Chapter 40 : The Milestone - Part 1
Six weeks of industrial-scale production reduces existence to mechanical routine. Wake. Materialize. Rest. Materialize. Sleep. Repeat until days blur into undifferentiated stream of weapons appearing from dimensional storage.
The Death Watch order is ninety-seven percent complete. 487 rifles delivered. 196 heavy weapons distributed. 98 jetpack upgrades installed. 294 personal armor suits fitting warriors across Concordia. The numbers track progress toward completion and something else—something Eight keeps mentioning during rare moments when neural strain permits attention.
"Master approaches Store Level 2 threshold," the Forerunner AI observes while I materialize rifle number 488. "Current metrics: 48 sales completed, 4.9M credits total revenue. Threshold requirements: 50 sales OR 5M revenue. Master is three transactions from qualification by either metric."
I set the rifle aside, waiting for headache to fade. The neural strain is constant companion now—dull throb behind eyes that spikes with each materialization then settles into persistent ache. R4 monitors my vital signs obsessively.
"Master's neural temperature: elevated but stable. Six weeks of sustained production has caused measurable cognitive degradation—reaction time decreased 12%, memory consolidation efficiency reduced 8%, emotional regulation compromised 15%."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning master is damaging brain through overuse of System interface. Permanent impairment probability: 23.7% if current pace continues beyond twelve weeks total."
Good thing I'm almost finished then.
The auxiliary sales helped accelerate timeline. Mandalorian civilians seeking personal defense weapons—15,000 credits for basic pistol package. Bounty hunters passing through Concordia who heard about "off-world supplier with interesting inventory"—45,000 for specialized equipment. Even one Separatist agent who somehow tracked me to Mandalore despite relocation—90,000 for untraceable weapons with delivery to neutral location.
That last sale nearly caused crisis. Bo-Katan found out, confronted me about supplying potential enemies. I reminded her about Rex's intelligence sharing—verified the agent wasn't targeting Mandalorians specifically, just needed weapons for operation in Hutt Space. She accepted explanation but warned: "Death Watch exclusivity means something. Next time, clear it with command first."
The relationship has been developing steadily. She visits daily, often staying through evening while I work. Watches me materialize equipment with fascination despite not understanding mechanics. Asks questions about my operation that I deflect with practiced vagueness. Shares stories about Death Watch operations that paint picture of civil war's brutal reality.
Last night she brought ne'tra gal—Mandalorian black ale that tastes like liquid smoke and regret. We drank while I completed final armor suits.
"You've been pushing yourself for six weeks straight," she said, examining the exhaustion carved into my features. "Was it worth it? The pain, the stress, the neural damage your droid keeps mentioning?"
Honest answer required thought. "I don't know. Reached goal I set but feel hollow. Like achieving the thing matters less than wanting it did."
Her hand found mine—physical contact becoming more common between us. "That's war profiteering. You get what you wanted and realize the wanting was better than the having. Welcome to selling violence for living."
The understanding between us is strange. Two people who've compromised themselves into unrecognizable shapes, finding recognition in each other's damage. She's killed for ideology. I've enabled deaths for profit. We're both too far down respective paths to pretend innocence.
"At least we're honest about it," I said.
"Honesty is all we have left."
Now, materializing rifle 500 with final burst of effort, the System suddenly chimes louder than usual. Interface floods with notifications:
[ MILESTONE ACHIEVED: STORE LEVEL 2 UNLOCKED ]
[ REQUIREMENTS MET: 50 SALES COMPLETED, 5.1M CREDITS TOTAL REVENUE ]
[ ACCESSING EXPANDED CATALOG... ]
[ SMUGGLER'S HOLD UPGRADED: 25M³ → 50M³ ]
[ NEW FEATURES AVAILABLE ]
[ PROCESSING... ]
The dimensional pocket expands. I feel it physically—pressure in skull multiplying, neural pathways adapting to doubled storage capacity, reality warping around interface I still don't fully understand. The sensation is like having your brain stretched then snapped back into place.
R4's alarm systems trigger. "Master's neural activity: critical spike! System upgrade causing severe biological feedback!"
I collapse against workbench, vision whiting out. When it clears, my nose is bleeding and Eight is speaking through the pain.
"Upgrade complete. Master has accessed Store Level 2. Analyzing new capabilities."
The catalog interface transforms. Sections I couldn't access before suddenly visible. I navigate through expanding options with trembling hands:
[ STORE LEVEL 2: VEHICLE SECTION ]
[ AVAILABLE: MILITARY AIRCRAFT, LIGHT FREIGHTERS, GUNSHIPS, SPEEDERS ]
The list scrolls past: Halo Longsword interceptors (1,200,000 credits), Pelican dropships (850,000), Mass Effect Kodiak shuttles (450,000), Titanfall Goblin dropships (380,000), various starfighters and support craft.
"I can sell ships now. Actual military vehicles."
The implications are staggering. These aren't small arms—these are force multipliers that change battlefield dynamics completely. Death Watch with air support becomes different threat entirely.
[ VEHICLE DELIVERY RESTRICTIONS: ]
[ - MAXIMUM 2 VEHICLES PER MONTH ]
[ - REQUIRES LANDING ZONE COORDINATES ]
[ - CANNOT MATERIALIZE IN SMUGGLER'S HOLD ]
[ - DELIVERY TIME: 24-72 HOURS AFTER PURCHASE ]
[ - VEHICLE APPEARANCE MUST BE EXPLAINED TO AUTHORITIES ]
Eight's analysis floods consciousness: "Game-changing capability. Master can now arm entire factions with air superiority. Profit margins on vehicles are substantial—850k cost for Pelican, market value approximately 1.5M given scarcity. Monthly revenue potential: 1.2M from vehicles alone, excluding continued small arms sales."
"Master can also attract Republic military attention previously unimaginable," R4 counters. "Vehicle trafficking is capital offense. Discovery means execution, not imprisonment."
They're both right. The power is intoxicating and terrifying. I'm no longer just arms dealer—I'm potential supplier of military air wings.
The door opens. Bo-Katan enters without knocking—privilege of relationship that's developed over six weeks. She takes one look at me and her expression shifts.
"You're bleeding. What happened?"
"Finished. All 500 rifles. Contract complete."
She crosses the distance quickly, examining me with warrior's assessment for injury. "You pushed too hard. Told you to pace yourself."
"Pace doesn't matter now. It's done."
Her hands cup my face, forcing eye contact. "And you look half-dead. Was it worth it?"
The question echoes from last night. This time, answer is clearer: "I reached something. Major milestone in my operation. Changes everything going forward."
"Explain."
I can't tell her about System levels. About interdimensional storage. About interface that's damaged my brain through overuse. But I can translate into terms she'll understand.
"My supply capacity doubled. Can now provide equipment I couldn't before. Larger items. More strategic value."
Her eyes light up with immediate tactical assessment. "What kind of larger items?"
"Vehicles. Dropships. Gunships. Limited availability but I can source them now."
"You're serious." Not question—statement processing implications. "Death Watch with air support would change civil war dynamics completely. Satine's police couldn't counter us. Even Maul's forces would struggle."
"Two vehicles maximum per month. Expensive. But possible."
She pulls me close suddenly—embrace that's relief and excitement combined. "This is huge. Pre Vizsla needs to know immediately."
"After celebration you promised." My exhaustion is complete but her energy is infectious. "You said finishing this order deserved Mandalorian celebration."
"That was before you told me you can supply dropships." But she's smiling. "Fine. Celebration first, revolution planning second."
She produces the ne'tra gal again—brought another bottle anticipating completion. We drink directly from container, sitting on warehouse floor surrounded by 500 rifles I materialized through sustained neural torture.
"Six weeks," she says quietly. "You supplied my entire clan's fighting force in six weeks. Most operations take years to build that capacity."
"Most operations don't have my advantages."
"Your mysterious supply chain you won't explain." She drinks, passes bottle. "Don't care how you do it anymore. Just care that you do."
The alcohol hits hard—empty stomach, exhausted body, neural pathways already stressed. The room spins gently. Bo-Katan's hand finds mine again, fingers interlacing.
"I'm glad you came to Mandalore," she says. "Glad Coruscant forced you here. Selfish reason—wouldn't have met you otherwise. Strategic reason—Death Watch needs you. Personal reason..."
She trails off. Uncharacteristic hesitation from someone usually direct.
"Personal reason?" I prompt.
"You're different. Most people here are warriors or politicians or warrior-politicians. You're just... pragmatic survivor trying to carve space in galaxy that wants you dead. I understand that."
The honesty is raw. Vulnerable in way Bo-Katan rarely allows herself.
"I understand you too. Warrior fighting for ideology while surrounded by people who see war as game. You actually believe in Mandalorian honor while others just use it as justification."
"Dangerous thing to believe in anything."
"Dangerous not to."
She leans in. Kisses me—not exploratory or tentative, but certain. Decided. This isn't spontaneous moment but choice she's been considering for weeks.
I respond, pulling her closer. First physical intimacy since transmigration. First connection beyond transactional survival. It feels different than expected—less about desire, more about finding another person equally damaged and somehow still functional.
We end up in my quarters upstairs. The night that follows is blend of exhaustion and relief and something that might be genuine affection between two people who've forgotten how to be anything except competent at violence-adjacent professions.
Afterwards, lying in dark with her breathing evening out toward sleep, I stare at ceiling processing what just happened.
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 1,161,245 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 50 ]
[ TOTAL REVENUE: 5.1M CREDITS ]
[ STORE LEVEL 2: ACTIVE ]
[ SMUGGLER'S HOLD: 50M³ ]
The numbers are clean. Professional documentation of transformation from desperate survivor to millionaire arms dealer with romantic relationship and military alliance.
Eight projects analysis: "Master achieved optimal outcomes across all vectors. Store Level 2 unlocked. Death Watch relationship secured. Romantic connection established with high-value ally. Financial position strong. Strategic positioning excellent."
R4 counters quietly: "Master also looks more dead inside than achieved goals warrant. Success appears corrosive to remaining humanity. Psychological degradation continues despite external achievements."
They're both right. I'm successful by every metric I set. And hollow in ways that success can't fill.
Bo-Katan shifts beside me, hand finding mine even in sleep. Physical presence that's simultaneously comforting and complicating.
"I'm Level 2 arms dealer in committed relationship with warrior woman, living on moon base during civil war, with AI advisors arguing in my head about whether I'm optimizing correctly. Software engineering seems very far away."
The thought is distant observation rather than emotional weight. That life ended in alley with floating blue screens. This life is what remains—built from compromises and casualties into something functional but unrecognizable.
Forward is only direction that makes sense. Regret changes nothing.
Sleep comes eventually, dreamless for once.
Reviews and Power Stones keep the heat on!
Want to see what happens before the "heroes" do?
Secure your spot in the inner circle on Patreon. Skip the weekly wait and read ahead:
💵 Hustler [$7]: 15 Chapters ahead.
⚖️ Enforcer [$11]: 20 Chapters ahead.
👑 Kingpin [$16]: 25 Chapters ahead.
Periodic drops. Check on Patreon for the full release list.
👉 Join the Syndicate: patreon.com/Anti_hero_fanfic