The Day After One Nexus Crushed B2B
The day after B2B got utterly wrecked by a single Nexus. Fat snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky. As the power plant's troops gathered for an early breakfast, someone posed a question.
"Were Nexuses always that strong?"
It came from a rookie with barely any combat experience, who'd only witnessed Nexus battles twice—including the recent raid. The guards had been helpless last time, and the friendly Nexus dispatched yesterday had turned the enemy forces into scrap metal. Casualties had been light thanks to it, but the gap in weapon effectiveness was stark. So what was the point of their existence? Maybe he should get a neural port and try piloting himself? As those thoughts crossed his mind, a man slurping bean soup beside him answered.
"They say it usually takes about two exo-frame platoons to take down one Nexus. Sounds like overkill for just one, right? But think of it like medieval warfare: exo-frames are spearmen, and a Nexus is a knight. The cost balances out."
The Nexus's frame-armor design philosophy had been modeled after medieval knights from the start. The rookie nodded and asked,
"But yesterday, way more than that showed up, didn't they?"
"Exactly my point. That's why neither the one from the day before nor yesterday's were ordinary pilots. Know what's great about Nexuses?"
"Uh... no idea."
"Their combat power varies wildly depending on the pilot's skill. They can hit insane peaks."
He spoke like he was chatting about a sports match.
"You know the Hermes Network? Where corps post contracts. Some of the ranked pilots there are elite aces their companies pamper. Word is, even tanks or exo-frame swarms can't stop them. You need a pilot of equal caliber to even have a shot."
"Even if you dropped a nuke?"
"Dunno about that..."
He scratched his head before continuing.
"But for incoming missiles? They'd get intel ahead and evade, or just shoot 'em down. Nexuses have crazy fast combat tempo for their size. So on-site stuff like mines or Javelins would be best."
"Hmm..."
"But sharp pilots dodge even those. That's how they climb the ranks. So against a top-ranked ace? Only another Nexus stands a chance."
The rookie nodded vigorously, then asked,
"So the pilot with us, or the attacker from before—what's their skill level?"
"Hey, I'm no pilot—don't ask me... Uh."
As the man hesitated, someone else chimed in.
"At that level? Definitely ranked! Saw a report on the Hermes Network once: Nexus pilots surviving massed armored crossfire? Less than 30% make it!"
"Whoa, so they could really be ranked. Same for the one who hit us, right?"
"Yeah. No doubt they're ranked material, but..."
The spark ignited a debate.
"So how strong exactly? What rank?"
"Can't crack top 30 with that corp elite at 32 holding firm. Scarab, was it?"
"Nah, they could win. That 'elite' fled from three armored battalions—what a half-baked ace. No match for ours! Think about yesterday!"
"Tch, didn't you see the news? Wasn't a retreat—they hit their objective, no point sticking around."
"You buy that? Paid-off article for sure! Even if they got the objective, an elite with pride would've swept those battalions first!"
The troops dove into heated debate about Nexus pilots like it was personal, regardless of whether the pilot was corp-backed or independent. Voices joined in, and soon the entire mess hall buzzed with rank speculation.
"What the fuck..."
B2B's security chief clutched his head. He was on the verge of a hypertensive collapse.
"Quiet for months, then pops up here? Fuck!!"
They'd sent troops to seize the seasoned power plant, only for Rabe—who'd vanished for four months—to appear out of nowhere and turn them all into scrap heaps.
"Uh, Chief..."
"Out!!"
He bellowed at the cautious employee peeking through the door. But the man flinched only slightly and stepped inside.
"Sir... we investigated the Nexus pilot who defended the plant this time. Here's the report."
"...What? Results already?"
Info on Rabe was classified up the wazoo. Probably across most corps. You didn't poke a guy who raided top secrets without knowing what else might spill out. But the report from his subordinate was unbelievable.
"Callsign: Rabe. Independent merc, seems hired by the enemy side. Short career—first mission was completing a contract for Olivia Bio Group."
"What? Who hired who?"
"Th-the enemy forces..."
"Before that. First mission what?"
"Olivia Bio Group."
"Olivia Bio's anti-corp?"
The employee fidgeted with the folder, eyes darting. The chief snatched it, confirming: one entry. Olivia Bio contract, completed. Just that one.
His hand trembled on the folder.
"What... the fuck is this...?"
"Chief?"
"You messing with me, you Rabe bastard!!"
The chief roared, shaking the office.
"Why us?! Fuck!! Only screwing us!!!"
His vision blackened. A sharp pain stabbed his nape; he lunged for the desk, dumping pills straight from the bottle into his mouth. Gasping, he rasped like a zombie from hell.
"Reassault the facility. That loafer's not on leave? Get him ready."
"Huh? Chief? Overkill? Enemy's a rookie—we could just hire a merc..."
"Do it, asshole!!"
The employee bolted. The chief couldn't fathom Rabe's game. He just fumed, unfairly targeted while Olivia got help—hands shaking in rage.
A few visitors trickled into the hangar during the day, each bearing gifts. Snacks and chocolates piled up in one corner—untouched.
Not that tasty anyway.
Maybe I'd lost my sense of taste. I stuck to dry protein blocks and vitamin tabs for meals. I'd stay here until the external allies sent reinforcements—in two days. One more night.
Afternoon drifted by peacefully with such thoughts. Belly full enough, I lavished attention on the Nexus again. Stroking its cold armor, memorizing every curve. Admiring the massive frame too big for my eyes to take in at once, a thought hit.
Come to think of it, no name yet.
Units had separate IDs for pilots and machines. Naming my near-extension was a glaring oversight.
I climbed aboard, tapped the monitor, and checked the default.
"WORKER?"
Odd. The standard in-game default. Probably all Nexuses defaulted to this without custom input. Main system damage must've wiped the data.
WORKER. Not bad, but clunky. Common too.
For pure identification, it needed thought. As I pondered, my eyes drifted to stacked equipment crates in the corner. Complex spec tables on the packaging—too fine to read easily. But squinting long enough, one word stuck.
NOUGHT?
Some metric, maybe. Pronounced "Nought"—like "note."
Nought... Nought.
Nice ring, short. I scanned for others, but they blurred. And so, my baby's name became NOUGHT.
That evening. Another attack.
Sirens blared; I launched and spotted the distant Nexus between low buildings. A cocky voice crackled over comms.
A familiar voice. One I'd heard endlessly in-game. Why was he here?
Hermes Network Rank 32. Scarab. A ranked pilot—right in front of me.