The old man seemed reluctant, but he grabbed Corey’s sweaty hand and sealed the deal.

Corey stopped himself from sighing in relief, forcing a straight face as he had been doing this entire conversation. Conveniently, his straight face also happened to be his intimidating face, courtesy of him having a mean mug that only a mother could love.

It would hide his fear, he hoped. Truth be told he was terrified of the geezer, of the sociopath hiding behind that thin façade of a ‘kindly’ old man. Especially since he’d met Martin a few times before, and he hadn’t noticed anything at the time. A damned Manchester City fan, sure, but nothing worse than that.

He no longer bought any of that shit. That the old man was anything less than a monster and a savage sociopath. One didn’t just kill a fellow human being, but this man hadn’t hesitated to cave in three skulls with a simple cane.

Corey knew a thing or two about getting hit in the head, so he knew that skulls didn’t give that easily. Even when using a baseball bat or a lead pipe, you had to put all your strength behind a strike to fracture it. You really needed to strike with full intent to kill in order to kill someone that way.

A concussion, sure, he had taken and dealt a few of those himself. But the only time his skull fractured was when that giant Chelsea bastard ‘The Whale’ hit him full swing with a pipe and he made the mistake to brace instead of falling with the blow.

It had been only a small fracture, smaller than the size of his thumb and only a nail-width on the inside, but it had still been enough for the Whale to stop the brawl right away. His own lads dragged him to the hospital, and that Chelsea bastard had the damned honour to offer Corey a free strike. He knocked a tooth out with a mean right hook, and they shared a pint after that before returning to being enemies.

The others didn’t get that, and this psychopath Martin clearly didn’t either. Only he and his lads grasped that there was a difference between not being an upstanding citizen and having no boundaries, so when he looked around he saw that only Small and Tall were as uncomfortable with this as he was.

The others that joined later, the pencil-pushers and simpletons that decided to choose for their own good when their life drastically changed, looked like they weren’t the biggest fans of this development either but that it was a natural one. They picked sides with the bad guys, so joining with a murderer was but the next logical step.

He resented that, he really did.

He knew it was the fault of the telly, of the movies that so gladly depicted his kind as the bad guys. Showing bullies that would escalate from twirlies to pulling a knife without hesitation, or gangs that would ice a man and bury him in the river with the same ease as beating him up, or that all criminal debt collectors broke kneecaps without empathy for how debilitating and painful that would be.

As far as those comfy and stuck-up middleclass authors were concerned, the only difference between a labourer thug and a stone-cold criminal was the opportunity. The only difference between beating someone up with or without brass knuckles was having any on you.

And it seemed that this sociopath Martin too had those delusions of Corey being some untrustworthy bastard that would leap to commit crimes no matter the severity, all the while considering himself some sad martyr. Corey was familiar with the judgemental stares, but this was a whole new level of hypocrisy.

Still, the situation he found himself in here wasn’t as bad as the rape thing. That one really had his blood boiling every time he thought about it. He was some thuggish bastard, so obviously he was going to condone it! Hell, he would’ve done it himself if someone hadn’t beaten him to the punch. The people didn’t even hesitate to think it.

And when he rejected those claims loud and clear, they instead labelled him a spineless bastard that would betray his own without a second thought when things got rough. Their mental gymnastics had been effortless to match his actions to their image of him.

He hated it. He really, really hated it.

He was a rapist, hell-bent on twisting the camp’s arm until all the women were his for the taking. He’d probably beat his wife too, if he could ever get one to marry him. And be a deadbeat drunk dad that sat in front of the telly shouting at his kids, they could glean all of that from just one look at his ugly mug.

And trying to deny it, to do anything different, would be pointless. Only if he were to do a ton of good deeds to prove himself to be a good man, would the image change.

Well fuck that. He didn’t owe these people anything, especially not because they’d consider him the worst person below the face of the planet if he didn’t. He wasn’t going to risk his life and bend over backwards for people that couldn’t even get their own shit together and relied on people like him to protect them.

He knew better, and that was enough. Small and Tall knew better, that was a nice bonus. Bea knew better, so their party would have a fourth member once they left Epsilon. They only needed those platinum boxes and then they could tell all those opportunistic bastards to go fuck off. They’d take care of themselves from that point forwards.

He knew he never beat his wife. Not even when that bitch cheated on him, or when she tried to fleece him in the divorce. He knew he never crossed that line, even after all that the ungrateful bitch did. He wouldn’t be a deadbeat dad, he had a vasectomy years ago and rarely missed a day of work in the two decades he worked at the assembly. Showed up with a broken finger some days, sure, but he rarely allowed the fights to hospitalise him.

And he wasn’t a rapist. Those women might not have chosen to be here completely willingly, but they had hardly been taken against their will either. This dungeon wasn’t a place you wanted to be in, once you learned what it was actually like.

Hell, half the people here were idiots for having entered in the first place. If you already had a panic attack from not having cell reception, or ‘wifi’ as they called it nowadays, what were you even doing here?

None of the girls aside from Bea wanted to be here, but they wanted to be here more than being back at the camp. Be around men that fought and moved around, instead of being stuck in that stale deadwater camp where half the people already gave up. Acting all sad and miserable or not, that was how it was.

They could leave if they wanted, he’d been very clear about that and even offered an escort back if they wanted. When one of the girls, Kate, took him up on the offer and that former art school vagrant Seith tried to deny her the choice with his thug life attitude, Corey broke the pissant’s jaw. Little bitch whined about it for an hour before he remembered he had a heal spell, the stupid cunt. Corey then walked her back to the camp so she could simmer in misery with the rest of that sorry lot.

Corey hadn’t touched any of them, nor was it his idea to ‘trade’ women for services. He wondered how people would think of Dave’s leadership if they knew that the military wannabe had been the one to come up with it.

The camp had nothing else to offer, and Corey had been clear that he wasn’t going to be helping them for kindness' sake. At the time the camp needed the help though, the current situation was downright peachy compared to the first floor, and none of those other groups were lending a hand. And softy that he was, Corey couldn’t just let them all die when those fucks showed themselves entirely incapable of fending for themselves.

That the healer he demanded as compensation happened to be a woman was a damned flip of the coin, but people didn’t need more than one case to draw their conclusions. And Dave played into it, to the point that the bastard even made deals with the flockers behind Corey’s back for two of the women here. That pretentious little-

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Just a little longer, and he could cut out the fat. A deal with the devil wearing priest robes, sure, but once it was over he wouldn’t have to put up with this shit any more. He’d just drop all the responsibility in Martin’s lap and leave, fend for himself without caring for those ungrateful lazy fucks that sat around whining and demonising him.

The old man looked around again, judgement clear in his eyes about the women and Corey’s word. Well, as long as the old bastard didn’t start killing them or renege on their deal, the hypocrite could think whatever he wanted.

With a weary conflicted sigh that immediately got on Corey’s nerves, Martin turned around and looked into an empty hallway. They all knew that the nearest Safe Zone was that direction, maybe a good half hour walk away. “No time like the present, let’s go.”

“Yes, let’s.” Corey grunted, and with that the men started to move.

He opened his menu and invited Martin to the group. The old man accepted, and Corey assigned party leadership to him. The ring that the maniac wore only worked if he was the leader, Corey checked the description, so it was necessary.

Bea: We’re sure this is a good idea? That damn bastard is looking so shifty; I fear he might turn on us any second.

Corey: He doesn’t have our tickets, so he won’t kill us out of greed. Be careful though, I’m wary too.

Corey didn’t like that Bea was unnerved too, considering she was the most used to criminals amongst them. She might not have had anything to do with that part of her biker gang, or so she said, but her old group had been cooking meth and dealing all kinds of drugs from what he heard.

Not to mention, she was the cunning leader of the group. Sure, Corey was the brute force that people obeyed, but behind every leader was a woman that felt out the subtle currents and dealt with budding issues best nipped in the butt early. She had a much better read on people than him too, so her being afraid of Martin sent shivers up his spine.

He kept a straight face, hoping that the others wouldn’t send him more private messages. Martin’s shoulders had tensed up the moment he noticed that Corey was typing something to the others, and it was unnerving how quickly the shifty bastard noticed it.

Corey ignored the man’s tension and tried to act confidently. Screw the others later, but right now he needed all these cocksuckers to swing things into his favour. They didn’t have those platinum items yet, and from what he heard a silver star party popped out of the woodwork to completely uproot whatever balance of power there had been before.

He could handle Dave and whatever the bastard could scramble together before, but a silver star meant people that were batshit crazy enough to go up against a ploughing Borough Boss and win. Neighbourhood bosses weren’t too bad, though some were still terrifying as fuck, but he watched those Dungeon World scenes where dozens of well-armed crawlers went up against a Borough Bastard and were wiped out.

Silver stars, six of them. He only knew the location of about two of them, to the north, while the other four had scattered and were moving around too fast for his contact to know where they were.

Almost impossible to plan for, they could pop up out of nowhere or be waiting for them back at the camp for all he knew. Hell, the damned silvers might even be waiting for them at the Safe Zone. And it wasn’t as if these people would agree to meeting at an abandoned parking lot at a designated time like civilised hooligans.

His only ace in the hole was Gunther, that lousy bastard that barely pulled any weight but tried to macho along with the other stragglers that Corey picked up. The guy had apparently been in the silver star’s group before, but ran like a sissy when they met that Borough Boss. But now he acted like he was the shit because he knew those guys, and gleaning information out of the bastard without punching him in the face had been difficult.

The lousy straggler had almost been more trouble than he was worth, and personality-wise Corey would’ve preferred if he could just kick the guy out of his life.

If only his bandana wasn’t the best item he had, he wouldn't have to fill his party with chaff like that guy.

Bad Llama bandana of the biggest, baddest mofo (red)

The Bad Llamas are a bunch of good for nothing degenerates, respected only for their random ability to spit lava in your face and somehow survive doing so! Their throat and lungs still look like they’re a decade-long chain smoker thanks to their messed up biology, mind you, and a snotty nose is deadlier to them than Ebola.

Considering their short life expectancy, the amount of kids dying before they learn to spit instead of swallow and the random damage that these guys cause to any work environment, Bad Llamas have been pushed to the outskirts of society to live in slums and employ themselves as outgoing entrepreneurs! Which is the politically correct way of saying that they’re just a bunch of worthless criminal Grullites fighting petty gang wars amongst one another to feel like they matter.

Do I have good news for you! By donning this bandana anywhere on your head, you’re a big bad mofo in the eyes of these ingrates. Assuming they too are Reds, if they’re Blues then you’re target practice! But that skull you’ve got there signifies you as a leader figure amongst the thugs, the biggest bully around!

Donning this bandana gains you +2 Str, +1 Con, +2 Big Boi Energy and +2 Bareknuckle Brawler. Having this bandana equipped increases damage dealt to and taken from Blue-bandana factions, and increases diplomacy rolls towards Red-bandana factions, by 20%.

Once every 24h this Bandana can summon a Bad Llama bandana (red), which will disintegrate when not worn by anyone for 24h. Only one bandana per person, you cheeky little crawler. Anyone can wear the bandana to gain its buff and prevent disintegration, but only people at least half your level but not equal or greater than yours will grant you +1 Str, +1 Con and +1 Bareknuckle Brawler (Stacks).

Corey had another red bandana, but there was no point in giving it to Martin. The old man was level nine, so he wouldn’t count. And Corey could see the dungeon screwing him over by transferring the skull emblem if someone stronger, or the party leader, would don one of these regular reds.

The women here were too weak, aside from Bea of course, so he had a total of six buffs stacked. The bareknuckle brawler only stacked five times without saying so in the description, but as he already levelled it once it was now lvl8. Well above what anyone else had as far as he knew, so considering skills mattered a lot more than levels he felt like he was a pretty big deal in a scuffle right now.

Perhaps enough to beat Martin by himself. Platinum boxes were probably no joke when he considered the difference between the quality of bronze, silver and gold boxes, so he wasn’t too sure about that. Still, the old man would be in for a surprise if he tried anything funny.

As were the silvers, if they crossed him. They had great items and power, no doubt, but according to Gunther their combat experience was fresh and at least half their members rather naïve. Meanwhile he entered the dungeon with more combat-oriented skills than most people had now, so he felt like he was quite a ways ahead of the curve.

Corey rolled his shoulders and tried to look more relaxed. He could feel that there was a brawl brewing in the air, no matter what the old man was pretending, and readied himself to dish out some bloody noses and broken noses.

Because for all that he wasn’t the monster that people thought he was, he still loved himself a good fight.