Date: February 2, 2511 Time: Morning
"LEO! You have no idea! That dream last night nearly scared the soul out of me!"
"What happened, Jack? Did you dream the Empire invaded?"
The fat man stood at the office doorway, spitting and flying everywhere as he hollered at Leo, making sure everyone within a mile radius could hear him.
"Worse than that! In the dream, I got sucked into a bunch of vortices. Spun me around so hard I wanted to puke."
Leo looked at Jack’s uniform, which was straining at the seams, and the fat on his face jiggling with every word. He thought to himself: Sir, with your thickness of insulation, rolling around should come with built-in shock absorption, right?
But remembering the trauma of being destroyed in video games last time, he shrank his neck and didn't dare say it out loud.
"Jack, you didn't suffer any internal injuries, did you?"
"It was a dream, how could I get hurt? The important part is what happened next!" Jack leaned in mysteriously. "In the dream, I saw another version of myself sitting in a dim tavern. The cup was filled with wine as red as blood. There were these pale-faced young guys around me. But the key point is—someone was paying the bill!"
At this point, the fat man stared dead at Leo, not saying a word.
Leo felt the hairs on his back stand up. He subconsciously touched his face. "W-What is it, Jack?"
"I discovered that the sucker... oh no, I mean, the 'good brother' rushing to pay the bill in my dream... looked exactly like you, Leo."
Leo felt like an invisible hand was choking him. He let out a dry croak. "Sir... are you saying... I treated you to drinks in your dream?"
"Exactly! This is the guidance of fate! Quantum entanglement of parallel universes!" Jack patted Leo’s shoulder with a solemn expression. "To answer the call of the cosmos, how about we go to the 'Red Moon Nightclub' for a drink after work? I’ll lead the way, you pay, recreating the dream."
The Red Moon Nightclub was Garipan City’s premier money pit. One night’s expense there could equal three months of Leo’s salary.
"Sir... the me in the dream... he didn't go bankrupt, did he?" Leo asked with a sobbing tone.
Seeing the "kindly" smile piling up on the fat man's face, Leo immediately snapped to attention. "Y-Yes, Sir! ...So, what happened next? What else happened in the dream?"
"Oh, oh! The next part was even more thrilling!" Jack’s expression instantly switched from greedy to lecherous. "The scene changed. I saw myself in a huge ancient castle, wearing a Prince’s court outfit (though it was a bit tight). I was surrounded by several hot women... wearing those ancient court dresses, chests exposed with great patches of snowy white..."
Green light practically beamed from the fat man’s eyes, his two meaty hands sketching exaggerated curves in the air.
Leo was just about to chime in with a "Sir, you sure are lucky with the ladies," when he suddenly saw the automatic office door slide open silently behind the fat man.
Nova Carter stood there in her white lab coat, her face as cold as frost. Her hand was already resting on the energy pistol at her hip.
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Leo’s face turned pale. "Sir! I just remembered, the Janus Mainframe has some data that needs a manual reboot!"
With that, he vanished like the wind.
"Hey? Don't run! See you at Red Moon tonight! Remember to bring enough credits!"
Just then, a faint, scalp-tingling sound of a capacitor charging buzzed behind him—Hummmm...
The fat man’s body went rigid instantly. As he slowly turned his head, his massive rolls of fat twisted like a Cinnamon Roll.
Nova’s signature custom pistol, the muzzle flashing with dangerous blue light, was pointed straight at his left leg.
"My... My Queen! Mercy! That was art! Dream art!"
"Go explain art to Crowley."
Pew! Pew!
Two plasma beams grazed the fat man’s left leg, burning two scorched, smoking holes in the floorboards.
In that instant, the fat man displayed an explosive jumping ability completely disproportionate to his size. He launched like a giant rubber ball, smashing directly through the office side door.
A series of doors slamming shut echoed through the surrounding offices. Everyone pretended not to hear the screams coming from the corridor.
"Easy! Easy! I just recovered from heavy injuries, My Queen!"
"That was therapy! This is discipline!"
"Owww-ooo-www..."
The squeals of a slaughtered pig echoed through the hallway, then gradually faded.
Afternoon. Garipan City Outskirts, Sector 42.
Far from the bustle of the city center, the streets here were piled with scrap metal and neon signs of every color. The air was thick with the smell of motor oil, ozone, and cheap tobacco.
Nova dragged the rubbernecking fat man into a building with a dilapidated exterior but an unusually large sign—"Iron Hand Modification Center."
Once inside, it was a whole new world.
The interior of this unassuming warehouse was divided into two levels, a space as vast as a stadium. The wide aisles were bustling with people—mechanics in greasy overalls, black market dealers in sunglasses, and mercenaries with cybernetic arms.
On the VIP lanes, separated by high-voltage grids, wildly modified private mechs and heavy hovercars were queuing to enter the deep maintenance bays.
"Interesting." Jack dropped his hippie smile, his eyes sharpening.
They walked into the central hall, and Jack held his breath.
In this thirty-meter-high colossal space, countless types of private mechs were displayed. These weren't the uniform, mass-produced goods of the military.
Every mech here was a freak.
Some were fitted with massive hydraulic clamps, some had backs covered in illegal thrusters, and others had stripped all armor just for extreme speed.
"This is the 'Theory of Evolution' of the underground world," Nova whispered in his ear. "Mods here don't care about theory. They only care about 'Can it win?'"
Jack finally understood why Nova brought him here. For the subsequent modifications of "Thor," or the design of that "RONIN" power armor, these wild, unorthodox methods held immense reference value. Especially in close-quarters combat and burst speed, private mechs built for black market boxing were often more radical than military mechs that prioritized durability.
Jack and Nova moved through the massive showroom like sponges, studying one vehicle after another.
For Jack, just a glance at a mech's hydraulic line layout could tell him its force generation pattern; a look at the heat sink ablation could reveal its engine overload limit.
Although he didn't know the specific models, he could read the "language" of these steel monsters.
"Look at that one," Jack pointed to a light mech painted with a skull pattern. "Its knee joints are reverse-engineered. Sacrifices stability, but instant burst power increases by 30%."
"And that one," Nova pointed to another. "Using an illegal neural amplification interface. Reaction speed can reach 1.5 times the military standard. But there might be side effects."
The two of them studied almost every mech in a clockwise direction, discussing heatedly.
The hall was noisy with voices. Jack and Nova didn't notice that not far behind them, a man wearing a grey trench coat and a peaked cap was following.
He held an electronic flyer in his hand, looking like he was browsing the merchandise, but he wasn't looking at the mechs.
His gaze, hidden under the shadow of his cap brim, was locked dead on Jack and Nova. While pretending to read parameters, he tilted his head slightly, seemingly listening to their every word through some kind of enhanced hearing device.
Jack was a man who loved mech design, and Nova was born for it. Holding hands in this steel jungle smelling of oil, the two somehow managed to create the sweet vibe of a couple out shopping.
"Fatty, how about that one?"
"Too flashy. Unstable base. One kick and it flies. But the nozzle design on that thruster is interesting..."
The man in grey pulled his cap lower, a faint, imperceptible smile curling the corner of his lips, and silently followed.
