Trial Nexus Test
"This is… hmm…."
The broker, a mature middle-aged man, seemed quite skilled at maintaining a poker face. Still, for some reason, he couldn't easily hide the flicker of emotion in his eyes.
"This is unexpected."
Finally, he muttered that and stood, approaching me.
"Rabe, right? You're not trying to fool me, are you?"
"No reason to."
"Let's see."
He moved to my side, gripped my back gently, and pushed forward ever so slightly. His touch was cautious, like handling fragile porcelain.
"My god, it's outdated. A damn gu-se-dae reinforcement."
"Problem?"
"Did you escape from some lab? Why the hell are you stuck with this thing?"
A question I couldn't comprehend. Because I'd had it since I woke up, that's why.
"Hmm… poor facilities might explain it. Never mind, bad question."
He released the collar he'd tugged and moved in front of me. Then, across the table in the room's center—meant for guest meetings, probably—he plopped down on the sofa, facing me in my wheelchair.
"As you know, when new models come out, the old ones get phased out. Fallen Angel wasn't designed with gu-se-dae reinforcement humans in mind. Neural ports are a given, of course."
"Yeah."
"And from what I see, your body doesn't look like it can even pilot a Nexus properly. Can you even stay alive in one?"
"……."
His gaze shifted briefly. Probably to the cryo-storage case on my lap, holding my life-support meds.
"Thought so. Anyway, you're full of surprises. You're claiming to be Rabe, Rank 47 supernova pilot. That right?"
I nodded.
"Well… even if you're lying, it'll come out quick. Maybe some sick bastard sent out this corpse as a stunt. Anyway."
He scratched his cheek and continued.
"Assuming you are Rabe. Even with proven skills, that body of yours couldn't handle Fallen Angel's output. Even trained adults struggle with its load."
"That's…."
"Yeah, yeah. You heard it from Mastema, I bet. We have the comm logs from your skirmish with him archived here."
He added,
"Hired you thinking it was a perfect fit after seeing those logs. Didn't expect the pilot to be in this state. Truly unexpected."
"……."
He kept griping about the unexpectedness, scratching his cheek nonstop. After staring at me in contemplation for a while, he spoke.
"You've been piloting Nexus with that body all this time?"
"…Yeah. Why not, if I can."
"We know your combat style well. Looks like a ferocious beast trapped in a frail shell. With a body like that, you vent through the Nexus, right? Must be frustrating."
His words kept circling. Just say no if it's a no, stick to the job. Why harp on my body?
Noticing my narrowing eyes, he cleared his throat awkwardly and changed tack.
"Anyway, you've heard it from Mastema and now me. Fallen Angel isn't for bodies like yours."
"So the job's off?"
"…Guardian?"
I sensed his head shake, dissatisfied. Obvious question, even to me.
"None, huh. So just a kid in a mobile hangar…."
"You'll be surprised when you learn my age."
"Doubt I'll be more shocked than now. No adults to talk it over with, then. You decide alone?"
I stayed silent at the confirmation. He leaned forward, sighing deeply.
"……."
Then he looked up, staring. Only a pair of eyes glared fiercely from behind his clasped hands. Some inscrutable calculation churned in his head.
"You'll keep piloting Nexus, right?"
"Don't ask the obvious."
"Sorry. Brain's not working right. Hold on, so…."
He slapped his knee and straightened.
"Fine. We'll see how it goes once we try. Judging it can't handle because it looks weak is just prejudice."
"Right."
Whatever. I was Rank-tier pilot Rabe here—a rising star.
"But first, compensation."
"Compensation?"
"You know the rate already, right?"
Of course. Included room, board, amenities.
"But with your disability, costs go up. Basic living hassles, food, meds…."
"I'll handle that."
I tapped the cryo-case. He didn't look convinced.
"Anyway, fragility means higher maintenance. Need to readjust pay. Gotta talk to upper management first."
"Don't need amenities…."
"Not about stubbornness. Procedure. Stay put till we wrap up. Rest in Eden meantime."
The broker ended it there. I tried to say more, but he stood and vanished behind his monitor, so I just frowned.
I can take care of myself, but he's so inflexible.
Frustrating, but that's corporate procedure—ruthlessly systematic, no flexibility. I followed the guide to my quarters, brows still furrowed.
Upper management would just say use someone else. To them, everything—even people—was just numbers.
"Hmm."
The broker tapped his mouse.
This'll work.
Instead of upper brass, he messaged AAE's Nexus division.
Top-rank pilots had their own circles: mechanics, health managers, exo-frame squads. Even corporate, they formed influence without upper approval—a good workaround.
Tap tap tap.
[Gabriel, long time. Since the Iron Blood op training…]
Corporate etiquette made the greeting drag—awkward request needed niceties.
He knew rationally: push through, let die, swap pilots.
Pause.
He stopped, thinking.
Mastema's influence?
Mastema, early Nexus pilot turned academy instructor—fellow veteran, close acquaintance.
Maybe the data team's unearthed last words from the skirmish logs kept him from dismissing me outright.
Something heavier, itchier lurked deeper, but he ignored it. Strangers now, no need to dig. Just Mastema's extension.
[Send medical and redesign teams to assess patient's functions…]
He typed unconsciously, lifting heavy lids. Sent.
Reply came quick.
Gabriel's question.
Two days later, the broker recalled me to his office.
Screech—the guide wheeled me in, bowed to the broker, and left.
Some important talk?
"Compensation readjustment's done. That's why I called."
"…Okay."
Increased costs—corporate nightmare. Better hire someone else. Short stay here felt like sitting on thorns.
"Mastema lasted longest with Fallen Angel. Your arrival sparked upper talk on gu-se-dae potential. That's why you're still here."
"Got it."
"So pay's readjusted. Room, board unchanged. But your body's durability is the issue."
"…Uh, sure…?"
"Total value same. Credits slightly reduced."
I tilted my head, confused. He explained.
"Won't starve without full credits, right? Rank-tier pilot."
"True, but…."
"Good. Reduced credits go to non-credit extras for boosting your durability. Fewer amenities, but."
Durability? Utter nonsense.
As I kept tilting, he showed the verdict—tablet extended.
"Result: credits plus AAE medical aids for body support. Thoughts?"
Sudden. Compensation flipped entirely. Why bother?
"If needed… sure."
"Great."
He took the tablet back.
"Aids before program starts—like down payment."
"Yeah… okay."
Fishy, but I agreed.
That afternoon, medical wing: full diagnostic package.