Crushing the Fallen Angel Prototype

The broker laid into me harshly.

His voice sounded a bit rougher than five months ago, like something had changed.

Before diving into the briefing, the broker added a note.

What popped into my mind was that blueprint from an hour ago. The difference? Back then, it was just the blueprint alone. Now, detailed specs were attached in a note.

The overall silhouette of the Fallen Angel was sleek and streamlined. Not agile, but blunt—reminiscent of something if you stared long enough. Because of its shape, I'd pegged it as standard weight class at best... but the specs said otherwise. No way it hits those speeds without being lightweight.

I could sense the broker's disbelief.

Coordinates appeared on the map. Beyond the mountains.

It had nearly doubled. But if I blamed someone for the increase, it'd be me for ghosting so long. Whatever. The priority was smashing that new weapon.

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I checked my info on the Hermes Network. Pilot callsign: Rabe. Unranked. That meant outside the top 50. Still, my performance put me around 80th. Mission log showed just two requests. But apparently, that was enough for this ranking.

'Completing this should get me into the rankings.'

Just the briefing alone screamed high difficulty. Smash a megacorp's top-secret project right in their face? Overkill for a warmup... but that insane reward and the gear tempted me. A weapon not even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the game. So unique—I had to try it.

'Still...'

Reviewing the briefing, a question hit me. Why did the Rail Foundation assume my five-month silence was just neglect or apathy?

'Five months ago was a month after I got wrecked.'

Corporate requests log on Hermes Network. They'd hired Player and Scarab to hit us, and other corps would know.

'Unless the hirers weren't legit corps.'

That nagging doubt made me check records. My last corp gig: "Halt New Weapon Launch." Scarab's log. Player Anon's log. Nowhere was "Rabe's Nest defense battle."

'What the...'

Hermann had said two corp-hired pilots were inbound. So what gives? Was the corp request a total fake?

'Hmph.'

No answers now. I shelved it and accepted the job.

'But first.'

Nexus sync rate was off. My senses had shifted badly—current build didn't fit.

'And Fallen Angel's no pushover, even for a rookie pilot.'

Regrettable, but rebuild time. Close-range all-in relied too much on instinct, gut, reflexes. I'd rip out safeties later... for now, chess-match build: calm and calculated.

'Sniper Cannon on the shoulder, obviously.'

Long-range focus. Standard class couldn't pure snipe, but skew ranged. Missiles and Sniper Cannon on back, main weapon? Rifle or SMG options only.

'Whatever.'

Not really "main"—Sniper Cannon would carry. Swapped FCS for long-range, armor to lightweight. Mid-standard became full standard from weight.

'Thinner plates might hurt more, but that's on Hermann—not me.'

Why mess with my Nexus? Build set, moved it to mobile hangar.

Static— Applying the build in the mobile hangar, Hermann's voice crackled over comms.

"Yeah."

Not right away. He'd fixed my wrecked Nexus, and six months of bedrest nursing racked up debt. But that didn't mean total collateral. Just this much—1/3 of pay. With the bump, more like 1/4. Considering his Nexus sabotage, I could've bolted, but I let it slide.

Changed a bit...? He never said "don't get hurt" before. I didn't show it.

"I'll be back."

The mobile hangar lifted off. En route, instead of boarding the Nexus, I crashed in the rest area. Staying awake was getting tough.

I woke mid-flight. Through the double-sealed window: dark night sky. Tiny city lights twinkled on the horizon like fireflies. Peaceful from afar. But inside, people starving as always.

'Like the city I lived in before piloting.'

Short fond memory, then I scanned the dimly lit hangar—opposite the dark sky outside. Gripped my wheelchair, hauled up with arm strength, wheeled out of rest area. No bulkheads dividing; just narrow to open space. Felt like surfacing from water.

Whirr— Unknown machinery hummed. I spoke.

"SIF. Wait long?"

No reply. Duh—talking to a hangar management AI like it's human. Wheeled to console. Might as well inspect Nexus more. As I reached to tap, text appeared:

Text, not voice. Almost shy. Just electrical I/O, but my human brain anthropomorphized it. I chuckled inwardly and operated the console.