stock."
Sophia "Blitz" Morales grinned, leaning against the table. "Let them. We need more slaves, anyway."
Dominic cracked his knuckles. "We’re not just waiting around. We hit the poppy fields again tomorrow. More crops, more stims, more profit."
But before any of them could continue, a loud explosion shook the base.
The room rattled, loose bottles clinking against the floor.
"What the fuck was that?!"
A guard stumbled into the bunker, blood running down his face. "The oil rig! One of the fucking rigs is on fire!"
Dominic's expression darkened. The oil rigs were one of their biggest assets—if they lost even one, it meant millions of credits burned away.
"Get your shit together. We’re putting that fire out," he growled, already heading for the vehicles.
The night sky burned red, a massive pillar of fire and smoke rising from the distant oil rig. Even from Bermuda Base, the heat could be felt—a reminder that their fortune was built on volatile ground.
Dominic and his crew moved fast, jumping into armored trucks and tearing out of the base at full speed. The dirt roads leading to the rigs were uneven, littered with corpses of raiders and scavengers who had tried to steal from Bermuda PMC.
Inside one of the trucks, Mikhail "Bear" Ivanov" loaded his rifle, cracking his neck. "Someone did this on purpose. There’s no fucking way this is an accident."
Dante "Riot" Quinn smirked, lighting a stim-laced cigarette. "If it’s sabotage, we find the bastards and nail their guts to the fence."
Sophia "Blitz" Morales leaned out the window, eyes reflecting the glow of burning fuel. "That fire’s too big for just a leak. Someone wanted to send a message."
As the convoy rushed toward the disaster, the situation became clearer—the entire rig was engulfed in flames, workers scrambling like ants, some already burning alive, their screams drowned out by the roaring inferno.
"Fucking hell," Dominic growled.
They pulled up near the site, kicking open the truck doors. Bermuda’s mercs immediately got to work—some grabbing fire suppression gear, others securing the perimeter.
Reaper Liu stood by the truck, watching the chaos with his usual cold, emotionless gaze.
"Orders?" he asked.
Dominic scanned the area, his mind already moving ten steps ahead.
"We put the fire out, we find out who the fuck did this, and we make an example out of them."
Mikhail barked orders to the workers, forcing them to form fire suppression teams while Bermuda’s snipers positioned themselves—just in case this was a setup for an ambush.
The next few hours were a brutal battle against the flames. Water trucks emptied their tanks, chemical suppressants were used, and some workers simply collapsed from exhaustion, only to be replaced by slaves forced into the burning wreckage.
Eventually, the fire began to die down, but the damage was catastrophic. The rig was barely standing, metal beams twisted and warped from the heat. At least a dozen workers were dead, and the oil production was crippled.
Dominic wasn’t just angry. He was fucking livid.
"Find out who did this," he snapped at his crew. "And when we do, I want their heads mounted on spikes."
Sophia grinned, cracking her knuckles. "Now that’s my kind of fun."
Bermuda PMC had lost something valuable tonight—and someone was going to pay for it.
The fires smoldered, leaving behind a charred, skeletal husk of what was once a fully operational oil rig. The night air reeked of burning crude, scorched flesh, and melted metal. What should have been another profitable night had turned into a fucking disaster.
Dominic stood near the edge of the wreckage, fists clenched as he surveyed the damage. He could already see the credits bleeding out of this operation. Fuel shortages meant weaker trade leverage. Weaker leverage meant less control. And Bermuda PMC didn’t do less control.
Mikhail "Bear" Ivanov stood beside him, his usual calm replaced by a dangerous edge. He pulled out a cigar, lighting it on a still-glowing piece of metal.
"Sabotage," he muttered. "No doubt about it."
Dante "Riot" Quinn kicked a half-burned corpse aside, smoke trailing from his cigarette. "No raider gangs around here would be stupid enough to pull this shit."
Sophia "Blitz" Morales squatted near the remains of a charred worker, using the edge of her knife to poke at the body.
"Then it’s gotta be someone bigger." She looked up at Dominic, eyes gleaming with interest. "Could be the Mutation Republic or a pmc. They’ve been pushing harder lately. Maybe they wanted to cripple our supply lines."
Dominic’s jaw tightened. It made sense. The Republic’s freaks needed stims, drugs, and painkillers just to function. And other PMC's wanted oil land and some wanted crops. Taking out Bermuda’s fuel supply meant cutting off a chunk of the trade routes that supplied those drugs.
"Then we send a message," he said coldly.
Reaper Liu had been silent the whole time, standing like a ghost in the shadows. When he finally spoke, it was calm and precise.
"A message doesn’t just need to be sent. It needs to be burned into their fucking skulls."
Dominic smirked. That was why Liu was here. No conscience. No hesitation.
He turned back to the crew. "We’re not just fixing this. We’re retaliating. We find out exactly who’s responsible, and we wipe them the fuck out."
By the time the crew returned to Bermuda Base, the night was already fading into dawn. The base was still alive with sin—drunken mercs stumbling through the dirt streets, slaves either working or being used, and the ever-present haze of narcotics filling the air.
The crew split off—some heading to their rooms, others to their favorite vices.
Lena "Pixie" Volkov dragged her new plaything toward her personal quarters, whispering something that made the girl visibly pale.
Sophia "Blitz" Morales laughed as she shoved her slave into a nearby room, slamming the door behind her.
Dante "Riot" Quinn leaned against a stack of crates, blowing smoke into the face of his captive. "You’re mine now, bitch. Better get used to it."
Meanwhile, Dominic, Mikhail, and Reaper Liu made their way to the underground levels of the base—where the real business happened.
Because while Bermuda PMC thrived on chaos, it also thrived on profit. And that meant the Black Market.
PMC Bermuda Losses : 10,000,000 Credits , - 1 oil rig destroyed.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
On a distant mountain ridge, two armored figures stood, watching the Bermuda land through binoculars.
The fire still raged. Mission accomplished.
One of them, clad in black, lowered his binoculars. "First objective complete. Oil rig’s gone."
The second, his armor had a white cross on his shoulder adjusting his rifle, smirked. "Next phase begins soon."
They turned away, vanishing into the night.
Bermuda PMC never saw the end coming.
End Of Chapter 1
mercenary culture and the brutal reality of war economies. In a world where suffering and greed drive everything, who truly holds power? The ones with guns—or the ones who control the supply lines?