Minutes passed in silence.
A sound broke through Raymond's contemplation—movement from the other side of the partition. Fabric rustling. A sharp intake of breath. The creak of the cot's frame as weight shifted.
Sayeed was waking up.
Raymond pushed himself off the bed and walked around the partition wall.
Sayeed's eyes were open, unfocused at first, blinking against the light. His head turned slightly, taking in his surroundings. The bed beneath him. The bandages wrapped around his wounds. The unfamiliar room.
Then he saw Raymond.
Sayeed's eyes went wide. Recognition hit—immediate, visceral. His face drained of color. Fear crawled across his features like something physical. His muscles went rigid, body tensing despite the pain it must have caused.
His words emerged fractured, halting.
"Are you some specter, or maybe death itself come to claim my soul for the hereafter?"
Raymond nearly laughed outright.
He approached the bedside, shaking his head, unable to hold back the smile tugging at his lips.
"Sayeed, dear Sayeed. I'm as alive as you are breathing!"
"This..."
Sayeed's voice trailed off. Fear still painted his expression, but his body relaxed fractionally—muscles loosening, no longer coiled for flight or fight his injuries wouldn't allow anyway.
"I saw you die... That day..."
His face scrunched up, lines deepening around his eyes and mouth.
Raymond found a stool beside the bed and sat down, leaning his back against the partition wall.
Raymond sighed.
"You will witness a lot of fantastical stuff beyond your comprehension when with me."
His hand moved—mental command sent. The Vector-7 materialized in his grip, appearing from nothing, solid weight settling into his palm in an instant.
Sayeed's jaw went slack. His eyes fixed on the handgun, tracking its sudden existence like he'd just watched a magician pull a rabbit from an empty hat. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No words came out.
Silence stretched between them.
Then Sayeed's shoulders sagged. Acceptance, grudging and incomplete, settled across his features. His eyes still held doubt—the kind that came from witnessing something impossible and having no framework to process it.
"So... you didn't die back then?"
The question came quiet, hesitant.
"No. I did die but I came back to life."
Raymond looked directly at Sayeed, holding his gaze.
"That's all I can say. Don't ask more."
Sayeed's face twisted—confusion, disbelief, the struggle to reconcile what he knew with what he'd just seen. His brow furrowed. His mouth worked silently.
Raymond decided to test the limits.
"Remember last time, that robot was consequence of sharing my secret."
Horror flooded Sayeed's expression. His body jerked, muscles tensing despite the bandages, despite the pain. His eyes went wide—understanding crashing down like a physical blow.
Raymond waited. Let the truth settle. Let Sayeed process.
But more than that, he waited for the system's response. The Escalation Protocol. The punishment for revealing too much.
Nothing happened.
So it seemed this much is permissible within the parameters of the system?
Raymond leaned forward slightly.
"What happened afterwards?"
Sayeed's face contorted. Pain flickered across his features, followed by something deeper—remorse that carved lines around his mouth and eyes. His gaze dropped to the blanket, unable to meet Raymond's stare.
"After you... died back then, we opened fire on the robot. It retaliated, but by the time we realized it was only targeting ones who fired on it, most of my companions were dead. Then it left, just like how it came."
He swallowed hard, throat working. His chest expanded with a deep breath.
"After that, we were reorganizing but then the Sand Rats raided us again. Apparently the first group we dispatched was their advanced scouts and we were caught outnumbered and unprepared. They captured me and Rakheel and brought us to this outpost."
His eyes swept the room—the beds, the partition wall, the door leading to the hallway.
"And seeing as I am not locked in the cell anymore..."
His gaze returned to Raymond. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I believe either they are all dead or you made a deal with them to get me out?"
A slight smile tugged at Raymond's mouth.
"The former."
He leaned forward.
"Almost half of the people from this outpost are dead. The other half..."
His eyes darted toward the exit.
"Went out along with their boss and Rakheel to their main den."
Relief washed across Sayeed's battered face.
"Good riddance!"
The words came out sharp, carrying weight.
"I also heard when they were interrogating me that their boss is going to offer baksheesh to his superiors. I wonder if taking Rakheel with them is to show off or maybe to negotiate the ransom with his family?"
Sayeed's head tilted, eyes distant as he worked through the logic.
Raymond leaned back slightly.
"Do you know where their main den is at?"
Sayeed's attention snapped back. Questions flickered across his expression.
"No specific location, but their main den lies somewhere beyond Cyber City's outskirts. If I'm correct, the journey would require two to three hours by dune buggy. Hold on, you're not planning to..."
His voice trailed off. His eyes widened.
"Don't worry about it."
A sound cut through the bunker—frantic banging. Fists hammering against metal bars in irregular bursts. Desperate. Panicked.
Raymond's head turned toward the door.
Chuck. The bandit he'd knocked unconscious earlier must have woken up.
"Rest."
Raymond pushed himself off the stool and walked toward the exit, leaving Sayeed staring after him.
Chuck woke up with a stinging pain in his neck.
He groaned, hand moving automatically to massage the sore spot. His fingers pressed against tender flesh. The world felt fuzzy, disconnected. He pushed himself upright, blinking against the overhead lights.
Metal bars surrounded him on three sides. Concrete walls. A locked cell door.
"What in the world..."
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Memory returned in fragments. The cigarette break. The hand clamping over his mouth. The chokehold. The scary man in the darkness asking questions about his mates. Then nothing—just black void where consciousness should have been.
Fear crawled up his spine.
He lunged toward the cell door, hands grabbing the bars. He shook them hard, the metal rattling in its frame but not budging. His fists hammered against the bars in desperate rhythm.
"Help! Someone! Anyone!"
His voice cracked, breaking on the last word.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Raymond walked up to the cell, a smirk pulling at his mouth as he watched the bandit's panic.
"So you recovered... Chuck."
He stressed the name, letting it hang in the air.
"That is your name, isn't it?"
Chuck scrambled backward, his spine hitting the rear wall with a dull thud. His eyes went wide.
"You! What... what did you do?"
Raymond let out a low chuckle. He placed his wrist high on the metal bar of the cell door, leaning his weight against it. Casual. Relaxed. Like they were old friends catching up.
"Oh... nothing much. You won't be seeing your buddies anymore, that's all."
Chuck's face turned white. All color drained away, leaving skin like parchment stretched over bone.
"No... it can't be."
The words came out hollow. Empty denial that even he didn't believe. His eyes swept the cell, the hallway beyond, recognition settling in. The underground bunker. Sealed door. Keycard access. Only two people held those cards—the boss and the vice leader.
And if this man was here...
"Don't be sad. I will send you to meet them soon."
Raymond's voice reached him like a devil's whisper.
Chuck's body shuddered. His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, hands pressed against the concrete floor.
"Please... Spare me. I... I will be your slave. Please, let me live."
The plea tumbled out desperate, broken.
"Tut tut."
Raymond clicked his tongue. He straightened, pulling his weight off the cell door, and began pacing. Slow steps. Deliberate. His boots struck concrete in measured rhythm.
"I have killed many people... always strived for clean and efficient because..."
He glanced at Chuck sideways.
"I don't like people suffering before their death."
His pacing stopped.
"I am going to kill you whether you answer my question or not."
The Vector-7 materialized in his hand—appearing from nothing, solid weight settling into his grip.
"Which way will your boss come when he returns from your main den?"
The muzzle pointed directly at Chuck's chest. Then slowly, deliberately, Raymond lowered his aim. The barrel tracked downward. Centered on Chuck's thigh.
"You can choose not to answer, but doing so would make me forget my training."
A small notification flickered at the corner of Raymond's vision.
[ Basic Interrogation Technique - Successful ]
"I... I will tell you. North side... Boss... boss drives back always from north side of the base. Please..."
Raymond raised the muzzle.
Bang!
The bullet punched through Chuck's forehead. Center mass. Clean. The body jerked once, then toppled sideways onto the concrete floor.
Text appeared at the corner of Raymond's vision.
[ Sub quest 'Eliminate Sand Rat Outpost' progress: 50% ]
Raymond stood in silence, waiting. His eyes tracked the notification, watching for more text to materialize.
Nothing followed.
No REP for this kill? Because this was an execution, not combat kill?
The theory settled into place. Made sense. The system rewarded combat—active engagement, tactical decisions made under pressure. Not executions of defenseless prisoners, no matter how justified.
His gaze shifted away from the cell, tracking back toward the staircase leading to the ground floor.
A plan began forming. The boss would return tomorrow. North side approach. Predictable route. If Raymond positioned himself properly, used the terrain...
An ambush.
His lips curved into a slight smile.
Raymond walked back into the room.
Sayeed had moved, shifting his position against the wall. Half-sitting now, back propped up, legs stretched across the cot. His head turned at the sound of footsteps. When he saw Raymond—unharmed, walking steady—relief flooded his battered features.
"Everything clear?"
Raymond nodded. He crossed to the stool and sat down, settling his weight against the seat.
"What are your plans?"
Sayeed's eyes went distant. His expression emptied, features going blank. The question hung between them for several seconds before he found words.
"I... I don't know. My group is..."
Remorse flickered across his face, tightening the corners of his mouth.
"All dead. I also lost my protection target."
Raymond leaned forward.
"How about you join me? I plan to rescue Rakheel and then I'm going to target the Sand Rats' main den. I need someone capable who knows the area and has connections to gather intel."
Sayeed's brows lifted. His eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. If anyone else had said this to him a few days back, he would've laughed it off as delusion. Suicide by ambition. But what he'd witnessed—the death, the resurrection, the way Raymond materialized weapons from thin air—the dismissal he wanted to voice died in his throat.
"Are you... serious?"
Raymond nodded.
Sayeed's eyes dropped to his own body—the bandages, the bruises, the evidence of sustained beating. His mouth opened.
"I..."
Then something shifted in his gaze. His jaw set. Determination hardened his features, burning through the pain and exhaustion.
"I will help you."
The words came firm. Final. Flames of vengeance rekindled something in his eyes as he turned to face Raymond fully.
Raymond's face broke into a smile.
"Alright. It's a deal. Then get some rest."
He stood, the stool scraping against concrete.
"I'm going to scout out a vantage point to ambush the returning convoy."
"How do you plan to do that?"
The question stopped Raymond at the doorway. He glanced back over his shoulder.
"I have a sniper rifle and I know which route they'll take when returning."
Understanding crossed Sayeed's features. Years of mercenary work provided the context—long-range elimination, controlled engagement, picking targets before they knew they were in danger. A smile tugged at his mouth.
"Then you'd need a spotter, right?"
Raymond's expression mirrored the grin.
"Are you any good?"
"We shall see!"
Sayeed pushed himself off the cot, legs finding the floor. His body swayed slightly. Raymond moved back quickly, crossing the distance, his shoulder sliding under Sayeed's arm to provide support.
"Happy cooperation!"
Raymond extended his free hand.
Sayeed gripped it firmly.
"Happy cooperation!"
Several hours passed.
Sayeed settled in the bunker's upper level, propped against the wall in the office. His body needed rest more than reconnaissance. Raymond left him there with weapons within reach.
Raymond climbed the mountain alone, darkness still covering the desert.
The ascent was easier with Night Vision active. He moved carefully, testing footholds, keeping his silhouette low against the ridgeline. At the summit, he worked his way along the cliff face, scanning different angles, measuring sightlines.
The northern approach came into view from a specific outcrop—a flat section of rock that jutted from the mountainside like a natural platform. Good concealment from below. Clear view of the open desert stretching north from the outpost. The terrain was visible for kilometers in either direction. Perfect for early warning and engagement at distance.
Raymond marked the position mentally and descended.
Back in the bunker, Sayeed was awake, waiting. Raymond told him about the vantage point. Sayeed nodded, then offered his assessment—if the boss had traveled to Cyber City, he wouldn't start his return until late morning at the earliest. The trip would take hours. They had time to rest before the ambush.
Raymond settled into the other room and slept.
Dawn broke over the desert.
Morning came with hunger.
Raymond searched the bunker's upper level, finding a small kitchen tucked beside the office. A refrigerator hummed in the corner. He pulled the door open.
Canned food lined the shelves. Preserved meals designed for long storage. He grabbed two cans and heated them in an appliance that looked like a microwave oven mounted to the counter.
The food warmed quickly. Raymond carried both portions to where Sayeed waited. They ate in silence, focused on function rather than taste.
As noon approached, they made their way up the mountain.
Raymond led, Sayeed following with careful steps. The bandages held but movement clearly cost him. His breathing came harder on the incline. Raymond adjusted their pace, giving the mercenary time to find his footing.
They reached the outcrop Raymond had identified earlier.
They dropped to the ground, spreading a rubber mat across the rock surface. The material provided cushioning and insulation from the heated stone.
Raymond reached into his inventory.
The bipod materialized first—wide, low-profile stand appearing in his hands from nothing. Then the Goshawk-AM2b followed, heavy rifle settling into Raymond's grip with substantial weight.
Sayeed watched the process, his eyes tracking each item as it appeared. No matter how many times he witnessed it, the sight still carried impact.
Raymond mounted the rifle on the bipod, securing the clamp to the reinforced rail. The stand provided rock-solid stability, dampening any vibration from the weapon's heavy front end. He reached back into inventory.
The suppressor emerged—large, coffin-shaped housing built from ceramic composites. Raymond threaded it onto the muzzle, the quick-lock mechanism engaging with a satisfying click.
His hands moved to the scope next, making fine adjustments. Windage. Elevation. Distance compensation. His fingers worked the dials with practiced precision, calibrating for the range and conditions.
The preparation complete, Raymond settled in behind the rifle. Sayeed positioned himself beside him, eyes scanning the northern horizon.
They waited.
The desert stretched before them—empty, silent, shimmering with heat haze in the midday sun. Nothing moved. No dust plumes. No engine sounds.
Just the two of them, the rifle, and the vast expanse of sand waiting for targets to appear.