The red barrier parted like liquid and allowed the interceptor to pass through
effortlessly.
Sebastian exhaled a slow nasal breath. He was in.
He looked down through the canopy. Server 112 was a sprawling endless cityscape
of towering metal spires flying cars and oppressive neon advertisements.
It was a corporate hellscape operating on absolute ruthless efficiency.
And somewhere down there was a Regional Core with his name on it.
——
The descent into Server 112 was a depressing tour through a highly structured
dystopia.
Sebastian was perfectly disguised as Trent the Level 42 Gunner as he guided the
sleek silver interceptor down through the atmospheric layers of the Dyson sphere.
Above him the gleaming pristine towers of the Upper Ring floated on anti-gravity platforms. That was where the Guild Masters and corporate elites lived in absolute luxury.
But Trent wasn't an elite. Trent was a grunt.
Sebastian's navigation HUD automatically routed him down into the smog-choked
