Atlas – San Bernardino Base, California.
Inside the massive, fortress-like building housing the R&D division.
Clang.
—[403 Exo Research – Surgery in Progress]—
The warning light above the door had been lit for fifteen minutes.
While Vela performed the cybernetic implant surgery for Mitchell, three armed MPs stood guard outside the mechanical gate. Taking advantage of the downtime, Gideon walked over to a wall-mounted folding chair, pulled it down, and sat, reviewing his mistakes from the recent exercise.
"Complacency. Got careless," he muttered, slapping his thigh a few times.
He replayed the exercise in his mind.
From the initial prep stage, with the "unlimited choice of personal weapons and explosives" notice, to the habit of relying too heavily on the resonance device's X-ray view when storming the villa's media room, to encountering armed robots that neither the threat-detection grenades nor the resonance devices picked up…
Since it was just an exercise—a surprise inspection-type one at that—he'd been told only that it was a hostage rescue op. That led to a certain degree of relaxed complacency, assuming the increased difficulty meant more enemies and a tougher exfiltration under pursuit.
That inertia and overconfidence ended with a spectacular blunder.
A hostage rescue mission where all the hostages died.
Normally, with a stealthy first strike, eliminating all armed hostiles meant the job was mostly done.
The appearance of armed robots changed everything.
Drones might offer a similar challenge, but hardly anyone flies drones in confined indoor spaces.
Imagine: after clearing every hostile in a rescue op, a killing machine hidden right next to the hostages activates at the sound of gunfire—and kills them before coming for you.
Yes, it felt targeted, like a show of force. But wasn't the purpose of an exercise to prepare for the unexpected?
If they'd been better prepared—bringing higher-caliber AP weapons, tactical pinhole cameras, stronger EMP grenades, and thinking through more contingencies…
Still, it wouldn't have been easy.
EMP grenades are loud. Breaching in an enclosed space and pairing it with a silent field? That adds more complexity… maybe a squad hacker to disable the machines instead?
Gideon shook his head.
And then there's the report to write.
Since Director Russell had specifically mentioned it, he couldn't just half-ass it. He'd have to give solid recommendations.
With Atlas planning to release such products, "friendly" competitors and national forces would surely take note, imitate, and improve. Illegal groups like the K.V.A. would likely buy civilian models in bulk and modify them. The chances of their Rapid Response Forces encountering hostile robots would only increase.
Abandon R&D? Change Atlas' manufacturing strategy?
Not a chance.
That would be like giving up eating for fear of choking.
So for his own survival in future field missions, Gideon would have to seriously consider better tactics against armed robots, upgrades to RRF equipment, and targeted weapon development.
It was clear that he, Mitchell, Joker, and a whole bunch of other unlucky RRF operators would be spending a lot of time in the [Simulated Battlefield].
"Hey, Gideon, sitting here alone—philosophizing?"
Just as he was tapping notes into his forearm tactical terminal, recording his scattered thoughts, a cheerful female voice interrupted him.
Gideon looked up.
The newcomer was a tall white woman.
Her hair was tied in a bun, light brown with hints of gold, irises a warm brown. She wore a sharp short-sleeved shirt under an EXO assault-type exoskeleton, carrying a gym bag in one hand and sipping from a sports drink as she walked.
A familiar face.
"Philosophizing, my ass."
With a grin and a jab, Gideon straightened in his seat to look at the newcomer.
Ilona—former Russian Special Forces, now a member of Atlas' Rapid Response Forces. An ace sharpshooter and reigning record-holder on the base's shooting range.
"Heard you guys got your asses handed to you in the last run?"
She arched an eyebrow with a smirk, then reached into her gym bag and tossed him a bottle of water.
Catching it, Gideon glanced at the sweat on her brow and arms, twisted the cap open, and took a long swig. "Don't bring it up. I'm just thinking about my report. Would've been the same if you'd been there."
"You should've brought me along," he added firmly.
"Looks like you've been at the shooting range again, Ilona. Still that competitive? Trying to prove something?"
"No need to prove anything. Just unwinding," she shrugged.
Turning her head, her gaze lingered briefly on the three fully armed MPs. "Where's Mitchell?"
"Inside. Getting a prosthetic swap," Gideon said, pointing at the gate. "Director Vela Russell is personally doing the cybernetic implant."
"Well, well…"
Pulling out the folding chair beside Gideon, Ilona sat down, her expression knowing. "I'm guessing that's Irons' doing."
"Mitchell was his son's last comrade-in-arms before he died," Gideon replied evenly.
"Figures."
That kind of connection couldn't be bought.
"Still, this swap is taking longer than usual," Gideon noted, glancing at the gate and comparing the time to Mitchell's past maintenance procedures. "Looks like Irons gave him some serious upgrades."
"Cybernetics, huh? Ever think of chopping off an arm for one? Irons would probably hook you up with some lab-grade toys."
Ilona teased.
"Maybe if I get injured badly enough one day," he replied.
"All right, enough bad-luck talk. Your op failed because you ran into Vela Russell's new military robots?"
"Yeah. Tech's solid, fire-control system's excellent, intelligence is no joke. Their arm motors and hydraulic output were strong enough to pin Mitchell—even in an expert-class EXO."
Ilona's interest piqued.
The two continued discussing the exercise.
About fifteen minutes later—
Ding—
The warning light above the gate changed from [In Surgery] to [In Checkup].
Accompanied by the faint, even sound of metal sliding, clack—the yellow gate opened.
"Gideon."
Wearing a white lab coat, sterile gloves, and a disposable cap, Vela appeared, clearly in a good mood. She gestured inside. "Come get him."
Without another word, she turned back inside toward the washroom.
Gideon and Ilona exchanged a look.
Inside, Mitchell lay on the operating table, EXO removed, surrounded by high-tech equipment.
"OK, surgery went great. Let's start calibration. Try moving your new arm—bigger finger movements… yes, like that… hold on."
Two technicians were strapping sensor bands to Mitchell's newly replaced left limb—metallic with visible cybernetic indentations, featuring more micro-vents for its cooling system. They inserted neural link needles, fine-tuning on a nearby holographic control panel.
"Looking comfortable," Gideon said, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. "How's it feel?"
"Don't know. Drugs… surgery… they took it off, put on the new one, disinfected, calibrated—done."
Still a bit groggy from the anesthesia, Mitchell's voice was flat.
"Why'd it take so long?"
"Besides replacing the prosthetic, there was also a neural pathway realignment," Mitchell said after a moment's thought. "Next, there's the [Data Port Connector], [Elastic Joints], [Fortified Ankles], [Reinforced Tendons]… all recommended by the Director."
"Joints, ankles, tendons… are they trying to turn you into a super-soldier?"
Ilona glanced at the data panel beside the operating table. She couldn't make much sense of the technical details, but she could tell where on the body the implants went.
"That's right—Atlas' super-soldier."
At that moment, Vela—now changed out of surgical gear—walked over.
She gave Ilona a deep, penetrating look.
Ilona, right.
Vela's unique "future sight" told her:
In time, this sharper, more calculating woman—far more so than Mitchell or Gideon—would, during an operation to take down the K.V.A. leader, obtain a memory chip. Instead of turning it in, she would check it privately, discovering that Irons had withheld information: that K.V.A. was plotting a global-scale attack. Irons had intercepted the intel but chosen to keep it secret.
Classic "nurture the enemy" strategy.
Persuaded by the emotional Ilona, Mitchell would waver—before even verifying the truth, Atlas MPs would raid them. In that moment, Mitchell would choose to believe and turn his weapon on Irons, burning the bridge entirely. The two would defect.
Later, veteran operative Gideon would be drawn into the defection as well.
Their insider knowledge of Atlas' facilities and armaments would indirectly lead to the corporation's downfall.
Should she kill Ilona now? Kill one to save two?
Gideon was beyond question—a senior member of the Rapid Response Forces with both experience and skill. A cornerstone in the field.
Mitchell? A soldier king, but prone to going with the flow.
"Director… Russell?"
For no apparent reason, Ilona felt a wave of unease—a nervous, oppressive weight.
That glance from Vela was unforgettable.
Meeting those bottomless indigo eyes and the faint, ambiguous smile, she felt momentarily lost.
"It's nothing."
Vela smiled.
"The battlefield rose who yields to no man—I'm pleased with your achievements in the Rapid Response Forces."
She lightly patted Ilona's shoulder.
"Keep up the good work. When there's a chance, I'll outfit you with a custom exoskeleton."
With that, she walked past her without another look.
"Director."
Gideon saluted with a fist to the chest.
Half joking, half hopeful, he pointed at himself. "Do I get one too?"
"Of course. When we go to the New Baghdad headquarters."
She then tilted her head toward Mitchell, who was flexing his new left arm after calibration.
"The neural link is perfect—feels like a natural limb. But I recommend regular recalibration."
Though, by Cyberpunk standards, an arm replacement was minor surgery, the neural realignment still took Vela half an hour—especially since she was teaching the procedure to two assistants and recording instructional footage.
The "backdoor" was now in place.
Her eyes glinted.
She wasn't as lenient as Irons. In her book, suspicion defaulted to guilt, though she wouldn't condemn before a crime was committed. But if someone crossed the line—there'd be no mercy.
"Understood."
Mitchell, focused on adapting to his new arm, nodded.
Creek—
Without further words, Vela walked to a coded storage cabinet, keyed in a password, and retrieved two medkits and a small, inhaler-like device.
"MaxDoc Type-1 Pneumatic Spray—a flexible combat stimulant. Temporarily boosts neural transmission. Think of it as a special med tailored for cybernetic shooting."
She tossed the medkit to Mitchell. "Take a hit, then go test it. Specialty ammo—there's someone over there to provide it."
She waved for the two technicians to follow and gather data.
"Thanks."
Without hesitation, Mitchell inhaled the MaxDoc. "Haa…"
Nodding to Vela, he stowed the medkit and left the operating room.
Clack clack clack.
In his right hand, he carried his EXO, while his left cybernetic arm responded to a thought—its reinforced carbon-ceramic composite plating slid outward like a beetle's wing cases.
"Holy shit!"
It was Joker.
Arriving to announce the simulation program was ready, he stopped dead at the sight of Mitchell's arm.
"Relax, Joker. You gonna chop your arm off to get one?"
Gideon quipped, though he too eyed the upgraded limb.
With a clack clack, the artificial skin on Mitchell's forearm shifted over the precise inner mechanisms.
"Damn, like a Transformer. Makes me want one. Combat cybernetics—hell of a name. But don't let it go to your head, Mitchell."
"Ilona? What's with you—lost in thought?"
The voices and footsteps faded.
Clang.
The gate closed again.
In the quiet room, Vela lowered her gaze to her PDA.
Beep beep.
"All right, Professor Irons—the gracious gift has been delivered. Before I return to New Baghdad, let's talk about the development strategy for the [Humanoid Robotics Division] and [Service Robotics Division]."
—
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