The jarring ride over sand and stone smoothed into a low hum as the buggy's tires met worn asphalt. A pale, pre-dawn light washed over the landscape, revealing the first blocky outlines of a settlement beyond the desert's edge. Ahead, a striped barrier guarded by two men in faded Sultanate uniforms blocked the road.
Sayeed slowed the buggy to a crawl. Before it stopped, Rakheel was already leaning out, a practiced, disarming smile on his face. He exchanged low words with a guard whose assault rifle was slung with casual familiarity. A brief negotiation, a shared laugh. Raymond watched Rakheel's hand discreetly pass a small data chip to the guard.
The soldier pocketed the bribe but his gaze fell on their vehicle. He shook his head. The buggy was too conspicuous, a piece of the lawless desert unfit for the town's streets.
Rakheel returned to his seat with a slight shrug.
"We walk from here."
Sayeed cut the engine. Raymond remained silent, absorbing the transaction. He noted the guards' worn equipment, their easy acceptance of the bribe, the clear line between what the desert tolerated and what civilisation policed. Another set of rules to learn and exploit.
They passed the barrier into the town proper. Rocky Town was a collection of low, flat-roofed buildings baked from the same sand and clay as the surrounding bluffs. The narrow streets were empty in the grey light, save for a lone figure sweeping a dusty porch and another walking with a bowed head, both clad in simple, functional hemp. It had the quiet stillness of a place untouched by time, a world away from the hover cars and mega-structures of Earth.
Rakheel led them through the maze of alleys with an owner's confidence. He stopped before a heavy, iron-strapped door set into a clean sandstone wall, indistinguishable from its neighbours. He pressed a palm against a discreet panel beside the frame. There was no sound, but the door swung inward on silent hinges.
The interior was another world. Polished marble floors reflected the cool, indirect light that glowed from recessed wall panels. The air hummed with the whisper of a climate-control system. A young man at a floating holographic console looked up, his face a mask of disbelief.
"Uncle? Is it… they said you were taken."
Rakheel gave a tired yet comforting smile. "The rumors of my abduction have been greatly exaggerated, Basim. Please prepare the two presidential suites. My friends and I have just come off a long journey."
The receptionist, Basim, nodded dumbly and his fingers flew across the light-construct of his console.
Raymond's suite was a cavern of understated luxury. A vast window overlooked the awakening town, yet it filtered the raw desert light into a soft, ambient glow. He ran a hand over the cool, synthetic fabric of the bedspread. For the first time since his consciousness was forced into this world, he was not sleeping on sand, stone, or a blood-stained cot. He sank onto the mattress, the tension draining from muscles this young body was still learning to command. Security was a transient state, he knew, but for now, it was a resource.
He closed his eyes, his mind already mapping out the next phase. Tomorrow, he would walk these ancient-looking streets. He would gather intelligence, find tools, and prepare. The Sand Rats had a main den, and he had a mission to complete.
Sunlight, muted by the suite's tinted window, fell across Raymond's face. He opened his eyes. The clock on the wall read 11:03. His body felt restored, the deep ache of the desert replaced by a taut readiness. He stretched, then walked into the bathroom. The sting of cold water on his face brought a sharp clarity.
Clean and dressed in fresh clothes provided by Basim, he left his suite and crossed the short distance of plush corridor to the adjacent door. He pressed the chime. A moment passed. He pressed it again.
The lock clicked and the door opened a crack. Sayeed stood there, his eyes heavy with sleep, the bandages on his arm a stark white against his dark skin. He blinked, recognised Raymond, and swung the door open.
Raymond walked past him and sat on the edge of a deep sofa. Sayeed closed the door, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Get ready. We're heading out."
Sayeed ran a hand through his matted hair. "Already? I thought we would rest for a day, at least."
"We're on a clock." Raymond's voice was flat, a simple statement of fact. "I need you to find me an intelligence peddler. Someone reliable, who deals in accurate information on gang movements."
"What's the hurry? The Sand Rats don't even know their outpost is in ruins. We have almost a week before the news would reach their main den."
Raymond met the mercenary's gaze. He remembered the robot, the scorching laser, the consequence of speaking too freely about the nature of his existence. To tell Sayeed that he was on a timetable set by an invisible cosmic entity, that his very presence in this world had an expiration date, would be like pulling the pin on a grenade. The system monitored such revelations. It had punished him for it once already.
"Just get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes."
Sayeed let out a long, weary groan. But he pushed himself off the sofa and shuffled towards his bathroom without another word of protest. The mercenary understood orders.
While Raymond waited, his mind turned over the mechanics of this world. He replayed the events of the tutorial. The escape from the train, the deduction that this was all a simulation, the first gunfight at the oasis. Each event had triggered a blue notification, a crisp confirmation of an achievement and a deposit of Reputation points.
This time, the system had been silent. He had planned and executed the complete annihilation of a fortified outpost. He had outmanoeuvred and killed a leader encased in miniature power armour. The strategic and tactical value of those actions felt significant, yet no achievement flashed into existence. He wondered if it was a feature exclusive to the tutorial, a guiding hand for newcomers that was now removed.
If so, the only reliable source of REP was combat. The thought settled in his gut like a cold stone. He was a soldier, conditioned for violence when necessary, but he was not a bloodthirsty maniac. To hunt and kill for the sole purpose of accumulating points felt like a descent into something he had always fought against. He needed to find another way to gain power, some method beyond simply ending lives.
Sayeed emerged from the bathroom, dressed in simple desert fatigues, a fresh bandage covering his shoulder. He picked up the sleek communicator Rakheel had given them, typed a few quick words into it, and then clipped it to his belt.
"Told Rakheel we're heading out. Contact only for emergencies. Where to?"
"The market district."
They stepped out of the unmarked door and back into a narrow alley. The cool, conditioned air of the inn gave way to the dry heat and noise of the town. The quiet streets of dawn were gone, replaced by a bustling crowd of traders, locals, and armoured mercenaries. The smells of cooked meat and dust filled the air. They merged into the flow of bodies, two grim figures moving with purpose through the chaos.
The kebab restaurant sat wedged between a fabric merchant and a shuttered workshop, its exterior marked only by a faded wooden sign that read "Shula al-Nuhas" in chipped paint. The scent of charred meat and cumin drifted through the open doorway, cutting through the dust and sweat of the market district.
Sayeed pushed through a beaded curtain. Raymond followed.
Inside, the space opened into a long, narrow hall. Clay walls the color of dried blood rose to a low ceiling crossed with dark wooden beams. Brass lanterns hung at intervals, their light catching the smoke that drifted up from a massive grill dominating the back wall. A man worked the coals there, turning skewers with practiced efficiency. The floor was packed earth covered in woven reed mats, and the air hummed with low conversation from a handful of occupied tables. A soft hum of local music drifted from somewhere overhead—stringed instruments and a rhythmic percussion that blended into the background like another layer of smoke.
Raymond's eyes tracked the layout. Two exits—the front entrance and a service door behind the grill. Four other patrons, all locals by their dress. No visible weapons, but concealment was easy in loose desert clothing.
Sayeed moved past the main seating area toward a row of curtained booths along the right wall. He pulled back heavy fabric to reveal a private alcove with cushioned benches arranged around a low brass table. The enclosure muffled the restaurant's noise to a distant murmur.
Raymond slid onto the bench across from Sayeed. The mercenary raised a hand, and a young server materialized from behind the curtain. Sayeed gestured broadly at the table.
"Two plates of the mixed grill—lamb, goat, and chicken. Double portions. Rice with apricots. The yogurt sauce. Pickled turnips. And bring the flatbread while it's hot."
The server's eyebrows lifted at the size of the order, but he nodded and disappeared.
Raymond waited until the footsteps faded.
"A restaurant?"
His tone carried the question without elaboration. This was not what he'd expected when he'd asked for an intelligence peddler.
Sayeed leaned back against the cushions, a tired smile creasing his face.
"Best place to do business. Everyone eats. Nobody questions why you're here."
Made sense. Raymond settled into the wait, watching the occasional shadow pass beyond the curtain while the sound of sizzling meat drifted from the grill.
Twenty minutes passed before the server returned carrying a wide wooden tray stacked with dishes. He set them across the brass table with careful precision—a mountain of flatbread still steaming from the oven, three types of grilled meat skewered on blackened metal, a ceramic bowl of rice studded with dried fruit and nuts, smaller dishes of white yogurt sauce flecked with herbs, pickled vegetables in vinegar, and a pot of dark, bitter-smelling tea.
The portions were excessive. Enough for four men, not two.
The server retreated. Sayeed pulled a skewer free and bit into charred lamb, grease running down his chin. Raymond took a piece of flatbread, tore it, and used it to scoop rice. The spices hit his tongue—cardamom, black pepper, something floral he didn't identify. Different from Earth, but the structure was familiar. Meat, grain, fat. Fuel.
They ate in silence. Raymond kept his back to the wall, his eyes on the curtain's gap. Sayeed ate with the focus of a man who'd gone too long between meals.
Footsteps approached. Heavier than the server's.
The curtain pulled back. A man stepped through—late forties, thick shoulders, a carefully trimmed beard going grey at the edges. He wore a clean white robe that spoke of management rather than kitchen work. His eyes swept the table, taking in the half-empty dishes, before settling on Sayeed with polite curiosity.
"Gentlemen, I trust the meal is satisfactory?"
His voice carried the practiced warmth of a host, but his posture was watchful.
Sayeed swallowed, set down his skewer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"The sands remember the old roads, even when the wind covers them."
The manager's expression didn't change. A heartbeat passed. Then his shoulders shifted—subtle, but Raymond caught it. Recognition.
The manager turned his head toward the gap in the curtain.
"Karim. Bring a bottle from the reserve cellar. The Crimson Vintage. These customers have earned something special."
The server's voice came muffled from beyond the curtain.
"Yes, Uncle."
Footsteps retreated. The manager waited until the sound faded completely. Then he moved into the booth, settling onto the cushioned bench beside Sayeed with the ease of someone claiming familiar territory. His polite mask dropped away. What replaced it was harder, sharper. The face of a man who dealt in currency more dangerous than coin.
"What do you want to know?"
Sayeed's eyes shifted to Raymond. The movement was subtle, but the manager caught it. His gaze followed, landing on the foreign youth across the table. The mercenary was deferring to him. The manager's expression changed—reassessment. The youth was the client. Not Sayeed.
The manager studied Raymond. Waited.
Raymond set down the half-eaten skewer. His fingers found the napkin beside his plate. He wiped his mouth clean, the grease coming away in deliberate strokes. Then he turned his head, meeting the manager's stare.
"Local gangs in the Cyber City outer regions."
The words came flat. No elaboration. No context. Just the request. Information brokers sold what they knew, and anything Raymond revealed now could end up in the wrong hands. Better to keep it vague.
The manager's eyebrows climbed a fraction. His head tilted, processing the ask. Then his shoulders settled, the surprise smoothing away.
"It's going to cost a lot."
Raymond's gaze didn't waver.
"Name your price."
The manager went still. His eyes locked on Raymond's face, searching for hesitation, for the flinch that came when amateurs heard the real numbers. He found nothing. The youth stared back with the same calm he'd shown walking into the booth.
A chuckle broke from the manager's throat. Low, genuine. He shook his head once.
"Alright. When do you need it?"
Sayeed's hand shifted on the table. The movement caught Raymond's peripheral vision. He turned his head slightly. The mercenary's eyes were fixed on him, the message clear without words. Not now. Later.
Raymond's brow furrowed. The logic wasn't obvious. But Sayeed knew this world better than he did.
"Tomorrow. Same time."
The manager gave a single nod. His hand moved to the stack of napkins at the edge of the table. He pulled one free, produced a short pen from inside his robe, and wrote in quick, precise strokes. He slid the napkin across the brass surface.
25,000 credits.
Raymond's fingers closed around the paper. He didn't look down. Didn't pause to read the number or react to the price. He folded the napkin once, twice, and slipped it into his pocket.
As the manager stood up, footsteps approached from beyond the curtain. The server, Karim, pushed through carrying a dark glass bottle and two crystal glasses on a small tray. He set them on the brass table with practiced care.
The manager's expression shifted. The sharp edges smoothed away, replaced by the warm facade of a generous host. He lifted the bottle, turning it so the label caught the lantern light.
"Gentlemen, please. Enjoy the wine with my compliments. It is not often I have the pleasure of serving such distinguished guests."
His tone carried the practiced warmth of someone who knew how to end a transaction on good terms. He poured the dark red liquid into two glasses, the wine catching the light as it filled. The bottle settled back onto the table with a soft clink.
The manager straightened, brushing an invisible crease from his white robe.
As the manager stood up, footsteps approached from beyond the curtain. The server, Karim, pushed through carrying a dark glass bottle and two crystal glasses on a small tray. He set them on the brass table with practiced care.
The manager's expression shifted. The sharp edges smoothed away, replaced by the warm facade of a generous host. He lifted the bottle, turning it so the label caught the lantern light.
"Gentlemen, please. Enjoy the wine with my compliments. It is not often I have the pleasure of serving such distinguished guests."
His tone carried the practiced warmth of someone who knew how to end a transaction on good terms. He poured the dark red liquid into two glasses, the wine catching the light as it filled. The bottle settled back onto the table with a soft clink.
The manager straightened, brushing an invisible crease from his white robe.
"I look forward to another visit. May your ventures prove fruitful."
He inclined his head once, a gesture that sat somewhere between respect and dismissal, then turned and slipped through the curtain. His footsteps faded into the general hum of the restaurant.
Raymond's eyes moved to Sayeed. The question sat unspoken between them.
Sayeed's lips barely moved. Not now.
Raymond held his gaze for a heartbeat, then reached for his glass. The wine was bitter on his tongue, heavier than anything he'd tasted on Earth. They finished the meal in silence—the remaining skewers, the last of the rice, the wine warming in their glasses.
When they stood to leave, Sayeed settled the bill at the front. Raymond caught sight of the number on the datapad screen. 800 credits. For lunch.
They stepped back through the beaded curtain into the market district's heat. The noise of the street swallowed them—vendors calling out prices, the clatter of carts on stone, a thousand conversations overlapping. Raymond moved through the crowd with deliberate calm, his eyes tracking the faces around them. He memorized patterns. Who walked too close. Who looked away too quickly. Who lingered at stalls without buying.
Three blocks from Shula al-Nuhas, he stopped beside a shuttered storefront. His gaze swept the street behind them. No familiar faces. No one matching pace. The crowd flowed past with the chaotic rhythm of people focused on their own business.
He turned to Sayeed.
"Why?"