Morning Star
A test run for the fully completed Nexus. It was a shame I couldn't try it out, but I figured there was nothing I could do about it. Still, ignoring it feels off somehow. Right when I was suspecting a connection between the unmanned weapons and Fallen Angel, this request came in perfectly timed. Was this what Arc Angel meant earlier about hiring me into their internal program? Hmm...
But even so, just accepting it outright felt weird. While facing off against Mastema, I'd wondered if piloting Fallen Angel was what turned him into that kind of ghost. What if I ended up the same way, a specter controlling Fallen Angel? It was in the realm of possibility, but definitely something that could happen. Not a bad deal? I ran the numbers for a second and snatched up the request.
Digital consciousness transfer—what's so bad about that? Liberation from the flesh was something I'd always wanted. This worthless, broken body... If I could treat a Nexus like my own body, fight like Mastema did, that'd be ideal. For now, I'd go with that assumption and reply to AAE.
A few hours later, a briefing video arrived from AAE.
The intro started in his usual arrogant tone. A few pages of documents rustled, then the voice continued.
This week? The thought of bailing right then flashed through my mind. But backing out here wasn't an option. I narrowed my eyes a bit—or at least tried to show maximum displeasure—and kept watching.
My body was too wrecked to enjoy fine dining anyway. I ignored the promoter-like spiel. Various Eden living details followed, and the briefing wrapped up.
Hm, temporary callsign. Not surprising. In the game, players get temp callsigns when teaming with corporate Nexus units. Like in early Chapter 2, cooperating with Rasputin Corp's Principals gets you "Swan." Same deal—temporary status for admin convenience.
"......"
Arc Angel doesn't know Mastema's alive. Or... is "alive" even the right word? Questionable.
So half-assed. Whatever. Pop. A black-feathered emblem fluttered into view. What the hell? It looked like an ID emblem. Come to think of it, I've been using the default one till now.
The broker showing it said,
Morning Star.
How dense do you have to be? The broker grumbled, but I figured it could happen. It's temporary, after all.
"We'll be waiting," he said, and the video cut.
Mission starts when I reach Eden. Rare for a merc request to fit my schedule. Prep... No Nexus needed for a prototype test. Just drug packs to keep this body alive. This week... Better pack extra. Enough for a cryo-locker's worth. Nothing to wait for.
The mobile hangar set course for Eden. Entering bloodless a place I'd stormed guns blazing—novel experience.
SIF's alert snapped me from reverie. Boundaries of reality and dream had blurred unnoticed. Senses this dull, and you slip into your own world unbidden. Barely anything visible, senses faint. All I could do was think, trapped in this powerless shell.
I blankly set down the space book I'd been staring at.
"......"
Or tried to.
Beep-boop—mechanical chatter beyond human ears. I grabbed the book back. No need to leave it. Added to Eden carry list.
Eden ID'd the hangar and granted entry. Autopilot deftly followed guidance to the landing pad.
Thud-thud-thud... Soon, a jolt and fading rotors.
Hiss—hatch spun open. I'd prepped the cryo-locker and space book on the ramp. My entire Eden luggage.
Creak—I wheeled out. Nearby, a few figures waited. Escorts?
"......"
I wheeled closer, but silence. Blurry dolls fidgeted restlessly.
"...Hm."
Awkward quiet. Then one mustered courage. A flustered voice from a lumpy silhouette.
"...Per external entry ID data, you're independent merc Rabe, but... are you the real one?"
Tone like he wouldn't believe me anyway. I stared toward the voice, nodded.
"Tired. Quarters."
"Quarters... ah, yes."
Crowd parted, one escort left. I wheeled after his voice into the facility.
"...really Rabe?"
Just nodded. Same questions ahead, no doubt. No words from the dispersing group, but prickling stares.
Proof only in the Nexus, it seemed. Whatever, believe or not. No effort to explain. I vanished through the doors, persistent gazes clinging to my back.
"S-sorry, but before quarters, this way first."
Escort led not to lodging. Chilly white room, artificially pristine. Huge window showed Eden's white expanse. Perfect office.
Rustle. As expected—office. Desk beyond, head peeked from monitor silhouette.
"What the? Some kid."
Familiar voice. Arc Angel's dedicated broker.
"Critical patient? From medical wing? That young? Employee dependent?"
"...Uh."
Escort fidgeted, at a loss. My cue.
"Rabe. Your prototype test request."
"Rabe? Oh."
Silence fell. Office air doubled in weight.
"...Say it again?"
"Rabe."
Broker couldn't process it either.