The sun hammered down without mercy.
Noon in the Serenity Desert meant heat that pressed against exposed skin like something physical. The air shimmered in waves across the sand below, distorting the horizon into liquid bands of ochre and pale blue. No clouds offered relief. Just the burning disc overhead and stone that radiated stored warmth even through the insulating cover they'd draped across their position.
The material helped—some kind of reflective fabric Raymond had found in the bunker's storage, designed to deflect thermal signatures. But it didn't eliminate the problem. Just made it survivable. Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the barrier, collecting at the small of his back, trickling down his temples.
Sayeed lay beside him, breathing steady but labored. The mercenary's face glistened with perspiration, bandages darkening where moisture seeped through.
Raymond kept his eyes on the northern horizon, scanning for movement. Nothing yet. Just empty desert stretching to the limit of visibility.
Hours passed. The waiting was part of the work—patience learned through dozens of operations where success meant holding still while your body screamed to move.
During the wait, Raymond gathered information from Sayeed about the local power structure—who controlled what, how the gangs operated, where the Sultanate's authority ended and criminal territory began.
Serenity Desert and the surrounding region all fell under the rule of The Dahran Sultanate—a decadent, nepotistic empire clinging to the memory of former glory. Before the global collapse, the Sultanate had been the largest fuel exporter in the sector, its wealth built on reserves that had seemed inexhaustible. But the collapse had changed everything. What remained now were dwindling stockpiles hoarded under extreme regulation, controlled through licensing systems that favored the connected and punished the independent.
The regime preached stability. Public broadcasts spoke of order, of protecting citizens through careful resource management, of maintaining the traditions that had made the Sultanate great. But beneath the rhetoric ran a different reality—favor-trading, bribes paid in fuel allocations, positions granted to nephews and cousins rather than competence. The machinery of government functioned not through law but through networks of obligation and patronage.
Those who operated outside these networks—unregistered merchants, independent contractors, travelers without proper documentation—existed in the gaps where official authority ended and criminal enterprise began.
Then there was Cyber City.
Situated in the gulf bordering the Red Sea, it served as a wasteland trade hub where violence, commerce, and coded loyalties intertwined in equal measure. Black-market diesel changed hands without Sultanate oversight. Salvaged tech moved through warehouses that asked no questions about origin or destination. Surplus energy cells—the glowing blue batteries that powered everything from coolers to weapons—flowed through distribution networks the regime pretended not to see. Everyone from renegade warlords to desert nomads passed through at some point, drawn by the one thing Cyber City offered that nowhere else could: freedom from official scrutiny.
The city had been an abandoned industrial mega center before the collapse—factories and refineries left to rust when the corporations pulled out. But what the legitimate economy discarded, the desperate claimed. It became refuge for anyone who could fight, pay, or hack their way to shelter. Outcasts. Criminals. Entrepreneurs who operated in the spaces between legal and lethal.
Outwardly, Cyber City was a skeleton of steel and dust—corroded towers, exposed girders, streets where sand collected in drifts against crumbling concrete. But within its neon-lit interiors, deals worth empires' budgets were made every day. Information sold for fortunes. Weapons that could tip regional conflicts. Technology salvaged from the old world and repurposed for the new.
There was no mayor or monarch. No single authority that could claim dominion. Instead, the city was controlled by a coalition known colloquially as "The Table"—power brokers who maintained the delicate equilibrium that kept Cyber City functioning.
The arrangement was simple in concept, complex in execution: The Sultanate controlled the wells. Cyber City controlled the flow. Neither could destroy the other without collapsing the balance that kept both alive.
Finally, there was The Free Legion.
A ragtag military resistance, equal parts mercenary outfit and liberation front. They didn't see themselves as revolutionaries—more as survivors who refused to kneel. Their ranks filled with former soldiers, disillusioned merchants, desert settlers who'd lost everything to fuel taxes or gang raids. They operated from hidden camps scattered across the wastes, mobile enough to avoid detection, organized enough to strike when opportunity presented itself.
Among common desert settlers, they were whispered of as bandits who shared—fighters who hit Sultanate convoys and distributed a portion of the spoils to villages too poor to buy legal fuel allocations. Protection without the extortion that came with gang territory.
The Sultanate branded them terrorists. Official broadcasts painted them as destabilizers, threats to the order that kept society functioning. Wanted posters offered bounties for their leaders.
Cyber City branded them bandits. The Table had no love for idealists who disrupted trade routes or attacked caravans without regard for whose cargo they carried.
The Free Legion existed in the spaces none of the major powers could fully control—moving through the deep desert, striking fast, disappearing before retaliation could arrive.
When the topic of the Free Legion was mentioned, Raymond's mind flashed back to the train. The cage. The man with the bloodied arm and neat goatee who'd been locked across from him. The militia that had raided the transport, cutting him free before he'd run in the opposite direction.
That group had belonged to the Free Legion. Had to be.
Regardless, with this new understanding of the major powers operating within the region, handling the mission objective would become easier. The Sand Rats weren't isolated—they existed within a larger ecosystem of competing interests. That created opportunities.
Maybe the mission isn't the only thing worth focusing on here, Raymond thought, shifting slightly against the sand. Testing the boundaries of the Reputation store—seeing what else it can offer—that might be just as valuable in the long run.
He pulled his head back from the scope, blinking against the brightness. His hand reached for the canteen secured at his side. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip, the water warm but wet enough to moisten his throat.
I'll keep that as a secondary objective, Raymond decided, while I collect more intelligence on the Sand Rats.
Sayeed shifted beside him. The movement pulled Raymond back from his thoughts.
"I see movement, north side!"
Raymond snapped into position, eye dropping to the scope. His body settled behind the rifle, weight distributing across the bipod. Through the magnified view, the northern horizon stretched in wavering bands of heat haze. Shapes moved within the distortion—indistinct dots, too far for detail.
"Probably five or six kilometers out."
Sayeed's voice carried the professional calm of someone who'd done this work before. No excitement. Just information.
Raymond grunted acknowledgement.
His breathing slowed. Controlled. His finger rested alongside the trigger guard, nowhere near the trigger itself. Not yet. The dots crawled across the desert, distance compressing their movement into something that looked almost stationary through the scope.
He waited.
The convoy would close the gap. Engines pushing buggies across sand at whatever speed they could maintain. Math worked itself out in the back of his mind—velocity, closure rate, time to effective range.
His eye stayed fixed to the scope. The world narrowed to magnified circles of desert and the shapes moving within them.
Bracken shifted in the buggy's seat, the vehicle's suspension doing little to absorb the jolts as they tore across uneven sand. Every bump sent a spike of discomfort up his spine. He muttered a curse under his breath.
He hated making this trip. Hated it almost as much as he loved the ladies at Afterlife—the club in Cyber City's neon district where the drinks were cold and the company warm. But the deadline for the baksheesh had been approaching, and the need to make contact with Safira City for negotiating ransom had forced his hand. He'd put up with the displeasure of the journey.
His mind drifted back to the ransom negotiation. Two million credits. A steady supply of black-market diesel on top of that. The numbers made his blood run hot with excitement. The fat merchant had connections—real ones, the kind that could actually pay rather than empty promises from desperate travelers.
It was worth it, Bracken thought.
He glanced over his shoulder, subtle, checking the metallic case secured behind his seat. The desert wind couldn't touch it there, strapped down tight with reinforced webbing.
Boss Rat even gifted me this! I'm gonna show off in front of the boys today!
His face broke into a smug smile. The contents of that case—he'd seen Boss Rat use one before, watched what it could do. Now he had his own. The boys back at the outpost would lose their minds when he showed them.
The buggy hit another bump. Bracken's smile didn't fade.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bracken caught sight of the second buggy racing behind them. The merchant sat in that one, flanked by two of Bracken's trusted subordinates. Insurance. The fat man wasn't going anywhere without permission.
Bracken returned to humming his tune, satisfaction warming his chest. He turned his gaze forward, watching the endless desert roll past.
The driver sitting to his left caught the jovial mood. Slight amusement colored his voice as he spoke up.
"Boss, I heard the deal went smoothly?"
A sheepish smile crept across the driver's face. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, checking Bracken's expression.
He… he…, "can you... um... throw some for the boys?"
Bracken's humming stopped. His face twisted—fake displeasure, the kind that held no real heat. He waved his hand in dismissal.
"Alright... alright, we'll see when the ransom comes."
The affirmation was all they needed. Greedy smiles broke across the faces of the other three inside the buggy—the driver, the gunner in the passenger seat, and the man sitting beside Bracken.
However, the happy atmosphere cut short.
Tsung!
Time slowed. Bracken's eyes registered movement—wrong movement. The driver's chest erupted. Red spray. The subordinate beside him jerked, same spot, center mass. Blood spluttered from both wounds.
The driver's hands went slack. The steering wheel spun left under dead weight.
The buggy lurched. Sharp turn. Too sharp. The wheels lost purchase. The vehicle tilted, momentum carrying it over. The world rotated. Sand and sky traded places.
Impact. The buggy's frame hit the ground. Metal screamed. They rolled. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Bodies thrown against restraints, against metal, against each other.
The buggy came to rest. Silence crashed down. Dust settled.
Bracken hung upside down, straps cutting into his shoulders. Blood dripped upward—no, downward—from somewhere. His vision swam. His ears rang.
Bracken's head swam. Pain radiated from somewhere—his shoulder, his ribs, couldn't pin it down. Blood ran warm down his face. He fumbled for the buckle, fingers slipping twice before it released. The straps went slack. Gravity pulled him down against the buggy's roof—now floor.
He twisted, reorienting himself in the confined space. His eyes found the man beside him. Still. No movement. Chest torn open where the round had punched through.
Understanding hit immediately.
Sniper. Armor piercing, maybe even anti-material.
"Damn it!"
The curse ripped from his throat, raw with pain. He turned, hands scrambling for the metal case wedged behind the seat. His fingers closed around the handle. He dragged it free, pushing it through the shattered rear window. Glass fragments scattered. The case tumbled onto sand.
Bracken pulled himself through the opening, boots finding purchase. His body protested every movement—sharp stabs in his ribs, his shoulder screaming. But he moved.
The second buggy sat stopped several meters back. Two of his subordinates climbed out—driver's door and rear passenger. Their faces registered alarm as they spotted him struggling clear of the wreckage.
"Boss!"
They ran toward him, boots pounding sand. Arms outstretched. Trying to help.
Bracken's mouth opened. Warning forming.
Tsung!
Precise. Deadly. Both men dropped—one bullet, two bodies that had lined up perfectly in their rush forward. They hit the sand and didn't move.
Southside! On the mountain behind the outpost?
Bracken's head jerked back, eyes tracking toward where the shot had originated. The mountain. The outcrop. His thoughts raced.
Is it Rafi? That incompetent oaf! How dare he!
Anger flooded through him—hot, immediate, overriding the pain. Betrayal. Ambush. The vice leader he'd left in command, Rafi, turning on him the moment his back was turned. That useless bastard had made a move.
His eyes, emboldened with fury, settled on the metal case lying in the sand beside him.
I'll show him! That motherfucker thinks he can best me with that sniper of his?
A grim smile flitted across his bloodied face. He dropped to his knees, hands moving to the case. His fingers found the panel on its surface and slid it aside. A biometric sensor glowed beneath—faint blue light pulsing in rhythm.
Bracken pressed his thumb against it.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
With the confirming sound, the metal case unlocked with a satisfying click.
Not a simple lid lift—the entire structure disassembled. Panels split apart with mechanical precision. Components separated, rising from their housing on silent servos.
A pair of gauntlets. A chest piece. The base remained—indentations forming where feet could slot, metal reshaping itself into a platform.
Bracken stepped forward. His boots found the depressions. The moment his weight settled, the base responded. Metal plating flowed upward, covering his legs in segmented armor. It climbed past his knees, locked around his thighs, sealed at his waist. Each section clicked into place with satisfying precision.
He grabbed the chest piece. It opened—hinges expanding outward like a mechanical embrace. He thrust his arms through the openings. The vest closed around him, front plates sliding together, magnetic locks engaging with rapid clicks. The weight distributed across his shoulders, solid but balanced.
The gauntlets came last. He picked up the right one, slid his hand inside. The interior molded to his grip, synthetic material conforming to his fingers. He clenched his fist.
A blade snapped free from the top side—single edge, twenty centimeters of sharpened metal.
The left gauntlet settled onto his other hand. This one mounted something different—a compact blaster housing built into the wrist, barrel flush with the armor plating.
One piece remained. An earpiece. Bracken fitted it into place.
A voice spoke—mechanical, flat, no inflection.
"Optimal operation time remaining: eighteen minutes."
More than enough.
Bracken turned. His eyes locked onto the mountain.
His armored boots dug into sand as he started forward.