Raymond stepped out of the tent into chaos.
Gunfire cracked across the camp in overlapping bursts. Shouts rang out—quick warnings, terse calls between positions. He kept his head down, moving in a crouch, eyes scanning for cover that would give him both protection and visibility.
A supply cart sat near the perimeter, stacked with wooden crates that rose chest-high. Solid. Stable. Good angles on the approaching threat.
He moved fast, crossing the open ground in quick strides, and vaulted onto the cart bed. The metal frame rattled under his weight but held. He pressed himself against the crates and carefully peered over the top.
The Sand Rats had stopped their vehicles about fifty meters out, fanned in a loose semicircle around the oasis. Five of them—Raymond counted carefully, tracking movement between the buggies. They fired from cover, leaning out to squeeze off bursts before ducking back. Semi-automatic weapons by the sound of it, but the shooting was wild. Rounds kicked up sand meters wide of their targets, punched into crates nowhere near the mercenaries. Suppressive fire without precision.
The buggies themselves had been modified. Crude but effective armor plating welded to the frames—scavenged metal sheets, corrugated panels, what looked like sections of shipping container. The kind of improvised protection that would stop most small arms fire at this range.
Around the camp perimeter, the mercenaries had erected makeshift barricades—overturned carts, supply crates, sandbags they must have kept for exactly this purpose. They hunkered behind cover, returning fire. But their aim wasn't much better. Bullets sparked off the buggy armor, whined off into the desert, threw up sand clouds that went nowhere near the bandits.
Raymond watched the exchange, his tactical mind cataloguing patterns.
A lot of noise. A lot of ammunition being burned. Very little accuracy on either side. Just two groups spraying rounds across open sand, keeping each other pinned without actually hitting anything vital.
No casualties yet. No bodies. No screaming.
Standoff. Because neither side can shoot straight.
Raymond ejected the magazine from the handgun, tilting it to catch the light. Seven rounds. He pulled one free to inspect it—.357 SIG. Good stopping power, flat trajectory. Perfect for the range they were working with.
He slammed the magazine back home and thumbed the safety off. The mechanism clicked smoothly under his touch.
His eyes tracked across the battlefield, searching for a target. There—nearest buggy, driver's side. One of the bandits kept popping up from behind the armored door panel, taking wild shots at the mercenaries before ducking back down. Pattern shooter. Predictable.
Raymond raised the handgun, settling into a stable shooting stance despite the awkward footing on the cart. He tracked the bandit's rhythm. Up, shoot, down. Up, shoot, down.
He waited.
The bandit's head emerged again from behind the door.
Raymond took a deep breath. Exhaled halfway. Held.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The report was quieter than he expected—sharper, crisper than the rifles hammering around him. But the result was unmistakable.
The bandit's head snapped back. Dark spray erupted from his throat where the bullet punched through the jugular. His body jerked once, then toppled sideways off the buggy, disappearing behind the vehicle in a loose sprawl.
Probably dead before he hit the sand.
But Raymond barely registered the kill.
The recoil kicked harder than anticipated—the odd weight distribution he'd noticed earlier translated into an upward snap that nearly tore the weapon from his grip. His teenage hands, lacking the muscle memory and strength to compensate, almost lost control entirely. The gun twisted in his palm, barrel pointing skyward for a split second before he wrestled it back down.
His heart hammered. Not from the kill. From nearly dropping the damn weapon in the middle of a firefight.
A pale blue window materialized in front of him.
< ACHIEVEMENT: First Kill >
< REWARD: 10 Reputation Points >
The notification hung in the air for a moment before dissolving. Confirmation. The shot had landed exactly where he'd intended.
Raymond glanced back at the buggies. The other bandits were still firing, still shouting, still popping up and down behind their armor plating. None of them had noticed their companion sprawled in the sand yet. The chaos of the firefight masked everything—one more gunshot, one less voice in the noise.
He had seconds. Maybe less.
Raymond adjusted his grip on the handgun, compensating for the weight distribution now that he understood it. His palms were slick with sweat despite the morning cool. Adrenaline surged through his teenage body—sharper, more volatile than he remembered. The Endurance boost helped, but his heart still hammered against his ribs like it wanted out.
He forced himself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. Controlled. Let the adrenaline work for him instead of against him.
His hands steadied.
Raymond pressed himself back against the crates and carefully peered over the top again, scanning the buggy line. Second target. Where?
There—middle buggy. Another bandit crouched behind the hood, rifle barrel resting on the armor plating. He was taking his time between shots, actually trying to aim unlike the others.
That one.
Raymond brought the handgun up, settling into position.
Raymond tracked the second target through his sights. The bandit behind the middle buggy's hood was the most competent shooter among them—actually aiming, controlling his breathing between shots. Take him out and the others would lose whatever coordination they had left.
But as Raymond's finger touched the trigger, he paused.
His eyes swept the battlefield again, this time looking past the bandits to what surrounded them. The buggies formed a loose arc, but they weren't evenly spaced. The rightmost vehicle sat isolated, maybe ten meters from its nearest neighbor. And behind it, nothing but open desert.
Force them out. Let the mercenaries do the work.
Raymond shifted his aim away from the shooter, tracking right to the isolated buggy. Two bandits used it for cover—one behind the engine block, another crouched by the rear wheel. They were spraying rounds blindly, not even looking at their targets.
He aimed low. Not at the bandits, but at the front tire.
Bang.
The tire exploded with a sharp hiss, rubber shredding as the rim dropped onto sand. The buggy lurched violently to one side.
The bandit behind the wheel scrambled back, startled by the sudden movement. He stumbled into the open—just two steps, but enough.
Three mercenary rifles cracked simultaneously. At least one round found meat. The bandit jerked, twisted, and went down hard.
Raymond was already moving. He dropped below the crate line as return fire sparked off the cart's metal frame, rounds punching through wood with sharp cracks. Splinters rained down.
He counted to three, then popped up on the opposite side of his cover.
The bandits had shifted focus. Two of them were now firing at his position, trying to pin him. The mercenaries used the distraction—their suppressive fire intensified, forcing the bandits to split their attention.
Good. Keep them confused.
The isolated buggy's second occupant was still pinned by the rear wheel, head down, not shooting. Raymond ignored him. Instead, he tracked back to the middle buggy where the competent shooter had been.
The man was still there, but he'd adjusted. Smarter than the others. He'd stopped exposing himself, instead firing from deeper cover, using the engine block properly.
Can't get a clean shot. Change the equation.
Raymond shifted his aim again. This time to the buggy's windshield—what was left of it. The armored plating didn't extend that high. Glass fragments still clung to the frame, but most of it was open air.
He fired twice in rapid succession.
Bang. Bang.
Both rounds punched through the opening, ricocheting inside the buggy's cab with metallic pings. He wasn't trying to hit anyone—just fill that enclosed space with angry metal.
It worked.
The competent shooter jerked back from his position, instinctively flinching away from the cab. For just a moment, his shoulder and part of his head cleared the engine block.
A mercenary's round caught him high in the shoulder. Not fatal, but the impact spun him sideways. He dropped his rifle, clutching at the wound.
Three bandits left. Two pinned behind the leftmost buggy, one still cowering by the isolated vehicle's rear wheel.
Raymond checked his magazine. Three rounds remaining.
The leftmost buggy sat closest to the oasis—maybe thirty meters out. Both remaining bandits had good cover, good firing angles. They were keeping the mercenaries pinned on that flank, preventing any attempt to advance.
But their positioning had a flaw.
They were focused forward, toward the mercenary line. Nobody was watching their six.
Raymond glanced at the terrain. The oasis vegetation extended partway around that side—date palms and low scrub that could provide concealment if he moved fast.
Risky. But sitting here just wastes ammunition.
He vaulted off the cart, keeping low, and sprinted toward the oasis edge. Rounds cracked overhead but nothing came close—the bandits were still focused on the mercenaries, and his own people had no reason to shoot toward the water.
He reached the palm line and dropped into a crouch, breathing hard. The Endurance boost kept him functional, but his teenage lungs still burned.
From this angle, he could see the leftmost buggy's flank. The two bandits were completely exposed—crouched behind the front armor plating, all their attention forward.
Raymond steadied himself against a palm trunk and raised the handgun.
Three rounds. Make them count.
He aimed at the nearest bandit's leg—the knee joint, exposed below the buggy's frame.
Bang.
The round took the man low, shattering the kneecap. He screamed and collapsed, rolling into the open clutching his leg.
The mercenaries didn't miss the gift. Multiple rounds found him before he could crawl back to cover.
The last bandit panicked. He spun toward Raymond's position, rifle coming up, but he was moving too fast, too wild. His shots went wide, kicking up sand meters to Raymond's left.
Raymond didn't rush. He exhaled slowly, aimed center mass, and squeezed.
Bang.
The bandit staggered, dropped his rifle, and fell.
Silence crashed over the battlefield like a physical weight. The gunfire stopped. Only the ringing in Raymond's ears remained, and the distant sound of someone groaning—probably the shoulder-shot bandit, still alive behind the middle buggy.
Raymond stayed low, scanning for threats, but the fight was over.
Four bandits down. One wounded.
His hands were shaking now—adrenaline dump hitting all at once. He forced himself to breathe, to stay alert, but his body wanted to collapse.
One round left. Plus two magazines.
He'd have to be smarter next time. More efficient.
But for now, they'd won.
Raymond pushed himself up from behind the palm trunk, legs unsteady beneath him. He scanned the battlefield, taking inventory.
Four bodies sprawled in the sand around the buggies. One wounded bandit still breathing behind the middle vehicle, clutching his shoulder and making wet, panicked sounds. The isolated buggy sat abandoned, tire shredded, listing heavily to one side.
The mercenaries rose from their positions, weapons still raised but no longer firing. Their heads turned toward Raymond one by one, eyes tracking him with something between wariness and disbelief. Shock painted their faces—jaws slack, brows furrowed, the kind of expression people wore when they'd just watched something that didn't compute.
A teenager. With a handgun. Taking apart an experienced bandit crew in under two minutes.
Raymond met their stares but said nothing. His heart was still hammering, hands still trembling from the adrenaline dump.
Sayeed emerged from behind a barricade and walked toward the middle buggy with measured steps. The wounded bandit saw him coming and tried to scramble backward, his good hand raised, words tumbling out in a desperate stream.
"Please—please, I surrender—don't—"
Sayeed didn't break stride. His thumb pressed something on the chain sword's grip. The weapon roared to life with a mechanical snarl—the jagged chain edges spinning inside their metal housing, teeth blurring into a continuous line of motion.
He brought it down in a single, efficient arc.
The blade tore through the bandit's neck like it was paper. Blood sprayed across the sand. The head rolled free, mouth still frozen mid-plea. The body toppled sideways, twitching.
Sayeed powered down the sword. The chain stopped spinning, settling back into stillness. He wiped the blade on the dead man's clothes without ceremony and turned back toward camp.
Relief flooded through Raymond's chest, warm and overwhelming.
Finally over.
He let his gun hand drop, the weapon suddenly feeling twice as heavy. His legs wanted to give out. Just sit down, catch his breath, process what had just—
"What is that?"
One of the mercenaries pointed at the sky, his voice sharp with alarm.
Raymond's head snapped toward the horizon.
Something was coming. Fast. A dark shape cutting through the morning air, trailing a plume of smoke behind it—white contrail streaking across the pale blue sky like a chalk line. The sound reached them a moment later. A high-pitched whine, growing louder, doppler-shifting as the object changed trajectory.
It curved.
Angled downward.
Straight toward the camp.
Fuck. Is that a missile?
Raymond's exhaustion evaporated. He turned and sprinted toward the oasis, legs pumping hard, the handgun still clutched in his fist. Behind him, shouts erupted—mercenaries scattering, diving for cover, anywhere but where they'd been standing.
The whine became a shriek.
The object dove, smoke trail bending sharply as it committed to its terminal descent, nose pointed directly at the heart of the caravan.
Boom!
The impact shook the ground beneath Raymond's feet. Dust exploded upward in a massive plume, swallowing the center of the camp in a brown-grey cloud. The crash echoed across the desert—metal striking earth with the force of a small bomb.
But no explosion followed.
No fire. No shrapnel. Just the sound of something heavy settling into sand.
Raymond glanced back over his shoulder, still running, his lungs burning. Through the clearing dust, a silhouette emerged. Metallic. Angular. A container of some kind, maybe two meters tall, standing upright where it had punched into the ground.
Then it moved.
The container unfolded. Panels split apart with mechanical precision, segments rotating and extending like origami in reverse. Arms emerged from what had been smooth sides. Legs telescoped downward, locking into place with heavy clanks. A torso rose, broadening as internal mechanisms clicked into alignment.
In seconds, the container had transformed into an eight-foot-tall robot—humanoid but wrong, all sharp angles and exposed hydraulics, its chassis gleaming dull grey in the morning sun.
The hell? A Transformer?
The thought barely had time to form before the robot's right arm shifted. The hand folded inward, plates sliding over each other, reconfiguring into a cylindrical barrel. The opening at the end glowed faint orange, building charge.
The robot's head swiveled.
Its eyes—or whatever sensors passed for eyes—locked onto Raymond.
Crap. It's targeting me!
His mind screamed at his legs to move faster, to change direction, to do something. But his teenage body, already wrung out from the firefight and the sprint, responded sluggishly. The command traveled from brain to muscle like it was moving through molasses.
The robot fired.
A scorching ray of red light erupted from the barrel, cutting through the air with a high-pitched hiss. The beam traced across the ground toward him, sizzling vegetation in its path. Dried date palm fronds on the ground ignited instantly. Sand turned to glass where the laser touched.
Raymond managed to twist his torso, turning his back toward the threat, every instinct screaming to get out of the line of fire.
Heat washed over him—intense, unbearable, like standing too close to a furnace.
Then nothing.
Raymond's consciousness returned in fragments.
White. Everything was white.
His eyes cracked open, squinting against the brightness. Walls surrounded him—smooth, featureless, the color of fresh snow. No texture. No seams. Just uniform whiteness stretching in every direction.
He was lying down. Something soft beneath him. A bed, maybe, though he couldn't see it clearly. His body felt heavy, disconnected, like he was wearing someone else's limbs.
What happened?
Memory trickled back in pieces. The robot. The transforming container. The barrel glowing orange. The laser beam cutting through the air, tracing toward him across burning sand.
The heat.
He'd felt it. Intense. Unbearable.
Then nothing.
I should be dead.
The realization formed with complete clarity. That ray had struck him. He'd experienced the searing warmth flood across his spine, perceived the instant of contact. There had been no evading it, no final moment salvation. The beam had found its mark.
So why was he here? Wherever here was.
Is this the afterlife?
The white room offered no answers. No doors. No windows. Just endless white in every direction, like being inside a blank page.
But then he remembered.
The simulation.
His breath caught. If everything before had been artificial—the desert, the caravan, Rakheel, the bandits, all of it constructed—then maybe this was what came after. The end of the program. The exit point.
Maybe I'm out. Maybe this is real.
As if responding to his thoughts, something appeared in front of him.
A display screen flickered to life—sleek, same as the system interface he'd seen before. Golden borders materialized around its edges, crisp and luminous against the background. The screen itself glowed with semi-transparent white background, making the black text that appeared inside stand out with perfect clarity.
[ Congratulations to Player: Ray #776784 on clearing the scenario. ]
[ Your final mission rating is calculated to be B+ ]
[ Please check your activity log for breakdown of the mission rating ]
Raymond stared at the text, his mind grinding to a halt.
Still here. Still in the system.
He'd thought death—or completing the scenario—would end it. Pull him out. Return him to reality, wherever that was.
But the interface was still talking to him. Still displaying information. Still treating him like he was inside something controlled.
I'm not out yet.