Reliable Excavation & Demolition: A Rotten World, and Pure Chaos

Tatsumi remained hidden behind the ruined wall, his breathing shallow, his mind racing. His heart pounded so hard in his chest that he swore the mercenaries could hear it.

He had thought he understood strength. He had trained under his village's best. He had fought bandits, soldiers, and even stood against towering danger beasts. Then he had seen Night Raid in action—true assassins, warriors of the shadows who struck with precision and disappeared before their enemies even realized they were dead.

But tonight, everything he thought he knew had been shaken.

They lost.

He swallowed hard. He had always believed Night Raid was untouchable, the ultimate force of justice standing against the empire's tyranny. They had taken down high-ranking officials, noble families, and elite soldiers. They were legends.

Yet these strangers—these mercenaries—had held their own. No… more than that. They had pushed Night Raid back.

Spy alone had stood toe-to-toe with Akame, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. Heavy had shrugged off Leone's relentless assault. Engineer had countered Lubbock's every move. Soldier had matched Bulat's sheer strength and ferocity. Sniper had kept Mine pinned down, never letting her get a clean shot. And Scout—annoying as he seemed—had dodged Sheele's deadly swings by nothing short of pure speed and instinct.

They didn't just fight like warriors. They fought like a unit. A machine with no wasted movement, no hesitation. Every step was calculated, every attack coordinated. Night Raid was powerful, but they were a collection of individuals, each with their own fighting style. These men? They fought like a single entity, their synergy flawless, their experience undeniable.

Tatsumi gritted his teeth.

If these mercenaries had been fighting for the Empire instead, would Night Raid have survived?

Would he have survived?

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

But it wasn't just fear gripping him. It was something else—frustration. Frustration at his own helplessness. He had barely been able to keep up with Akame when they first fought. If he had stepped onto that battlefield tonight, he would have been nothing. Just another casualty, another body left in the dirt.

I need to get stronger. The thought burned in his mind like a brand.

He clenched his fists, staring at the mansion the mercenaries had now claimed. They had taken Aria's estate, his temporary shelter, and turned it into their own base. And now, he was stuck in the middle of something even bigger than before.

Did he leave? Try to run? No—after what he had just seen, they'd catch him before he even reached the treeline. Spy had looked right at him before walking away, as if daring him to try.

So what now?

Tatsumi exhaled sharply. He was at their mercy, whether he liked it or not. And judging from their earlier behavior, they weren't mindless killers. At least… not in the way the Empire was.

If he couldn't escape, then he had only one choice.

For now, he would play along. He would figure out who these mercenaries were, what they wanted, and how they fought. And along the way, maybe… just maybe… he could learn something from them.

The night air was thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder and blood. Smoke curled lazily from scorched earth, rising in wispy tendrils toward the shattered moon above. The once-pristine courtyard of the mansion was now a battlefield littered with spent bullet casings, broken blades, and the occasional discarded weapon. The flickering lanterns along the outer walls cast long, shifting shadows, stretching like skeletal fingers over the remnants of combat.

Despite the destruction, a quiet sense of triumph hung in the air. The echoes of Night Raid's retreat had long faded into the darkness, leaving only the REDs standing amidst the wreckage. Their breaths had slowed, their movements no longer dictated by the rush of battle. For all their efficiency, they were mercenaries before they were soldiers—violence was a job, not a cause. And tonight? Tonight, the job was done.

Spy exhaled through his nose, adjusting the collar of his blood-spattered suit as he took a slow, deliberate glance at the surrounding area. His sharp eyes swept over the treetops, the rooftops, the jagged silhouettes of distant structures. He wasn't one to trust a clean getaway—especially not from assassins. They're professionals, he admitted to himself. And professionals don't like unfinished business. But after a few more seconds of silent observation, his caution melted into satisfaction. If Night Raid planned on a second round, they would have struck already. He allowed himself a small smirk. They know when they're outmatched.

A few steps away, Medic knelt beside Sniper, who was clutching his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. The doctor clicked his tongue in mild irritation.

"Ach, a mere graze. You'll live."

Sniper grunted but didn't protest as Medic yanked up his sleeve with practiced efficiency. He barely flinched when the antiseptic stung his skin. He had been through worse, but that didn't mean he liked being patched up by Medic.

"Bloody hell, doc. A little warning next time?" Sniper muttered, wincing.

Medic chuckled, shaking his head as he wrapped the wound. "If you need a warning, you are not nearly as tough as you pretend to be."

Sniper rolled his eyes but said nothing. His gaze flicked toward the treeline, watching the shadows shift in the dim light. The enemy had retreated, but it didn't sit right with him. He had spent years hunting, tracking, and waiting—he knew when a predator had truly backed down. They'll be back, he mused, running his thumb over the barrel of his rifle.

Heavy stood nearby, his massive frame unmoving, Sasha cradled in his arms. The weapon was still warm, humming softly in the night air. He breathed deeply, letting his muscles relax now that the fight had passed. It was a good fight, he thought, his lips curling into a small smile. But Heavy knew battles didn't end just because the shooting stopped.

"They ran fast," he rumbled. "Too fast. They will be back."

Spy nodded, sliding his revolver back into its holster. "Oui, but not tonight." The corner of his mouth quirked up as he turned to the mansion. The heavy iron doors loomed before them, waiting to be claimed. Their new base of operations.

The halls of the mansion were eerily silent, save for the methodical footsteps of the REDs as they moved through the corridors like wraiths. The dim glow of lanterns cast long shadows against the polished floors, flickering over lavish tapestries and ornate furniture—once symbols of aristocratic decadence, now the remnants of a crumbling empire.

Spy led the sweep, his revolver raised as he advanced with a predator's grace. His sharp eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, searching for movement. Behind him, Sniper kept his rifle at the ready, his keen instincts attuned to the slightest disturbance. Heavy's heavy boots thudded against the marble, a stark contrast to the near-silent steps of his teammates, but it hardly mattered—intimidation alone was often enough to flush out the desperate and the foolish.

They found the first stragglers near the main hall—a pair of guards trembling in their armor, gripping spears with white-knuckled hands. Their expressions shifted from resolve to sheer terror as they recognized the men before them.

Spy's revolver snapped up in an instant. Bang. The first guard collapsed with a hole clean through his forehead, slumping against the grand staircase in a lifeless heap. The second hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, just enough for Sniper's bullet to punch through his chest, sending him crumpling beside his fallen comrade.

The echoes of gunfire barely had time to settle before a terrified scream rang out. Down one of the mansion's corridors, a maid bolted in terror, her pristine uniform stained with the blood of the household's sins. She made it as far as the doorway before a knife whizzed through the air, embedding itself in the wood just inches from her face. She froze, panting, eyes wide with horror.

"Run," Spy murmured in a low, smooth voice, tilting his head toward the exit. He wouldn't waste a bullet on someone who posed no threat. The maid didn't need to be told twice—she turned and fled into the night, vanishing beyond the estate walls.

Meanwhile, Engineer and Medic scoured the lower halls. Engineer's gloved hands ran along the edges of door frames, feeling for inconsistencies. "This place's built too fancy," he muttered, stepping back and giving a solid kick to a bookshelf. The ornate wood groaned before swinging open, revealing a narrow passage leading downward.

"Vat do ve have here?" Medic grinned, adjusting his glasses before peering inside. The hidden stairwell reeked of damp stone and stale air. Without hesitation, Medic descended, his bonesaw glinting in the lantern light. Engineer followed with a drawn shotgun.

At the bottom, they found a small underground holding cell, its iron bars cold and rusted. Inside, a lone figure huddled in the darkness—a man, dressed in the rags of a butler, shaking violently. His eyes darted between them, lips quivering.

"Mercy," he gasped. "Please—"

Medic gave a nonchalant shrug before slamming the cell door shut again, locking the terrified man inside. "He'll be fine," he said, waving Engineer away. "No need to vaste resources on vermin."

Elsewhere, Soldier and Pyro stormed through the mansion's kitchens and servant quarters. Soldier, reveling in the chaos, smashed through doors with his rocket launcher slung over his shoulder, barking orders to no one in particular. Any remaining staff fled at the sight of him, leaving overturned furniture and shattered plates in their wake. Pyro, giggling behind his mask, set fire to unnecessary supplies, ensuring nothing of use remained for enemies who might return.

Demoman took to the wine cellar, smashing bottle after bottle with his grenade launcher. "Bloody nobles and their fancy drinks!" he slurred, before finally stumbling upon a locked vault door. He squinted at it before slapping a bundle of sticky bombs onto the reinforced frame. A few moments later—BOOM! The door blasted open, revealing a trove of gold, jewels, and noble trinkets. "Now that's what I call an investment!" he laughed.

Meanwhile, Scout zipped through the upper floors, checking rooms with swift, precise movements. His bat swung at anything that moved, knocking out a cowering noble who thought to hide beneath a desk. "Man, these rich jerks always think they're slick," he muttered, nudging the unconscious man with his foot. He peeked into an open dresser, pocketing a handful of valuables with a satisfied grin before moving on.

Sniper positioned himself near a tall window overlooking the courtyard, his rifle trained on the perimeter in case of any unexpected guests. His breathing was steady, his eyes sharp. Anyone foolish enough to try and slip away or mount an ambush would meet a swift end before they could even reach the gate.

Heavy methodically swept the mansion's grand hall, his minigun humming softly as he stomped through the space. A terrified servant made the mistake of lunging at him with a knife, only for Heavy's massive hand to clamp around their wrist like an iron vice. He lifted the struggling man effortlessly, staring at him with a mixture of boredom and annoyance before tossing him aside like a ragdoll. "Puny man is no threat," he muttered, continuing his patrol.

Back upstairs, Spy finished his final sweep of the master bedroom, flicking his knife clean after dispatching the last guard. He stepped onto the balcony, glancing down at the courtyard below. The bodies had been cleared, the estate was secured, and there were no more threats left standing.

With a satisfied smirk, he exhaled the smoke from his cigarette and whispered to himself, "Mansion's ours."

The mansion, once a pristine display of nobility and excess, now belonged to the REDs. Blood still stained parts of the floor, and the scent of smoke and gunpowder lingered in the air from their earlier battle. Despite the eerie silence that followed Night Raid's retreat, the mercs wasted no time securing their new stronghold.

Engineer adjusted his goggles as he examined the building's framework. "This place ain't bad, but it ain't RED Base either," he muttered, knocking on a wall to check its durability. He pulled out a wrench, already marking locations in his mind for sentry placements. "Need to reinforce these walls. Couple o' well-placed sentries, maybe some dispensers… We'll be sittin' pretty."

Medic, on the other hand, had different priorities. He paced through the halls, inspecting rooms that could serve as an infirmary. "Zhis vill do," he murmured, stepping into what used to be a lavish dining hall. "I'll clear zhis out und replace it viz proper medical equipment. If ve're making zhis our home, ve need a place to patch up ze wounded."

Engineer nodded. "Reckon I can rig up some proper defenses. We'll keep the enemy out and keep our own patched up."

Sniper had already scaled to the highest accessible point of the mansion—what was once an ornate balcony with a view of the courtyard. He adjusted his scope, scanning the distant treeline. "Gonna need more elevation," he muttered. He'd been in enough battles to know that a solid vantage point meant the difference between victory and getting picked off.

He looked around, noting the roof's accessibility. If he set up a proper perch there, he'd have a full line of sight on anything approaching the mansion. Making a mental note, he radioed the others. "Got a solid spot. I'll be takin' the roof for now, but might need some adjustments to make it work long-term."

Meanwhile, Heavy was at the front entrance, standing with arms crossed as he studied the doors. They were sturdy, but not enough for his liking. "Weak," he grunted, shaking his head. "Need stronger doors."

Pyro giggled beside him, setting down his flamethrower and reaching into his pack. A moment later, he pulled out a small blowtorch and made an excited noise.

Heavy chuckled. "Da, ve reinforce doors first. Then ve burn intruders."

With Pyro's help, they began reinforcing the main entrance with salvaged metal plating, ensuring it could withstand a siege.

Spy, as always, worked in the shadows. He moved swiftly through the mansion, checking for hidden passages, escape routes, and possible weak points. He noted which areas would be best for setting up traps or placing guards.

Scout, meanwhile, took to the outside perimeter, dashing from one section of the courtyard to the other. "Yo, we got a couple open spots in the back," he radioed in. "Might need some barricades or somethin'. Not bad though, we got some solid walls back here."

Spy exhaled a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette. "I vill handle zhe interior vulnerabilities. You continue patrolling, petit."

Demoman took one look at the building and grinned. "Well, if we're gonna be stayin' 'ere, might as well make it fun." He reached into his satchel, pulling out a few stickybombs. "A couple o' well-placed traps, and nobody's getting through these halls without me knowin'."

Soldier, hearing this, stomped over. "NO EXPLOSIVES INSIDE THE BASE, DEMOMAN!"

"Ach, relax! They're just precautionary! I'll keep 'em disarmed until we need 'em."

Soldier grunted before looking over the structure. "We need a WAR ROOM! A proper command center where we can strategize our battles! The enemy will not rest, and neither shall we!"

Demoman rolled his eye. "Aye, sure, lad. You go ahead an' set up yer little war room. I'll be makin' sure we don't get ambushed."

With the mansion now under their control, the mercenaries wasted no time making it their own. In just a matter of hours, the once-grand estate was unrecognizable, reshaped into a fortress that bore all the hallmarks of a RED Team stronghold.

Engineer stood in the main hallway, surveying his handiwork. A Level 2 Sentry whirred quietly, its twin barrels swiveling back and forth as it scanned for movement. "Ain't much of a base without some good ol' firepower," he muttered, giving it a final whack with his wrench.

Nearby, Pyro giggled as he mounted a dispenser against the wall, tapping it excitedly before stepping back to admire his work. The machine hummed to life, its red glow promising a steady supply of ammunition and healing for the team. Pyro clapped his hands together, clearly pleased.

Engineer wiped his brow and leaned against the sentry. "That oughta keep any unwanted guests from sneakin' up on us." He glanced over at Pyro, who was already fidgeting with his flamethrower, eager to test it out. "Now don't go burnin' the place down, partner."

Pyro tilted his head, muffled laughter escaping from beneath his mask.

At the mansion's main entrance, Heavy was hard at work. He lifted a massive slab of salvaged metal and pressed it against the wooden doors. With a grunt, he forced the reinforcement into place and secured it with heavy bolts.

"Now… doors are strong," he muttered approvingly. "No tiny men will break through."

Satisfied, he moved to the windows next. Some were too large to block entirely, so he reinforced them with thick planks and nailed them in place, creating only small openings for gunfire. He turned to see Pyro dancing around the newly installed barricades, seemingly entertained by the fortress-like changes.

Heavy smirked. "Good. Let them try to get in."

Up on the roof, Sniper crouched near the edge, adjusting his scope as he scanned the treeline in the distance. "Yeah… this'll do," he muttered, testing different vantage points.

He had modified the access hatch leading to the roof, removing unnecessary obstacles and creating a more direct way up. Now, he had a proper sniper's nest, with a full view of the surrounding area.

He adjusted his rifle and peered through the scope again. "Any bastard that gets too close… well, they won't get much further."

Inside the mansion, Spy moved with his usual grace, a cigarette resting between his fingers as he observed the layout. His sharp eyes picked out vulnerabilities—blind spots, unsecured doors, and potential weak points.

With a flick of his wrist, he marked certain areas where traps could be placed. "Zhis vill not do," he muttered, pulling a hidden knife from his coat and carving a small symbol into the wall—a subtle signal for himself later.

He ensured that certain hallways could be sealed off in an emergency and found an old servant's passage that led directly outside. "Ah… an escape route," he mused with a smirk. He would make sure to keep that knowledge to himself—for now.

While the others focused on defense, Demoman focused on deterrence.

He grinned as he planted a line of stickybombs along the mansion's eastern hallway, making sure they were well-hidden in the shadows. "Aye, if any bastard tries sneakin' in, they'll be losin' a limb or two," he chuckled.

His handiwork continued throughout the mansion—doors rigged with grenades, hallways lined with explosives that could be triggered at a moment's notice. It was the perfect insurance policy.

In what was once a noble's extravagant study, Soldier had completely rearranged the space to serve a proper purpose. The large, ornate table in the center had been stripped of its decorations and was now covered with a crude, hand-drawn map of the surrounding area, marked with red ink and hasty battle plans.

He slammed a fist onto the table, nodding in approval. "YES! THIS IS A WAR ROOM FIT FOR A TRUE COMMANDER!"

Demoman, passing by, took one look at the map and raised an eyebrow. "Uh… mate, that ain't even a proper map. Half o' these markings make no bloody sense."

"NONSENSE, DEMOMAN! THIS IS STRATEGY AT ITS FINEST!" Soldier grabbed a marker and drew a giant 'X' over a random section. "WE SHALL ATTACK HERE! …PROBABLY!"

Demoman just sighed. "Aye, whatever ya say, lad."

Back in the repurposed dining hall, Medic had already begun converting the space into a makeshift infirmary. The long banquet table was now covered with surgical tools, syringes, and jars filled with mysterious substances. The noble family's expensive silverware had been unceremoniously pushed aside to make room for actual medical supplies.

"Ahhh, wunderbar!" Medic exclaimed, tossing a bloodied rag aside. "Now zis is a proper medical bay!"

He turned to his Medigun, giving it a satisfied pat. "I vill be keeping you all alive, as usual."

While the others focused on fortification, Scout made sure they had ways out.

He ran along the outer perimeter, marking potential escape routes. "Alright, back door's a solid exit, but we need more options," he muttered. He climbed onto a ledge, testing how easy it was to hop between rooftops. "Yeah, yeah, this could work."

He kicked a loose brick and nodded to himself. "If things go south, I'm makin' sure we ain't gettin' trapped in here."

By the time night fell, the mansion was fully transformed. No longer a noble's estate, it now bore all the hallmarks of a RED Team stronghold—sentries humming at key points, explosives primed in the shadows, reinforced barricades at every major entrance, and a makeshift war room where questionable strategies were being devised.

Spy took one last drag of his cigarette as he surveyed the results. He smirked. "Zhis... is much better."

Tatsumi sat on the grand but bloodstained staircase of the mansion, his arms resting on his knees, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had transpired. The lingering stench of death and gunpowder clung to the air, mixing with the iron tang of blood that had long since soaked into the wooden floors. His knuckles were still white from gripping his sword, though he had long since sheathed it. No matter how much he tried to steady his breathing, the weight of everything pressed down on him like an anchor.

Sayo and Ieyasu were gone.

The mansion that belonged to the very people responsible for their suffering was now under the control of a group of strangers—mercenaries unlike any he had ever seen before. They fought with a level of efficiency and brutality that was leagues beyond anything he had encountered. Even Night Raid, the infamous assassins, had been forced into a retreat. But what unsettled him the most wasn't just their strength—it was the casual ease with which they operated, as if violence and chaos were nothing more than an everyday routine for them.

"Oi, kid," Spy's voice broke through his thoughts. The masked man leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over his chest, cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. "You're lookin' like you've seen a ghost."

Tatsumi frowned, snapping out of his daze. "I just—" He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How was he supposed to put it into words? That he had set out on a journey full of dreams and ambitions, only for it to come crashing down in the most brutal way possible? That he was now surrounded by killers and strangers with nowhere else to go?

"I just didn't expect any of this," he finally muttered.

Spy chuckled, exhaling a plume of smoke. "No one ever does."

It was then that the rest of the REDs gathered around, taking seats or leaning against whatever furniture remained intact. Heavy took up a spot by the fireplace, arms crossed like an immovable statue, while Sniper rested against a nearby table, ever watchful. Engineer and Medic stood nearby, the latter wearing his usual unsettling grin.

"You look confused, ja? Perhaps ve should enlighten you a little," Medic said, his voice carrying a strange mix of amusement and genuine curiosity.

Tatsumi blinked. "Enlighten me?"

"You see, boy," Spy began, tapping the ash from his cigarette, "we're not exactly from around here."

And so they told him.

They spoke of a different world—of battlefields filled with fire and steel, of an endless war fought over absurd objectives, of a company that sent them to die over and over again. A place where mercenaries, fueled by contracts and sheer insanity, waged war with a reckless abandon that made even the bloodiest of Imperial skirmishes seem tame.

Tatsumi listened in stunned silence, his disbelief growing with every passing moment. It sounded impossible—insane, even—but there was something in the way they spoke that made it all feel disturbingly real. These men had been thrown into this world, just as he had been thrown into this nightmare of corruption and death.

"You're tellin' me you guys come from… another world?" Tatsumi finally asked, eyes wide.

"Oui," Spy answered simply, watching the young swordsman's reaction with amusement.

Tatsumi shook his head, rubbing his temples. "I don't even—how do you even function here? You guys fight like a well-oiled machine, and yet you act like—like this is just another day at the job!"

Heavy let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "Because it is just another day."

That was what unsettled Tatsumi the most. These people weren't fighting for a cause. They weren't driven by vengeance, justice, or revolution. They fought because it was what they did. That kind of detachment terrified him.

"You'll get used to it," Sniper muttered from the corner, adjusting his hat. "One way or another."

Tatsumi clenched his fists, staring at the floor. He wanted to scream, to demand answers, to protest that this wasn't how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to join the military, become a hero, and bring wealth back to his village. Instead, he had lost everything in the span of a single night.

And now he was stuck with them.

"You have nowhere to go, ja?" Medic's voice broke through his thoughts. "Zen I suppose zat makes you one of us."

Tatsumi's head snapped up. "Wait, what? No! I didn't agree to—"

Spy smirked. "Oh, don't worry, mon ami. Consider yourself an honorary member."

"Don't I get a say in this?!" Tatsumi snapped, standing up in protest.

Medic grinned, adjusting his glasses. "Not really."

The group chuckled at his frustration, as if this was all some sort of inside joke. Tatsumi groaned, running a hand down his face. He wanted to argue, but deep down, he knew the truth.

He had nowhere else to go.

With Night Raid gone and the mansion secured, the REDs were now the only people he could turn to. He didn't trust them—not yet—but for now, he had no other choice.

He slumped back onto the stairs, exhaling sharply. "Fine," he muttered, glaring at the grinning mercs. "But I'm not one of you."

Spy chuckled, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Of course not, petit. Whatever you say."

Tatsumi scowled, but deep down, he knew—whether he liked it or not—he was stuck with them