[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[NEURAL LINK: STABLE]
[BRAINWASH PROTOCOL v4.2: APPLIED]
[WARNING: COGNITIVE OVERLOAD DETECTED — RE-ROUTING TO SECONDARY PROCESSING]
------
The world didn't come back with a bang, but with a HUD.
Neon icons flickered in the corner of his vision, translucent and sharp. He felt the cold touch of the surgical table and heard the hum of a ventilation system that needed a [Condition: 34/100] filter replacement. That was his Combat Engineer class talking.
"The subject is stable," a voice said. "Look at those brain waves. The conditioning took perfectly. It's like his mind was built to be rewritten."
Subject 101 kept his breathing rhythmic and shallow. On the surface, the brainwashing was a success. He felt the artificial urges—the sudden, chemical-induced "loyalty" to the Civil Resistance, the directive to protect the Revolution at all costs. It was a thick, greasy layer of mental programming.
But beneath it, his own mind remained untouched, shielded by a mental fortress the scientists couldn't even quantify. They didn't have a "Willpower" meter; they only had a "Compliance" chart. And according to their charts, he was a 100% match for a perfect slave.
"He's a Colnode now," another voice whispered, closer. A hand—Petrov's—poked at his arm. "More than human. We've enhanced the synaptic firing rates. If he wasn't brainwashed, the sheer amount of sensory input would drive a man insane."
I'm not insane, 101 thought, staring at the ceiling with the dull, glazed eyes of a lobotomized drone. I'm a Gamer. I've dealt with worse UI clutter than this.
------
[NEW CLASS UNLOCKED: COMBAT ENGINEER]
[PERK ACQUIRED: 'Improvisation' — Can craft Basic Tools from Scrap]
[PERK ACQUIRED: 'Structural Weakness' — +15% Damage to Mechanical Targets]
------
"Subject 101, stand," the lead scientist commanded.
101 felt the chemical command hit his nervous system. To his surprise, his body moved before he even consciously decided to obey. It was a strange sensation—like being a passenger in his own skin. He stood with a predatory, inhuman grace, his new Colnode muscles tightening. He was taller now, denser.
"Follow Petrov to the Engineering Annex," the scientist ordered. "You have work to do. The Revolution requires your hands."
"I obey," 101 rasped. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
As he walked through the dimly lit corridors of the Resistance base, his eyes were busy. He wasn't looking at the propaganda posters or the tired faces of the rebels. He was looking at the blueprints of the base itself.
Through the Combat Engineer interface, the world was a collection of parts. A loose floor panel was [Scrap Metal x2]. An exposed wire was [Copper Wiring x1]. A patrolling Sentry Gun wasn't a threat; it was a [High-Grade Processor] waiting to be harvested.
He followed Petrov into the Annex—a massive workshop filled with the skeletons of broken ships and discarded Hexarchy tech. This was his prison, but it was also his playground.
They want me to build their weapons, 101 thought as he picked up a rusted Welding Tool. Fine. I'll build them. I'll build them so well that when I finally decide to leave, this entire base will come apart like a cheap toy.
He looked at the tool, and a recipe flashed in his mind. Not a Resistance recipe. A Player recipe.
------
[CRAFTING MENU OPEN]
[AVAILABLE: IMPROVISED BREACHING CHARGE]
[RESOURCES REQUIRED: FERTILIZER, FUEL TANK, WIRING...]
------
"Get to work, 101," Petrov said, patting him on the shoulder as if he were a loyal dog. "The Hexarchy won't overthrow itself."
"Yes, Comrade Petrov," 101 said, his hands already moving with a speed that made the scientist blink in surprise.
The "Perfect Soldier" had begun his work. But he wasn't working for the Revolution. He was grinding for Level 2.
Six months had passed since Subject 101 died on a highway and woke up in a nightmare.
In the Civil Resistance record books, 101 was a success story of "Industrial Conditioning." He was a quiet, efficient Colnode who followed orders and didn't waste ammunition. He didn't stand out. In a world of fanatics and zealots, he was the gray man—the one you forgot was even in the room.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
"Subject 101, status on the Taurus-M rifles?" Commander Volkov barked, stepping into the grease-stained workshop.
101 didn't look up from the workbench. He kept his eyes dull, mimicking the vacant focus of the lobotomized. "Maintenance complete, Commander. All units restored to 85% efficiency. Reliability rating: Optimal for frontline deployment."
Volkov grunted, inspecting a rifle. It was good—better than the rusted junk the Resistance usually scavenged—but it wasn't special. It was precisely the kind of work an "above-average" drone would produce.
Volkov didn't know that 101 had purposefully used inferior Spare Parts for the internal firing pins, ensuring they would fail after exactly 5,000 rounds. Nor did he know that the "scrap" 101 had requested for disposal had actually been refined into a High-Density Energy Core now hidden inside the hollowed-out leg of 101's own surgical bed.
"Good. We're deploying you to the Phobos Mining Facility tomorrow. RealWare is pushing the line. Don't be a hero, 101. Just be a wall."
"I obey," 101 droned.
As Volkov left, 101's eyes sharpened. The dullness vanished, replaced by the glowing amber light of his Interface.
------
[CRAFTING COMPLETE: Mk. II 'Ghost' Pattern Internal Frame]
[Quality: MASTERWORK]
[Passive: -30% Noise, +15% Recoil Stabilization]
------
While the Resistance fought for their "Revolution"—a cause that had long ago devolved into senseless terrorism—101 was playing a different game. He had seen the way the Resistance treated civilians in the "liberated" zones. They weren't liberators; they were a virus. The Hexarchy corporations like AnCom or SBN were greedy, yes, but they maintained the infrastructure of human civilization. The Resistance just wanted to watch it burn.
He reached under his workbench, clicking a hidden catch. A small panel slid open, revealing his Escape Kit.
Unlike the clunky, refurbished gear he gave the rebels, his personal equipment was terrifying. He had utilized his innate genius and gamer knowledge to build things that shouldn't exist yet:
The 'Null-Signal' Jammer: A device that would broadcast a "Subject 101: Deceased" signal to his internal tracker the moment he flipped the switch.
Modified Nailgun: It looked like a tool, but he'd replaced the pneumatic piston with a miniature rail-driver. It could punch through Jack-7 Armor like wet paper.
------
[NOTIFICATION: COMBAT ENGINEER LEVEL 5 REACHED]
[NEW PERK: 'Efficient Breakdown' — 50% chance to recover rare components from any tech.]
------
He had spent months "acting" during combat drills. When he was sent on raids, he purposefully missed 20% of his shots. He took minor hits to his armor to look "clumsy." He was the "Average Fighter"—useful enough to keep, but not important enough to guard with high-level security.
Tomorrow, on the Phobos mission, the Quasimorphosis levels were predicted to spike. The Tezctlan would be tearing through the rift, and the Resistance would be distracted by the meat-grinder.
That's the window, 101 thought, his fingers dancing over the blueprint for a Portable Teleportation Relay.
He wasn't just escaping a base. He was escaping a doomed timeline.