Malek guides Flicker through the flickering neon haze of the Aethelburg concourse, her gait unsteady from the cheap synth-spirits. He returns to their assigned Sleep-Crate, a cramped cubicle barely larger than a coffin. The recycled air already thick with the scent of stale bio-paste and industrial cleaner. He watches her stumble, a meticulous assessment, not out of concern, but for data. Every twitch, every compensatory sway, is information.
His oath to Vespera, Flicker’s elder, echoes in his mind – a promise of protection for the girl. He wonders what such an archaic concept means to him now, a cog in the Hegemony's brutal entertainment engine. Honor is a luxury for the privileged, a word devoid of substance in the blood-soaked arenas.
"Loosen up," he states, his voice flat.
Flicker slurs, "Even if you say that…"
Malek seizes her limbs, a forceful, controlled stretch. He needs to push her limits. Not for cruelty, but for insight.
"Ah! My shoulders! I think they'll dislocate!" she yelps, a genuine cry of pain.
"Hmm." He notes the data point.
"I—it's not supposed to bend that way! Really!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes! By my Bloodline's name!"
He releases her. Flicker collapses onto the narrow cot, a heap of youthful exhaustion. *Flexibility +4*. The statistic flashes in his internal vision, a relic from a life he barely remembers. From the outside, the attribute gain remains invisible. Just like in the simulations.
"Again? Already?" Flicker groans.
"No. Rest for now."
The simulations, *Dungeon and Stone* as it was called, were brutal. A detailed, unforgiving framework that mirrored this stark reality with alarming precision. Three primary stats: Body, Mind, and Ability. Each with a thousand sub-parameters. Physical strength, a Body sub-stat, dictated carry weight, melee impact, resilience. Flexibility? It marginally improved evasion, boosted critical strike probability. Vision? Expanded effective range for projectile weapons, increased visual acuity. Olfaction amplified sensory abilities. Accuracy was precisely that: accuracy.
Two individuals with an identical Body score of fifty could perform entirely differently based on these minute details. He had unearthed all of this himself. No official data logs, no archived user forums. Only endless iteration, statistical analysis, and a relentless drive to master the system. He’d craved completion. The irony burns, a bitter taste in his mouth. That obsession, once his escape, now binds him to this nightmare. A cold fury settles in his gut.
He is a veteran, a relic from the early cycles, a so-called 'rotten water' who knew the system inside and out. Yet, even his exhaustive data logs held gaps. *Obsession +7*, granted by the essence of some low-tier Gauntlet-Scum archer. A Mind sub-stat, yes, but its specific function remained a mystery.
"Flicker."
"Malek, your sighs always make me nervous. Just speak."
"Since exiting the Gauntlet, has anything… changed? Any persistent thoughts, impulses? Something difficult to suppress?"
"I—I'm not sure? Maybe something?" Her brow furrows in thought.
"What is it? Elaborate."
"Nutrient-paste sticks? Yes, nutrient-paste sticks. After we emerged, I bought a massive stack and gorged myself."
"Did you typically dislike them?"
"No, I liked them. But never that much. Not in a single cycle."
"Right."
Perhaps 'obsession' simply amplified inherent desires. In the simulations, it likely offered no direct combat benefit. But this wasn’t a simulation anymore. This was a *reality patch*, and its developers were far less forgiving. Additional functions, unforeseen consequences, were now bound to the granular statistics.
Flexibility, for instance. In the simulations, improved movement meant easier dodges, more outlandish combat maneuvers. Here, it might also enable her to squeeze through collapsed service conduits, absorb impact from a drop, navigate treacherous terrain. Variables the old system never accounted for. He would need to recalibrate his entire approach to her development. Every asset, every increment, now held multiple, tangible applications.
"Malek, I'm sleepy now." Her eyelids droop, heavy with fatigue.
He had let her rest too long. He’d intended to run through skill activations, cooldown timings, further system checks. Another inefficiency.
"Understood. Sleep."
"Yes."
He kills the Sleep-Crate's ambient light. The darkness is absolute, a familiar comfort. He lies on the adjacent cot. Flicker's presence is inconsequential. They had shared far worse, seen far more intimate horrors in the Gauntlet’s depths. Prudishness was a luxury none could afford.
A soft, rhythmic breathing indicates Flicker is asleep. Malek closes his own eyes, drifting into a restless, strategic slumber. Vespera's prior warning about sleeping in the same quarters flickers through his memory. He dismisses it. She couldn't have meant *this*. Not in the sterile context of survival and shared deprivation.
[07:35]. The chrono-display on his wrist implant glows, a stark digital reminder of the new cycle. He'd slept for nearly two full cycles since leaving the Gauntlet. Calling this "early" felt absurd.
"Malek, water." Flicker stirs, disoriented.
After a quick cleansing ritual and a meal of nutrient paste, they exit the Sleep-Crate and head towards Flicker's assigned habitat module. Aethelburg sprawls, a cancerous growth of steel and synth-crete. The walk alone consumes over an hour.
"I'm glad it's still in the same sector!" Flicker exclaims, relief in her voice.
He shares the sentiment. Had her module been on the far side of this industrial labyrinth, even a grav-cab would have consumed valuable time and Credits. Aethelburg, a so-called 'fortress-city', felt more like a planetary scar.
"Remember silence," Flicker whispers, her youthful face serious. "Only Vespera knows I'm… connected with you, Malek."
"Understood."
He waits in a shadowed service alley, three blocks from her module. Flicker eventually emerges, burdened with two overstuffed backpacks. The scavenged gear from the Gauntlet-Scum leader and the plasma rifleman who had ambushed them on the seventh cycle. Crude projectile weapons and repurposed armor plating protrude haphazardly from the openings.
"Let me." He takes the heavier pack, the weight shifting with a satisfying clink of salvaged metal.
"Oh, thank you!"
Her lack of knowledge regarding item specifications is glaring. A blank slate. He reminds himself everyone begins somewhere. Even he.
Back at the Sleep-Crate, they begin the ritual of inventory. "Weapons here, armor here. Tools and consumables separate."
"Yes!" Flicker's enthusiasm is almost infectious, a rare flicker of human emotion in Malek's clinical world.
It takes an hour. The sheer volume of retrieved gear, the metallic gleam of profit, makes the task strangely satisfying. They sit side-by-side on the cot, surrounded by the neatly arrayed spoils.
"Are you going to sell all of it?" Flicker asks, her gaze fixed on a pile of salvaged components.
"Except what's necessary."
"Then, can I keep the synth-leather clothes and belt you gave me?"
"Irrelevant. If you account for them in your share."
"Then please!"
They classify the loot: what to monetize, what to integrate into their loadout. Then, back to the choked streets of Aethelburg. Expeditionary items and consumables, save for specialized chronometers and internal compasses, are for division. Equipment is almost entirely for sale. The logic is irrefutable: better to convert to liquid Credits and acquire gear tailored to specific needs than to rely on mismatched, scavenged components. He can afford proper gear now.
"Here," Malek says, pointing to the glowing sigil of the Armory Exchange. Praetor Vale, his contact, had vouched for this particular dealer.
Inside, they lay out the haul: a salvaged energy blade, two plasma rifles, a disruption pistol, a crusher gauntlet, two vibro-knives, three smaller shivs. The proprietor, a stoic human with cybernetic eyes, inspects each piece.
"A total of three hundred fifty thousand Credits."
The offer is solid, better than the inflated prices of the general market. Malek nods once. The acquaintance referral held up. He unloads the entire lot.
"Wow," Flicker breathes, barely waiting until they're outside.
Malek feels a faint echo of her sentiment.
"Malek, isn't this… a simulation?"
He considers the numbers. Seven cycles of pure Gauntlet hunting, excluding stolen Lumina Shards, yielded barely a hundred thousand Credits. This single transaction eclipses that. And the armor remains unsold. He understands now, truly understands, the avarice in the eyes of the other Brutes. Equipment isn't merely survival. It's capital. Vast, fluid capital.
"What's my share, Malek?" Flicker's eyes shine, reflecting the neon signs and a hunger for wealth.
"Patience. More to liquidate."
The Carapace Depot is a ten-minute walk. They deposit the salvaged armor plating, repurposed combat vests, and reinforced boots.
"One hundred eighty thousand Credits." The proprietor, a corpulent Xenos, offers the sum.
More items than the weapons, but a significantly lower valuation. Used armor is notoriously difficult to offload, a logical, self-evident truth. Besides, much of it wouldn't fit, a bulk he didn't need to transport.
"I accept the terms."
"Your directness is appreciated, Reclaimer. Do return with future acquisitions. My pricing remains competitive."
"I will."
A final stop at an Omni-Bazaar. Malek sells off several items deemed redundant—damaged comm-units, obsolete data-slates, low-grade stim-packs—for an additional hundred forty-five thousand Credits.
"Take it. Forty-five thousand Credits." He hands Flicker a data-chip.
"Uh? Isn't that… a bit much?" Her brow creases in confusion.
He itemizes it. The synth-leather clothes and belt: twenty thousand Credits deducted. An additional seven thousand Credits added for her ten percent share of the stolen Lumina Shards from the lesser Gauntlet-Scum.
"I used the two Shards you recovered as a baseline for current market value."
"Oh, I see! Thank you, Malek!" Her smile is unnervingly bright.
He accesses his personal ledger. Total assets: a staggering 1.4 million Credits. It's disorienting. In his previous life, in the initial cycles of the simulation, he’d never amassed such capital.
A good start. A precarious, bloody start.
"Then we separate," he states, the words flat.
"Yes?" Flicker's surprise is genuine.
The funds are divided. The transaction complete. The contract, implicit and explicit, concluded. It is time to move on.