At the very edge of Border Town, where the roads turned to dirt and the smell of civilization faded into the musk of questionable life choices, stood a ruined house. Technically, it was a house—four walls, a roof (most of it intact), and a door (if you counted the wooden plank leaning where a door should be). It had once been a respectable home, but years of abandonment had transformed it into something between a storage shed and a crime scene.
For the Mercenaries of Mayhem, however, it was home.
Inside, each of them had carved out their own space.
Bob had claimed the largest section, setting up a pile of stolen—liberated—pillows and blankets in the corner. His massive shield leaned against the wall, doubling as a makeshift table for counting coins.
Derek, ever the responsible one, had taken over the cleanest corner, where he maintained his sword and stared into the distance as if questioning his life choices.
Marcus had filled his area with half-finished crossbow designs, metal scraps, and a collection of "brilliant" inventions that had a 50/50 chance of either working or exploding.
Jim's space was little more than a pile of empty flasks and a hammock he had insisted was comfortable, despite falling out of it at least once a night.
Bam, unsurprisingly, had a section charred black from various fireball-related incidents.
They had lived here for months now, but the story of how they acquired the house was a legend in itself.
It had all started in the town square, where a merchant with the suspiciously smooth voice of a professional scam artist was advertising "a once-in-a-lifetime real estate opportunity."
"This house," the merchant had declared, gesturing grandly at a faded sketch, "is the finest property in all of Border Town! Spacious, sturdy, full of character!"
"How much?" Bob had asked immediately, because in his mind, owning property equaled power.
The merchant's eyes had practically turned into gold coins. "A mere 200 gold pieces!"
"We don't have 200 gold," Derek had pointed out.
"Then we negotiate!" Bob had said confidently, before turning back to the merchant. "We'll give you… 50 gold!"
The merchant had laughed.
Bob had laughed back, assuming they were now friends.
Jim had stepped in, wiping ale from his mouth. "We'll also throw in a rare item!"
The merchant had raised an eyebrow. "What item?"
Jim had turned to Marcus. "Hey, give him that thing you made last night."
Marcus, who had barely been paying attention, had handed over a mechanical contraption with a spring. "It's a self-reloading spoon launcher."
The merchant had blinked. "…Why?"
"Because sometimes you're too lazy to lift the spoon," Marcus had replied proudly.
It made sense...somehow.
The merchant had stared at the device for a long moment. Then he had looked at Bob, who was still grinning like an idiot. Then Jim, who was already taking another swig from his flask. Then Bam, who had accidentally set fire to a flyer.
The merchant had sighed. "Fine. 50 gold, the spoon launcher, and you take care of all legal ownership fees."
Bob had immediately shaken his hand. "Deal!"
It wasn't until later, after the contract was signed and the merchant had mysteriously vanished, that they actually saw the house.
The roof had holes. The windows were shattered. A family of raccoons had claimed the kitchen.
Jim had stared at it, unimpressed. "I feel like we got scammed."
"Nonsense!" Bob had declared. "It just needs a little fixing up!"
That had been six months ago. Nothing had been fixed.
Now, as they lounged in their barely-standing home after another "successful" job, Bob counted coins, Jim nursed a fresh drink, and Marcus sketched a new ridiculous invention.
Derek, polishing his sword, muttered, "I still can't believe we paid for this dump."
Bam, casually setting fire to an old newspaper, shrugged. "There are always exceptions."
And thus, another peaceful—chaotic—evening at their humble headquarters continued.