Hangar Dilemmas and Dmitry Data Purge
Where should I set up the hangar for sweeping the Dmitry Space Center? I still hadn't found an answer to that. But lately, I was starting to wonder if I even needed to bother looking.
Isn't the gear I have now enough? If I ditched the unused armaments and freed up some space, it would feel plenty comfortable. I'd always stuck to close-range builds anyway, so this setup wasn't going to change much.
Hmm... But it was a bad idea. Nothing stupider than limiting your own options. Even if I didn't need something now, I might later.
That's how people's warehouses end up full of antiques... Still, Nexus parts were life-or-death for a pilot. I couldn't just toss them easily. They were like that old Korean saying—too good to keep, too bad to throw away.
It would have been easier if, like other pilots, I'd been fused to one machine and couldn't use anything else.
But then I'd just die easier. Like to some player-type irregular. No guarantee those wouldn't pop up eventually.
I glanced at the armaments crossing the compartment and let out a deep sigh.
Quiet... no one looking for people... Would that be enough? Ideally, it'd have a beautiful sunset view, be comfortable, and right on a traffic hub for quick trips anywhere.
...Getting too greedy. I shook my head to clear those thoughts. Was it even right to have preferences about a hangar?
But in this world, the hangar might as well be my home. Like the anguish of picking a house site...
I'd been stuck in these looping thoughts for days, wandering aimlessly through listings and sighing.
Why not narrow it down based on your tastes for a place you'd live in?
SIF suggested it in my head.
Ignore practical stuff like money or location. Just match your ideal elements, and something might pop up.
Tastes... for a residence? I tried picturing a fairy-tale meadow, sketching an ideal home. But nothing like that existed. Just a barren gray sea sloshing emptily. My mind felt hollow.
You might discover tastes you didn't know you had.
That sounds like something a perverted sex researcher would say. Doubt it'll work. I knew my insides were too empty for preferences on life's basics. Couldn't recall even if I tried. That's how it goes living on—worn down until you're a boring grayscale human. Did color even exist as an opposite?
Wasn't taste just self-delusion humans invented to cling to meaningless lives?
Even if you want to do something, you need money first. Not enough credits yet for essential hangar systems. Earn some, and your mindset might change.
Doubt it. But money was a fair point. Hearing that, I thought perfect timing and opened my mail to hunt requests—but
Oh, right. Fewer mails than expected threw me off, then I remembered handing management to SIF. She'd filtered out the junk, leaving only prime cuts.
SIF's selections.
Anything light to handle?
Ranked pilots don't usually get light requests.
SIF was hitting nerves more today. Or always? I shrugged and scanned the three remaining requests.
One from Olivia Bio Group.
Why'd you leave this?
High pay, low risk inversely.
Then why suggest it?
Black ops type. They hesitate to use their own pilots.
Got it. Mission: simple destruction. Wide-scale. No clue why raze a whole city, but civilians be damned.
Pass for now. Looked boring.
Checked the other two. Second from Hail Mary.
Hail Mary... anti-corp faction face, right? Remembered their rep from a speech in that recent vid.
Hit corp resource mining to build their base. Target has one Nexus defending.
Not really appealing either. Where was I even getting "appealing" from? No basic tastes meant no preferences for jobs.
Fine later. Backburner. Filtered picky, left with one last mission. If this sucked too, reconsider the first two.
Sender: OTH Technology Development Bureau? Familiar, but couldn't place it.
Definitely heard it somewhere. Fleeting memory. Whatever. Read the details.
Doesn't seem like Nexus work.
No strategic value, but enemy exo frame unit guarding for data grab. They want it thorough.
Read the mail while listening—dry, bureaucratic tone, like assigning paperwork.
Simple job, big payout.
But the site... Central Eurasia. Came here for last mission, now backtracking.
Eh, whatever. Unknown faction felt light, low pressure. Picked it. Wanted something casual now.
Kuuuuh... Dropping into mission zone, picked up a Nexus signal.
No intel on this.
Hold... They're sending friendly signal.
Narrowed my eyes at the signal source. Tiny dot grew into a massive transport dangling a Nexus. Standard model. Familiar paint.
Didn't scare him, but he sounded shrunk from the start. ID: LONG JOURNEY.
Camera view: space center with corroded rocket-like hulks. Like Deep Space Observatory—ancient relics staring into the void. Rockets... still pointing skyward despite rust. How long?
Raize from LONG JOURNEY prodded; I moved my machine. No heads-up on support—unneeded courtesy.
Hm.
Overkill for exo frames.
Yeah. One Nexus was plenty; why two?
No enemy pilot intel. Hidden corp cleanup specialist?
Who knows. But I'd seen this pilot before. Vaguely multiple times, clearly once.
Deep Space Observatory. Support Nexus crashed the party mid-mission. This guy. Fled tail-between-legs on sight.
Such a guy as corp cleanup... Comedy gold.
Tatang!! Mowed exo frames routinely—like gardener trimming weeds, lopping wild branches.
Defenders clueless. Odd. If they'd raided per mail, they'd expect counterattacks.
Exos gone, smashed databanks in empty yard. Casual job done casually.
Smooth finish, but Raize's uneasy sigh lingered.
"Glasses guy?"
Prodded casually; he freaked like heart attack. No attack vibe, but machine reeled back.
"......"
Short bus. Not corp cleanup. Conclusion firm.
LONG JOURNEY spun and bolted.
Some farewell.