Achilles and the Tortoise
Over the wasteland where fiery auroras rained down like melting lanterns, a small truck kicked up clouds of dust along tire tracks. Rattle. Rattle. The truck was too small for wasteland roads, its suspension so lacking that it felt like riding an amusement park ride. That was the price of choosing this pint-sized thing amid the monster trucks and trailers favored by wasteland gang scum.
Yawn. Still, letting out a yawn was my extreme way of indirectly petting Dorothy's driving skills! Nah, not really—just three straight days without sleep.
My heavy eyelids drooped as I nodded off. Shaking my head to chase away the drowsiness, I felt Dorothy glance over with a face full of worry.
"Sorry... where were we?"
Rubbing my eyes and stretching right there in my seat, I saw Dorothy puff out one cheek and furrow her brow. Rare sight—a pissed-off Dorothy. Probably worried because I hadn't slept. Sorry about that. But we still needed a plan, Dorothy.
As I straightened up, Dorothy let out a pffft, deflating her cheek, and reminded me of our plan.
"We said let's set up base inside the 50 District. Acting in the wasteland border zone would draw too much attention."
Oh, right. The wasteland border zone seemed perfect for hiding at first—vast area, lots of people. But...
"They do a ton of human hunting there."
"Like... the gangs? But we took care of all the gangs, didn't we?"
Dorothy, Dorothy. Why say it so creepy? Sure, to Dorothy fighting those gangs, "took care of" was more like "ground into paste." But even after seeing that, she still felt like a soft-hearted kid to me. For a different reason.
Dorothy didn't know enough about this dystopia.
"Not gangs."
"...No way?"
Pressing my temple, I kept explaining to the still-innocent puppy.
"The wasteland border from 50 to 60 District is a lawless zone. Even in the original game, committing 'minor' crimes like murder or robbery there doesn't put a bounty on you. None of the big powers—City sheriffs, Mega Corp security, Resistance fighters, or players—control it."
"And that's because the three major factions have some kind of agreement."
They probably needed fresh humans sometimes. To raise operatives of unknown origin. Or get character types that wouldn't emerge in their well-managed territories. Or use humans in "different" ways. Reasons aplenty, but it all boiled down to one thing.
"So... the City government, Mega Corp, and Resistance—all three factions hunt humans in the wasteland border zone?"
Dorothy was sharp, as always.
"Exactly."
Dorothy's face paled as she bit her lip hard.
"...Got it. Not a place we can just wander into."
Her mood tanked fast, so I quickly added something a merc otaku like me would love.
"That's why I say we head straight inside 50 District."
Even late 40s District starts feeling livable. Still wasteland backdrop, but like a big Old West boomtown. And best of all...
"What about 48 District? The mercenaries' holy land. The rest stop zone."
Where all the stinky, dumbass mercs live too.
Dorothy, who'd been chewing her cheek deep in thought, whipped around with wide eyes.
"...Tiara, you okay with that?"
I nodded. Hell, I probably stank worse after days without a proper wash. I'd seen her wrinkle her nose when buckling my seatbelt—her sense of smell was sharp.
Of course, Dorothy wasn't asking if delicate little Tiara could handle a filthy merc den. Border zone out means under big faction watch. 48 District was a traffic hub most City-bound logistics passed through, so City government surveillance was intense. And that was my angle.
"It might actually be safer."
"Huh? How...?"
The City government was most likely hunting us right now. We'd smashed the Outernet inner wall and the tower—scenarios hostile to them. They'd ramped up security around the wasteland tower and nearby districts already. Even merc-packed 48 District.
"Then how would the mercs react?"
Dorothy, the merc expert, answered instantly.
"They'd resist!"
"Right. 'Cause they're dumbasses."
"What...?"
"Oops. Black oil side effect."
She puffed her cheeks at my sneak jab. Looked like the border zone gloom had lifted. Good.
"Anyway. If the mercs resist like idiots and tension spikes, the City government has no choice but to leak info on us."
Normally, their main watch in 48 would be the mercs. But with heightened alerts and mercs griping, they'd mobilize everyone to catch us.
"Don't call 'em dumbasses!"
Dorothy gripped the wheel, cheeks puffed out pbbbt!, but still focused on my words.
"Infiltrate the mercs, snag the City government's leaked info ASAP, and tweak our escape plan based on that? Hmph...!"
Whoa... uh... yeah. Dorothy was scary smart...
"...Spot on. How'd you know?"
We couldn't get intel from agents closing in on us. Netdiver-Black Ops duo meant we wouldn't lose fights, but we'd keep exposing our position. Still, we had to know how much they knew about us. Easier to evade the heavyweight City government that way.
"I know! It's like Achilles and the turtle!"
Right... game mission, Achilles and the turtle... Wait.
Sleep vanished.
"Dorothy, where'd you hear that?"
She gave me a smug, puzzled look.
"Mom told me!"
Dorothy was a dropout from Black Ops training, shipped to the lab. Meaning, not in the original game. Like me.
"Tiara, I'm tired toooo~!"
Yet her sadness, her pain, her human side kept reminding me this world was real... that I was living in it.
"Yeah. Let's crash here today."
Scraaape. Dorothy expertly maneuvered the stick to park the truck and turned to me.
"Nailed it!"
"...Yeah. You did."
And then she drops game lingo. "Achilles and the turtle"—a mission name. Protagonist as the turtle, massive faction as Achilles chasing. To shake the fast pursuer, protagonist dives into their turf, sows chaos with fake info attacks, always staying one step ahead. A mission riffing on Zeno's paradox: slower turtle outsmarts Achilles by stepping right.
Hearing that from "mom"...
Dorothy was smart. In this dystopia beating amnesia with brain computers, it made sense. Black Ops and Netdivers were "advanced" humans, elite by existence alone.
Yet this Dorothy skipped original story beats I knew—like wasteland border hunts or gang drones.
...Does that add up? City native, maybe... But Black Ops trainee too. Their camps should...
Game knowledge tangled with Dorothy's actions. My brain spun hypotheses on her true nature—genius calculations birthing and discarding theories.
"Sigh... Dorothy."
"Hm?"
Best way: ask straight. Where'd she hear it? Origins? Grill her.
"...Never mind."
But I couldn't reveal my own secrets... How could I?
Dorothy puffed her cheeks—what theee~—and fully reclined her seat into a bed like a pro.
"Tiara."
She called me. Glancing over, her fiery eyes half-lidded, staring.
"Yeah?"
"Confident faking a merc?"
Mischievous glint. A bit mad too—probably at me not sleeping.
"Faking a merc? Piece of cake."
I flexed my arm, showing off nonexistent biceps.
Suck!
"Here, feel!"
She kneaded my squishy, muscle-less arm and giggled uhihi~!
"Aww, total hacker vibe! Your turn, squeeze me! This here's a real merc arm!"
Dorothy flexed hard. I lay beside her, fondling her plump forearm.
"Heh hehng. So squishy~."
She poked my body, cheeks ballooned.
"You're squishier!"
"Heh hehng! Stooop! Tickles! Eek! Eek!"
This rascal! I poked her sides back. Zero un-squishy spots. How'd this muscle-less shrimp smash a tower... Uhihihi!
She twisted away, yelling surrender, and burrowed into my arms.
Frizzy hair, warm breaths. Her kid warmth soothed my frayed nerves.
Yeah. Her origins? Who cares. What matters is wanting to protect this kid to the end.
No one touches Dorothy. I'll make sure.
55 District. Nicknamed the Trash Bin. Wasteland-City border, lawless zone.
A kid staggered down its streets.
"Water... someone... water..."
Mumbling, he collapsed to his knees. No one cared. Not cybercore-armed mercs with missing limbs, nor locals hawking to them.
Except one.
"Ah...?"
Feeling a shadow, the kid looked up at the figure blocking the wasteland sun. Flaming red hair.
"Hi there?"
Soft tone. Red eyes holding faint hope and contempt.
Thud. A prosthetic leg tapping ground instead of foot. 30s-40s. Woman.
"Little one, nice to meet you. I'm Rachel."
Names meant nothing. Just water or no. Survival fire burned in the boy's eyes—that was all.
Rachel stared into them, then pulled two military canteens from her coat, setting them before him. She uncapped one and poured over his head.
"Guh... urgh...!"
Not water. Sour-smelling, sticky black liquid.
No matter how parched, he couldn't drink that. Machine oil.
He clamped his mouth, enduring the humiliation. Eyes locked on the other canteen, he clenched his fist with his last strength.
Now. Rush her—win? Prosthetic means bad balance. Shove hard, grab water, run...!
But as if reading him, Rachel snatched the remaining canteen.
She gulped the fresh water inside, staring into his fierce eyes. Throat bobbing. If I could just take that... His gleaming gaze screamed it. The black solution soaked deep, revealing murder in his pupils.
Haa— Rachel exhaled moist breath, looking down.
"What you hate most. What you wanna kill most. Anything. Tell me."
One. Two. Before she counted three, he spoke.
"Mega Corp."
Good. Faint smile.
"Again."
"Myself."
"Again."
"...You."
All under three seconds. Her smile deepened, satisfaction plain.
Trash Bin had smart kids too—not total waste visiting here.
"Name?"
"...Tommy."
She tossed him the half-full canteen. Lighting a cig, she watched him chug.
"Tommy, call me Mom from now on."
Tommy just glared, licking the rim.
Rachel dangled another from her pocket.
"What'd I say to call me?"
"You, damn bitch!"
Unable to hold rage, Tommy lunged. Aimed at her prosthetic—
Splat!
"Kghuh...! Blegh...!"
Her leg slammed his gut instead; he puked up the water, rolling.
Hmm. Too rebellious this time.
Arms crossed, pondering, Rachel sighed and chin-nodded Tommy.
"Gotta raise even trash like this. Kids, grab him."
Alley kids swarmed out. All bigger than Tommy, near-teens... all jet-black hair.
"Mmph...! Aagh...! Ack...!"
Dodging his flailing kicks, they bound him unscathed, looking up obediently.
"Load him in the truck. Home time."
"Yes, Mom."
Black-haired kids bowed, hauling Tommy. Like a mini army. Locals averted eyes.
"Tch."
Rachel wasn't pleased. Watching them board the seat-converted truck bed, she muttered low.
"Sigh... if only not for that soft personality."
Her words missed the ordinary kids packed tight. Aimed at some past shrimp once in that truck. Her empty gaze mirrored a craftsman who'd cracked a gemstone just shy of perfection.