Marcus's final words hung in the air, a deliberate offering. A thorn in our side.
Raymond's mind processed the statement as an invitation and an opportunity. Information was currency, and Marcus Chen had just revealed a deficit in his accounts. Raymond's objective—the Reformers—was now a shared interest, changing the negotiation.
He held his silence, running tactical calculations. The memory of the shipping container was a cold, hard knot in his gut. The grinding shriek of metal, the concussive blast of the grenade, the inhuman voice of the cyborg that had grabbed him. That was his entry point into this entire mess. The moment his life as Raymond, former SAS operator, ended, and his existence as Ray, Player #776784, began.
The original Ray had been a healthy, unremarkable lab-grown orphan in the real world. He entered the tutorial on his eighteenth birthday—then somehow died. That event coincided perfectly with Raymond's own awakening inside the container.
This sequence couldn't be a coincidence. A Player's death, particularly within the tutorial, meant immediate return. Raymond knew that firsthand.
Someone or something had targeted the boy.
The Reformers were the first link in that chain. Following it back could lead to answers about his own predicament. About who, or what, had put him in this body.
This wasn't about credits anymore. It was personal. But letting Marcus see that would be a mistake. He needed to extract maximum intelligence without giving up leverage. How much can I get for free?
For the first time since their partnership began, Raymond hesitated. The pause lasted no more than two seconds, a brief window of stillness as he weighed his next move. It was two seconds too long.
Marcus's eyes sharpened, the placid mask of the corporate executive peeling back to reveal the spymaster beneath. He had spotted the break in rhythm, the flicker of something beyond the cold calculus of a mercenary. He leaned forward, sensing an opening.
Marcus observed him. The polished steel smoothness returned to his voice. "I think your interest in the Reformers suggests something more personal."
He didn't wait for a confirmation. "They are a problem for me, and it appears they are now a problem for you. Perhaps we can arrive at a mutually agreeable solution."
Raymond gave nothing away, his expression a flat, unreadable slate. A partnership with Marcus was a dance on a razor's edge, but it was a dance that took him exactly where he needed to go.
Seeing he had Raymond's full attention, Marcus continued. "The Reformers have a clandestine headquarters somewhere within Cyber City's limits. A major command and control node. It is an affront to The Table's authority, yet we have been unable to locate it. Our informants are either captured or turn up dead. Our surveillance is detected and circumvented. They are ghosts."
He laced his fingers together on the desk, a picture of corporate poise discussing a surgical strike.
"However, we do have one solid piece of intelligence. Their lieutenants—the augmented field commanders—gather at a specific location in the lower industrial district. A place called 'The Forge.' They meet to exchange data, receive orders, and procure black-market cybernetics."
Marcus's gaze locked onto Raymond's. The offer was clear.
"My agents can't get within a hundred meters of the place without being made. But you… your stealth technology is unlike anything I've ever seen. You could get inside. You could attach a tracker, or better yet, follow one of them. Find the nest for me."
The offer settled in the quiet office—a tactical problem with clear variables. The Forge. A meeting of augmented lieutenants. A potential path to the Reformers' command node.
Eight days left. The thought was a cold, hard number. Not enough time for a frontal assault, and a war wasn't the objective. He needed data. The entire reason he was in this body began in that shipping container. Their operational ledgers, their trafficking manifests—that was where answers were buried.
Marcus wanted the nest located. Raymond wanted the records inside it. The objectives weren't just compatible; they were sequential. Infiltrating their headquarters was one of the paths to the intelligence he truly sought.
The mission served a dual purpose. It moved him closer to his own origins while cementing his value. An Intelligence Leader on The Table was a powerful acquaintance to have, an asset that would persist across scenarios. Future deployments to this world would be far simpler with Marcus Chen in his corner.
He met the spymaster's gaze. "I need a map of the lower industrial district. And everything you have on The Forge's layout."
Raymond left Chen Heavy Industries with a data chip containing a detailed map of the lower industrial district and the known layout of The Forge. The building itself was a sprawling, three-story industrial complex, a relic of an older Cyber City, tucked between an active chemical plant and a decommissioned robotics factory. Its concrete shell was scarred with decades of acid rain and exhaust fumes.
Back at the safehouse, Raymond synced Marcus's data chip to a holographic projector. A wireframe rendering of The Forge materialized above the coffee table, shimmering blue. Marcus's intel marked several exterior sentry positions, pressure plates on key access points, and projected laser grids on the perimeter walls.
Raymond studied the projections. Every marked point was for conventional threats—human guards, simple motion sensors. These blueprints represented The Table's knowledge—not The Reformers' actual security.
The true challenge lay in the unseen. Heat sensors, sonic emitters, maybe even rudimentary psionic dampeners—the kind of tech that could penetrate [Basic Sneak] if he wasn't careful. He would have to move with absolute precision, relying on his Perception and Agility to detect the invisible threads of their defenses.
His objective divided into three distinct phases.
Phase 1: Infiltrate The Forge. He needed to penetrate the outer layers of security—both recorded and assumed—and locate the meeting place of the lieutenants. No alarms. No confrontation. Just a silent shadow slipping through the cracks. This would test his [Basic Sneak] to its limits, requiring an almost supernatural awareness of the environment.
Phase 2: Observation and pursuit. Once inside, he would bide his time. The lieutenants would finish their business, then likely split to return to their individual sectors, or, if he was lucky, to their central stronghold. Raymond needed to follow one, unseen.
One target. Smallest footprint. Easiest path to the nest.
This would require sustained stealth and the agility to navigate unpredictable urban environments on the tail of an unknown enemy.
Phase 3: Data extraction or direct assault. Upon identifying the true Reformer headquarters, Raymond would assess. If possible, he'd send the coordinates to Marcus. If not, he would risk discovery and infiltrate the stronghold himself. His primary goal: obtain their operational logs, their trafficking manifests. The answers to his capture—they were in those data streams.
The risk of discovery was high. Very high. If compromised, his strategy shifted immediately to damage control.
Basic Analyze is just short of 8 REP.
He needed to ensure he brought down enough targets to cover that cost, to acquire the skill before he gets killed and the System resets him back to the white room.
He closed the holographic projection, plunging the room into darkness. Eight days. The clock was ticking. Raymond knew the Reformers wouldn't be his only problem, but they were the first.
Raymond called Marcus on the communicator. "Marcus, I have a plan but I need your help. I require a wrecking crew to open a clean path—disposable personnel who must perish in the assault. I will send you the specific path details I need cleared."
Marcus's voice came through the static. "Okay. I can arrange that, but how sure are you of this plan?"
Raymond's lips curved upwards. "Seventy percent. However, I want you to know one detail beforehand."
"Oh? What is it?" Marcus sounded intrigued.
Raymond told him, "You face the possibility of me going underground with no contact for a while after I follow them; do not expect to hear back from me if I don't resurface within a day or two. I will return eventually, but not too soon. I hope this won't affect our partnership."
Lieutenant Vryn Ta'las sat in the dimly lit central chamber of The Forge, his augmented left hand scrolling through datapads with mechanical precision. The Sand Rats' destruction had left a gap in their network—one that needed filling. He had managed to scavenge a handful of low-level survivors from Anton's operation, but they were barely worth the oxygen they breathed. Gutter rats with no discipline, no vision.
His cybernetic lens flickered as it processed the latest reports. The Sand Rats had been useful—expendable muscle for high-risk acquisitions, a buffer between the Reformers and the Table's scrutiny. Now, their absence left him scrambling.
Vryn's fingers twitched against the datapad, a habit born from years of system diagnostics. Anton's fault. The fool had grown reckless, drawing too much attention. And now, someone had wiped him out with surgical efficiency. Vryn's jaw tightened. If he ever found the bastard responsible, he'd make sure they understood the cost of disrupting the Pattern.
The door hissed open, and Tavi Korr sauntered in, her tailored suit immaculate as always. She took her seat across from him, those cold bio-luminescent eyes scanning his tension.
"You look like a man chewing on broken glass," she remarked, her voice smooth as oiled steel. "Need a hand?"
Vryn almost refused on principle—he didn't need her games—but the numbers weren't adding up. He exhaled through his nose. "I might. The supply chain's—"
A thunderous explosion cut him off. The walls shuddered; dust rained from the ceiling. Alerts blared across the room's security feeds—breaches on the eastern and western perimeters.
Tavi's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Ah. Another problem, the Table sure doesn't let up."
Vryn was already on his feet, his augmented arm cycling through combat protocols. The feed showed chaos—men in mismatched armor flooding the corridors, firing wildly.
Another explosion echoed rattling Vryn's teeth. He ignored Tavi's casual assessment, his gaze fixed on the security feeds. The attackers were a ragtag assembly: outdated ballistic vests, scavenged firearms, movements uncoordinated. Not the Table's standard assault protocol. The Table moved with surgical precision, not this disorganized rabble.
"Amateurs," Vryn stated, his voice flat. "Cannon fodder. This isn't a direct assault."
Tavi nodded, her cold green eyes narrowing as she surveyed the chaos on the displays. "A decoy, perhaps. Or simply softening the target. They send their cheap labor first, see what crumbs fall." Her gaze met his. "The real attack could be elsewhere. Or this is just the first wave, meant to probe our defenses."
Vryn's augmented hand keyed into the Forge's internal network. He brought up schematics, cross-referencing the breach points with their defensive layers. Reinforced blast doors. Automated sentry guns. His own security cyborgs, positioned in kill zones.
"They won't penetrate the middle layer," he confirmed as the data scroll validated his analysis. "Not these units." His gaze flicked to Tavi. "Unless the Table commits their actual assets, this is a waste of their resources."
Tavi simply hummed, a low, calculating sound. She watched the feeds without a trace of concern, just data analysis.
On the displays, Vryn's forces moved with brutal efficiency. His cyborgs, sleek and purpose-built, cut down the attackers. There were no shouts of surrender, no pleas. Just weapon fire, then silence, then bodies. One after another, the attackers fell. Within five minutes, the feeds showed only still bodies amidst the wreckage. The dust settled, revealing shredded armor and broken weapons.
No new breaches. No second wave. The periphery remained silent.
Vryn deactivated the central feed, plunging the chamber into near-darkness once more. "Stay vigilant," he commanded in the communicators. A test. Nothing more. But a test from whom? The Table had its ways, but this felt… different.
Tavi chuckled softly, the sound like distant wind chimes. "Still worrying, Vryn? You forget who designed this fortress. The Pattern allows for no vulnerabilities. They could commit their entire military force, every drone, every soldier—they won't find the core."
Vryn's hand paused over a diagnostic report. He knew the structural integrity of this place better than anyone, down to the last molecule. His cybernetic eye flickered.
"The Pattern is robust, yes. But human ingenuity, or desperation, is often… unpredictable." He didn't like her casual dismissal, the implicit suggestion that his caution was a weakness.
"Anton Volkov's rapid disintegration confirms that." He narrowed his eyes. "Someone took him out because he underestimated his enemies, we shouldn't."