Mattius woke to the quiet hiss of water draining away from his ankles, and for a moment he thought he was still in the swamp. He opened his eyes—and froze. It was no longer night. His makeshift shelter of reeds and branches was gone. Where the soggy ground should have been, he felt instead the coarse grit of compacted dirt beneath his palms. Cold sunlight baked his shoulder blades, and when he lifted his head, he stared at an empty, wind-swept expanse extending as far as he could see.
He blinked hard, trying to recall the final moments before sleep. He remembered nestling into the crude lean-to with the repaired drone hovering nearby, its sensor array flickering. He’d drifted off listening to the water lapping at the swamp bank. And now…he was here, in an entirely different landscape, dry and desolate. No reeds, no muddy shallows, no sign of the drone. The air smelled of dust rather than moss and stagnant water. A faint tang of oil stung his nostrils, making him cough.
He staggered to his feet. The haze of confusion weighed on him like a physical burden. Could this be another part of the same swamp? It was possible, he thought, if the simulation had drastically changed. But this was no simple shift in scenery—he was in a place of rusted metal scraps, half-buried in sand, and squat prefab buildings looming on the horizon. The sky above was slate gray streaked with pale yellow, the sun muted behind smoky clouds. If the last scenario had tested his resourcefulness in an isolated environment, this new stage looked harsher and more industrial, like a war-torn frontier.
A gentle breeze stirred the dust, sending it swirling around his ankles. Mattius took a breath and exhaled slowly. He reminded himself that this was all still VR—some elaborate simulation the Empire was running to assess his abilities. Yet it felt disturbingly real. Even the dryness of the air and the hot wind scouring his cheeks seemed too tangible to be an illusion.
He glanced around, half expecting to find a new drone or a device telling him what to do. Instead, a dull ache tightened his stomach. He was alone in this wide-open desert, and the same question circled in his mind: Why can’t they just pull me out? Haven’t I done enough?
He trudged forward. Ahead, a cluster of metal huts hunched behind a perimeter fence. It looked like an outpost or a camp of some kind. No lights shone, no signboards. Just the distant shape of tall structures with battered walls.
As he approached, he heard voices—at first indistinct, then sharper. They sounded human enough. Peering around a mound of sand-crusted rubble, Mattius saw them: half a dozen figures in ragged body armor, rifles slung over their backs or gripped in gauntleted hands. They gathered around a sputtering generator that coughed black exhaust into the sky. Their vehicles—wheeled transports with battered plating—lined a makeshift parking area.
Mattius stiffened. These men and women looked tough, their grimy faces set with wariness. The insignias on their armor resembled stylized swords or lightning bolts, though they were so scratched and faded it was hard to tell. They had the posture of soldiers—or mercenaries. In the Quarter, he’d seen that same wariness in the eyes of gangs. But these people moved with discipline, a sense of unity amid the desert bleakness.
He glanced down at his own clothing. He still wore the same threadbare outfit from the swamp scenario, caked with old mud and dried leaves. He had no real weapon—only the makeshift belt he’d fashioned from reeds. He felt as if he were stepping onto a stage without a script. This must be part of the VR test, he told himself, some new puzzle or challenge they want me to solve.
A swirl of dust made him squint. Without warning, one of the soldiers spotted him, whipped around, and shouted, “Over there!”
In an instant, three rifles swung in his direction. Mattius tensed, raising his hands half in surrender. He forced himself to stay calm. If he panicked, the simulation might treat him as hostile. Then again, maybe that was exactly what they wanted.
“Hold it!” barked a tall, angular woman with a shaved head and a nasty scar curving across her right cheek. Her armor was as battered as the rest, but she carried herself with the authority of a leader.
Mattius froze, arms slightly raised. “I’m not— I’m not armed,” he managed.
“Then you’re either very foolish or very lost,” snapped the tall woman. She gestured with her rifle, indicating he should come closer.
He approached with slow, deliberate steps, heart pounding. Up close, he could see the cracks in her armor, the grime layered over it. Her nameplate was scratched out, leaving only a single letter, I, visible. She had the bearing of a sergeant or someone in command.
A shorter, broad-shouldered soldier behind her spat in the dust. “Another stray, Sergeant Illar? Thought we had more than enough mouths to feed.”
Illar—so that must be her name—let out a curt laugh. “Shut it, Tarl. Don’t see any supplies on this one.” She kept her rifle pointed at Mattius’s chest. “You, step forward. Slowly.”
Mattius obeyed, swallowing hard. He could practically feel the tension in the group. They were one spark away from opening fire. He tried to remember the lessons from the Quarter: speak calmly, show no threat, but also do not display weakness or they’ll devour you.
Illar’s eyes flicked over his scrawny form. “Where’d you come from?”
He hesitated. “I… woke up out there.” He gestured toward the desert, unsure how to explain VR illusions to a simulated soldier. “I—I don’t know how I got here.”
His answer made some of the troops exchange skeptical glances. “You got a squad? A unit? Some protective gear?” demanded a soldier with a sallow face and a missing ear.
“None,” Mattius admitted, forcing himself to keep his voice even. “I’m alone.”
Illar huffed and lowered her rifle a fraction. “You must’ve heard the blasts last night. We’re locked in a fight with raiders. HQ’s sending us scraps for reinforcements. But you don’t look like any soldier I’ve ever seen.”
Another soldier, younger, looked at Mattius suspiciously. “He might be a deserter from a losing side, or a spy.”
Illar shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.” She stared hard at Mattius, evaluating him. “We’re short on bodies—and you’ve just volunteered.”
He blinked. “Volunteered?”
Her tone was steely. “That’s right. We lost five good folks in the last skirmish. The next assault comes at dawn tomorrow, rumor says. You can either come with us and fight, or we’ll leave you here in the dust for the carrion birds.” Her grim expression made it clear: this was no bluff.
Mattius tried to keep his voice from trembling. “I’m not a soldier. I wouldn’t even know—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Illar snapped. “We need warm bodies.” She nodded at the patrol behind her. “This is my squad. You follow orders, we might keep you alive. Step out of line, we’ll put you down faster than you can blink.”
A bitter taste lodged in Mattius’s throat. He glanced at the half-dozen soldiers watching him. Their eyes were a mix of guarded distrust and something else—desperation. They truly were short-handed. The simulation, he realized, was orchestrating an environment where he’d be forcibly conscripted. The Empire wants to see how I handle group dynamics under threat, he thought. They’re layering another test on top of everything else.
He swallowed hard. “Fine,” he mumbled, glancing around. “I’ll… join you. But I’ve never been trained.”
Illar’s humorless smile was a grim line across her face. “Better learn quick,” she said. Then she turned to the others. “Get him a canteen and a sidearm—assuming we can spare it. We move out in ten.”
A wiry soldier with a shaved head and bright eyes shoved a battered metal canteen into Mattius’s hand. Another soldier, stony-faced, placed an old pistol in Mattius’s palm. The weight of it surprised him; it felt real, heavy, lethal. The Quarter had its share of homemade guns, but he’d rarely held one. It’s VR, it’s not real, he reminded himself, trying to stifle the wave of unease. Yet the anxiety coursing through him felt entirely genuine.
Illar gestured for him to walk with her. As they strode across the dusty yard, she gave quick, clipped instructions: “Point, click, pull the trigger, don’t shoot your allies in the back. That’s all the training you get.”
He clutched the pistol awkwardly. “What exactly is happening here?”
“We’re posted on the outskirts of contested territory. Raiders come in from the south, looking to snatch supplies. They’ve got speeders, sometimes old Imperial tech. We’re stuck defending the supply routes.” She paused, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Not that you need to know the bigger picture. You just need to fight.”
Mattius nodded, fighting the swirl of confusion. It’s a scenario, he reminded himself. A test. But it felt so real that his chest tightened with apprehension. If he “died” in this VR environment, would that force him out? Or would the system punish him somehow? The earlier swirl of dread in the swamp had been bad enough, but at least there he only contended with a savage environment. Here, bullets and blasts could rip him apart. And the Empire’s definitely measuring my reactions.
They reached a small cluster of shabby tents pitched along the camp’s periphery. A battered comm tower, partially collapsed, rested at an angle overhead. Sparks fizzled from a severed cable. A young mechanic in a grease-stained jumpsuit tinkered with it, muttering curses under their breath. Illar ignored the scene, leading Mattius deeper into the row of tents. Soldiers milled about, some cleaning weapons, others patching wounds, all under a cloud of fatigue and tension.
“Find an empty cot,” Illar said. “We march out to the forward defense line at dawn. That’s less than eighteen hours from now.” She eyed him up and down. “If you’re still alive by daybreak, maybe we’ll talk about your future. Until then, you belong to my squad.”
Mattius nodded stiffly, not sure what else to do. As Illar turned on her heel and marched away, he sank onto the nearest vacant cot, a crude metal frame with a threadbare blanket. A wave of dust drifted in as the wind kicked up again. He tried to gather his thoughts. The dryness in his mouth made him realize just how thirsty he was, so he took a swig from the canteen. The water was lukewarm and faintly bitter, but it soothed his parched throat.
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All around him, soldiers bustled with an air of stoic acceptance. They checked ammunition, rummaged through supply crates that rattled with empty ration cans, or argued in hushed voices about the next battle. Mattius watched them, feeling a pang of sympathy. Even if they were just VR constructs, they seemed too genuine to dismiss. Their dirt-streaked faces, the scars, the thousand-yard stares—these were test or not, illusions or not, the simulation was drawing from real experiences.
He wondered if the outcome here mattered. If he refused to fight, would the scenario freeze? If he tried to run, would the environment corner him again, or spawn new dangers to funnel him back? Likely yes, he thought. So the only way to move forward was to cooperate or to find some cunning path through the scenario. And that meant obeying Illar’s orders, at least for now.
The day crawled by in slow increments. The sun overhead traced a lazy arc across the grimy sky, the light filtered through hazy smoke that gave the entire desert an apocalyptic hue. Periodically, a sharp gust of wind kicked up grit, forcing Mattius to pull a ragged bandana around his mouth and nose. He used the afternoon to wander the camp, hoping to glean more about what the scenario demanded.
No one offered him a warm welcome. Most soldiers responded with a curt nod, if that. A few glared openly, like they resented an untrained stranger among them. Mattius got the sense that behind their hostility lay deep fear—fear that this next conflict would claim more lives. Perhaps they worried he’d be a liability or that he’d run at the first sign of trouble.
At one point, he paused by a stack of crates where a pair of troopers named Tarl and Ainnel sorted battered canisters. Tarl was the broad-shouldered soldier who’d spat earlier, while Ainnel was shorter, younger, with wide eyes that flickered nervously. Ainnel looked up, startled.
Tarl scowled. “What d’you want?”
Mattius raised a cautious hand. “Nothing. Just… wanted to help.”
“Huh.” Tarl shoved a crate closer. “Grab that corner, then,” he muttered. “Can’t believe Sarge is letting a green nobody on the line.”
Mattius tried to remain polite. “I don’t plan on dragging you down.”
“Better not,” Tarl grunted. He said no more, but at least he let Mattius help stack canisters without any further remarks.
Ainnel, on the other hand, watched Mattius with a mixture of curiosity and concern. At one point, she whispered, “I—I heard you just appeared out of the wastes this morning. That true?”
Mattius hesitated. “Pretty much. I was alone. The patrol found me.”
She nodded slowly. “We had a supply run ambushed out there last night. Surprised anything was left alive.”
He forced a little smile. “Guess I’m lucky.”
Ainnel’s gaze darted around. “Lucky isn’t a word I’d use for anyone stuck here.” Then she turned back to her work, clearly reluctant to say more.
Despite the disquieting mood, Mattius felt a tiny spark of accomplishment from helping them move supplies. It gave him a sense of purpose, even if it was all part of a programmed test. He’d always done chores in the Dent, hauling salvage or trading scraps, so the menial work here felt oddly familiar. And maybe his willingness to pitch in lessened some of the hostility in the camp—at least no one leveled a rifle at him again.
As dusk fell, the camp’s tension thickened palpably. Sergeant Illar ordered everyone to assemble near a battered metal trailer that served as a briefing room. Inside, a flickering holo-projector cast a grainy map onto the wall, highlighting a wide, open canyon labeled “Forward Defense Zone.” Illar laid out the plan for dawn: they’d march at first light to reinforce the canyon pass, which was the main route raiders used to strike deeper into Imperial territory. Already, a few squads had tried to hold that choke point—and died doing so. This was the last chance to stop the raiders, or so the scenario indicated.
With the plan explained, she dismissed them into the night. Soldiers drifted off in twos or threes, double-checking weapons and ammo. Mattius lingered in the trailer, eyeing the flickering holo-map. He tried to memorize the terrain details. If tomorrow’s fight was anything like what he’d just survived in the swamp or in the Quarter’s backstreets, a little caution could save his life.
Eventually, Sergeant Illar caught him staring. “Studying up?”
He gave a small nod. “Trying to understand the layout.”
Her expression softened, just a hair. “We’ve lost half our force in the last month. If you want to survive, remember to stick with your unit. Solo heroes get cut down fast in real war.”
Something in her voice, a quiet sorrow, made Mattius think maybe she’d lost friends in these battles—friends this simulated environment had conjured up, or perhaps the VR was drawing from real data. He realized how immersive this scenario was, how each virtual “person” had their own illusions of history and relationships. The lines between real and fabricated felt dangerously blurred.
“I’ll stay close,” he promised. Illar regarded him briefly, then gave a short nod and walked out.
Night in the desert was far colder than Mattius expected. The wind cut through his thin, muddy shirt. He hunched inside the flimsy tent he’d claimed, clutching the threadbare blanket around his shoulders. Outside, the camp remained restless—he heard the low buzz of conversation, the squeak of gears, the occasional barked order. Machinery rumbled in the distance as troopers tested engines or loaded munitions onto trucks.
How can I possibly sleep, knowing tomorrow will bring a pitched battle? Mattius wondered. Yet he knew that if he showed up exhausted, he’d be even more vulnerable. So he stretched out on the cot, forcing his eyes shut. Maybe the simulation would jump him forward in time again, as it had done earlier. But the minutes dragged, and reality refused to blur. Instead, the dryness in his throat and the ache in his arms made him painfully aware of how real it all felt.
I must remember, he reminded himself over and over, this is still a test. I’m inside some advanced VR. The Empire wants to see how I behave. But that didn’t quell the knot in his stomach.
He lay there, drifting in and out of half-sleep. Now and then, he dreamed of the Quarter—Karvel’s scowl, the cramped interior of the Dent, the frightened children huddled near the curtain. Then images shifted to the swamp’s murky water, the drone’s flickering lights. His mind churned. Is someone on the outside watching my every move right now? Are the watchers—those silent figures perched on rooftops—seeing all of this?
Eventually, near midnight, a faint alarm sounded. Mattius jolted upright, heart pounding. It was only a routine perimeter check. Soldiers stirred to readiness, but no threat materialized. After the clamor died down, Sergeant Illar barked at everyone to get some sleep while they could. Dawn would come fast.
And indeed, when Mattius finally managed to doze off, dawn arrived in what felt like an instant. A commotion outside his tent woke him—the scrape of boots, the clang of metal. He stumbled out into the chilly morning air. The horizon glowed with the first hints of sunrise, painting the dusty sky in hues of orange and faint pink. The battered vehicles roared to life, belching clouds of dark exhaust. Soldiers checked their rifles, pulling on helmets and adjusting bandoliers.
Illar strode through the camp, mustering her squad. Her voice carried above the din. “Move out in five minutes! We form up, then head straight for the canyon pass. Raiders are expected to strike within the hour!”
Mattius stuffed the blanket aside and snatched up his pistol. His hands trembled slightly, the nerves kicking in. He swallowed, steadying his breathing. This is it, he told himself, feeling a surge of adrenaline. The simulation’s next trial. He hurried to fall in behind Tarl and Ainnel, who were loading onto the back of a half-track truck. Tarl glanced at him with grudging acceptance, while Ainnel offered a thin, worried smile.
As Mattius clambered aboard, the engines revved, the tires churning dust. Sergeant Illar hopped into the driver’s seat of the lead truck. Her voice crackled over a short-range communicator pinned to her collar: “We’ll take the west ridge; the other squads will cover the east. Our job is to hold the line.”
With a lurch, the convoy rumbled out of camp, heading across the desert toward a faint line of cliffs in the distance. As the vehicles picked up speed, the wind whipped across Mattius’s face. He stared ahead, dread and resolve warring in his chest. Whatever lay at that canyon pass, it would be a far cry from the stealthy survival trials of the swamp. This was open warfare, loud and brutal. And the VR system—if this truly was VR—seemed hell-bent on making him live it as though it were real.
He gripped the railing as the truck jostled over uneven terrain, dust billowing in their wake. Each bump sent jolts through his weary muscles. Around him, the soldiers checked gear, bracing for a fight. Tarl gritted his teeth and adjusted the scope on his rifle. Ainnel fiddled with a small device that looked like a sensor or rangefinder, her brow knitted with worry.
Mattius closed his eyes, just for a second. He tried to conjure calm. The Quarter had taught him how to survive. Could that help him here, in this simulated conflict? He had faced hunger, scrounged for scraps, trusted no one but himself. But these men and women were counting on him, or at least counting on the fraction of skill he could offer. That thought filled him with a peculiar determination.
He exhaled, opened his eyes, and watched the canyon’s silhouette grow sharper. Dawn’s light illuminated jagged rock walls streaked with centuries of erosion. If the raiders intended to break through, they’d likely funnel in from that narrow gap between the cliffs. Illar was right—this was a choke point, a place to stand or fall.
High above, a distant starship trail glinted, leaving a white line across the sky. For a fleeting moment, Mattius wondered if that was the real Empire, outside this simulation, sending transport after transport across the cosmos. Were they watching him from orbit? Laughing at his struggle? Or praising his resilience? He shook the thought away; speculation wouldn’t keep him alive.
Ahead, the lead truck slowed. Illar’s voice crackled again: “We’re close. Weapons hot. This is not a drill.”
Mattius’s pulse hammered in his ears. The truck rumbled to a stop beneath a rocky overhang that offered partial cover. The canyon stretched out before them like a gaping maw, and the hush of early morning seemed to hold its breath.
Soldiers leapt from the truck beds, forming a loose line behind boulders or the half-track’s rusted plating. A low wind skimmed over the desert floor, swirling dust in graceful arcs that glowed in the rising sun. Mattius crouched behind a chunk of stone, clinging to the pistol. His heart thudded violently against his rib cage.
No sign of the enemy—yet. But the tension was electric. He could almost taste the fear in the air. Sergeant Illar gestured for everyone to spread out, keep low, keep quiet. Tarl and Ainnel took positions to Mattius’s left, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes. The rest of the squad fanned out along the ridge, rifles trained on the canyon’s mouth.
Time slowed. Every second felt like it might be the last moment of calm before chaos erupted. This is what the Empire wants, Mattius reminded himself. A test of how I act under fire, how I handle group combat. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his shirt.
Minutes passed, each one heavier than the last. Then, suddenly, a faint hum reached Mattius’s ears—an engine whining at high pitch. His stomach clenched. They’re coming. He peered over the boulder, straining to see.
Just as the first raider vehicle crested a dune, the entire squad tensed. Engines roared louder, and dust plumes billowed behind a line of ramshackle trucks outfitted with stolen tech. The sun caught glints of metal plating welded haphazardly. Figures in tattered uniforms clung to the vehicles, armed to the teeth.
A hush fell across Mattius’s mind. He thought of that battered drone he’d commandeered in the prior scenario, how he had tapped into its systems with a single mental push. Warrior synergy. Would that even be possible here with a standard pistol? Probably not. But maybe the trucks—maybe the half-track or some other device.
Before he could think further, the lead raider truck opened fire. Automatic gunfire tore through the desert air, bullets ricocheting off rocks. Illar barked, “Open fire!” and the squad answered with a deafening volley.
Mattius fired blindly over the boulder, then ducked down, heart in his throat. The recoil jarred his arm. The noise, the dust, the shouting—every part of it hammered his senses like a tidal wave. This is real enough, he thought in a daze. VR or not, I could die.
Across the canyon, the raiders advanced, gunfire lighting the early morning in staccato bursts. Illar’s voice cut through the chaos: “Keep them pinned! Watch the flanks!”
Mattius dared to peek again, mind racing. Bullets sparked off rocks, sending shards whizzing overhead. He glimpsed one of the half-track’s mounted guns jammed by sand. If he could get to it, maybe he could “interface” again. But that meant crossing open ground amid bullets. Impossible.
He swallowed hard. The patrol soldiers hunkered down, returning fire. The enemy vehicles spread out, forming a wedge. Tarl cursed as he reloaded, sweat beading on his brow. Ainnel covered him with frantic shots at the nearest truck.
The swirl of gunfire threatened to drown out every thought. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to breathe, in and out, in and out.
The morning sun rose higher, glinting off muzzle flashes. Dust clouds thickened, turning the canyon into a haze of swirling grit and noise. In that swirling haze, the next stage of Mattius’s journey began—one that would challenge not only his nerve but the very boundaries of this simulated reality. And he could only guess at what the Empire’s watchers might learn from the choices he was about to make.
He steadied his pistol, heart pounding, and prepared to fight for his simulated life.