The Little Flathead—prototype model MTOD-12. What does "prototype" mean, exactly? Technically, it refers to the first batch of machines buil
The Little Flathead—prototype model MTOD-12.
What does "prototype" mean, exactly? Technically, it refers to the first batch of machines built during the development phase, constructed according to blueprints for testing or preparation for mass production. There might be more than one. So when Karl and the others saw this new group pull out a Flathead, they weren't particularly surprised.
With something so promising, it would've been weird if Militech had only made one. Even for a prototype, given Militech's bottomless coffers and aggressive R&D approach, they would've at least rolled out a small batch.
Still, this Flathead looked slightly different from the one Karl's crew possessed.
The key difference? Its color before the optical camo kicked in. Compared to their own unit, this one looked noticeably whiter.
Or rather—unpainted.
Flatheads were primarily composed of titanium-alloy fiber. The natural color of that material was a silvery or gray-white hue. And that's exactly what the projection showed now.
"Looks like after Maelstrom stole the shipment, they didn't even bother painting the second one," Oliver muttered as he watched the spider-shaped combat bot rise from its container and begin moving. "It's heading for the ventilation ducts. Do we have a camera on the next room?"
"Already ready," Karl said.
As the Flathead pried open a duct and slipped inside, Karl swiped across his phone to switch the feed. The adjacent room's camera popped up on the screen.
The suite the Militech team had checked into was the closest room to the surveillance control center—aside from those already occupied. Which meant, as the Flathead crawled through the ventilation shafts toward its destination, every other room it passed was currently in use.
In the room next door, a middle-aged man with glasses sat watching a video game on a large TV. He had long, dark hair, a full beard, and looked completely absorbed—utterly unaware that a Flathead, now cloaked in optical camouflage, had just emerged from the vent beside him.
"Hideo," Karl said after mentally flipping through some records. "I think he's a famous game and film designer. Been living in Konpeki Plaza for about a month. Supposedly came to Night City to find inspiration. Should we be worried?"
"I doubt he's involved," Yorinobu Arasaka said with a shake of his head. "I've played some of his games. The guy's world-renowned. Too high-profile. Plus, he's Japanese—Militech wouldn't risk using a well-known, unarmed Japanese national as a forward scout."
"I've heard the expression 'the darkest place is under the lamp.' Even well-lit spaces cast shadows. But yeah, I agree with you this time," Karl replied. His eyes lingered on the man's face a moment longer before returning to the feed.
The Flathead didn't linger either—it immediately slipped into the next duct, continuing its route.
Once its optical camouflage was active, not even Karl could see it with the naked eye. Even Oliver, with the best optics among them, wouldn't be able to detect it. The Flathead used top-of-the-line stealth tech, far beyond the detection capabilities of consumer-grade cyberoptics.
Still, "invisible" didn't mean "undetectable."
You couldn't see its shape, hear any sounds, or feel any movement—but if you could catch the instant a frame of visual data flickered oddly, that was enough.
The science behind optical camouflage was similar to a chameleon's camouflage—technically a form of bio-mimicry. It manipulated micro-crystals in a synthetic outer layer to bend and refract light in real-time, allowing the user to blend perfectly into the environment.
But the tech had long since surpassed its natural counterpart.
A chameleon took a few seconds to change color and needed to regulate body temperature to do so. Optical camo took less than the blink of an eye—and it worked while moving.
That "blend-in-motion" capability, however, came with a flaw.
If someone could detect the environmental distortion during that microsecond shift, they could potentially spot the camouflaged user or object.
There were a few known cases of this happening. Some cyberware—like Sandevistans or Kerenzikovs—allowed users to track that distortion for a split second. But these were rare, often dismissed as statistical anomalies. Developers hadn't considered them worth patching against.
Karl didn't see them as anomalies, though. He saw them as data.
With his full attention locked onto the screen, he tracked the Flathead's movement—it looked like a piece of cloth painted with ever-shifting colors, constantly stretching and warping as it crawled through the ducts.
It moved quickly. After bypassing another suite (which, fortunately, was unoccupied), the Flathead arrived at the security control room—just one wall away from the building's netrunner.
"I've switched to the security feed for the netrunner's room," Karl reported.
Using Yorinobu's access, he had tapped into the camera just as the distorted form of the Flathead reached the netrunner's station.
"Are they trying to jack into the system through his port?" Oliver frowned. "You think they're gonna fry his brain?"
"No—they're playing it safe."
If the hacker died, it would set off every alarm in Konpeki Plaza. If the guards outside heard something and came rushing in, the mission would be blown.
"They rerouted the data flow to overwhelm the netrunner's senses. Caused a neural spike. He's passed out from the shock."
T-Bug, watching through the shared feed, looked impressed. "That's... a rare skill. Not many netrunners could pull that off."
"Then maybe my theory's correct," Karl muttered cryptically. T-Bug didn't ask him to explain.
He watched as the Flathead extended a cable and jacked itself into the system.
"How long will it take to gain control of the network?"
"Depends on their efficiency. But with skill like that? Four hours, tops."
Four hours... to take control of the core systems of an Arasaka-run luxury hotel?
"I see. Then we move in four hours," Karl said.
He set down his phone, sank into the couch, grabbed a bucket of fries, and switched the TV to a pre-recorded feed of their suite—fake footage, showing their team coming and going.
A final systems check.
Yorinobu received an update.
"Lord Yorinobu, we've successfully rerouted the Kujira's course. Saburo Arasaka is en route to Night City. Estimated arrival: four and a half hours. Shall we adjust our timing?"
Yorinobu mentally calculated the distance from the port to Konpeki Plaza and replied:
"Make sure his men don't spot you. Create delays—make it look like I've discovered his arrival and am trying to flee the city. Have my subordinates act like they're stalling for me. Leak false intel. Force him to accelerate and match our four-hour window."
"Understood, Lord Yorinobu. Please stay safe."
The message ended.
Yorinobu was ready.
A plan that once felt rushed, uncertain—on the verge of collapse—was now progressing smoothly.
Militech's involvement had changed everything.
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🔥🦾 CYBERPUNK: THE RELENTLESS 🦾🔥
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