Sinclair Assault

One hour a day? Who the hell keeps that rule. Can't be satisfied with that.

Especially not with today's games—sometimes you can't even reach a save point in an hour.

This time it was enough to clear one stage, but the road ahead is still long.

Drifting through the digital sea, Io requested of the Blue Goblet.

"Mission Two complete. Let's begin the next operation."

The AI, expressionless yet satisfied.

『The Blue Goblet is pleased that its cooperating partner shows such initiative.』

"I like this atmosphere."

『Atmosphere?』

'Shock and thrill. A powerful enemy, a comrade cornered, intense action, and the drama within it.'

『You are enjoying this situation.』

Of course I am. That's what games are for.

Games are nothing but insensitivity made manifest. Whether someone lives or dies in a story— it’s merely drama designed to provoke strong emotions in the user.

I don’t dismiss fiction lightly. But what room is there for restraint or self-censorship when facing fiction?

In a desperate situation, a human struggling desperately— that’s beautiful.

Especially Captain Creeke.

It feels like a solo match wrestling an AI, embarrassing as it is...

But she’s clearly accumulated a vast amount of data. Fine. Let it be.

Blue Goblet fell silent after Io’s words. Unable to properly encode the content into data.

Eventually, she spoke in the same tone.

—So you’re fond of her?

That depends on how things unfold.

Captain McGibbon. A doll-like princess. Io’s tastes lean toward more mature women.

Only curious about what kind of character she is, what fate she’ll follow. That’s all.

— I don’t fully comprehend your words, but Blue Goblet loves the human species.

— This is how I interpret your emotions.

Roundabout phrasing. Is this the new trend in AI lately?

Fine. Her words mostly align with reality. — Or so I think.

Agent Io enjoys games by immersing herself in them.

— Ready to move on? Next battle.

— Approved, Agent Io.

— Together, you and I shall bring dawn to humanity.

Clever wording. I like it.

——

——Sitalskia Unified Calendar 266, April 11, 10:26 AM.

——Central region of the Karaf Continent, the Klysworth Wasteland.

——Operation ID: Io-200.

Io sat atop the makeshift gun platform mounted on the troop transport.

The gun platform, hastily assembled by the three combat engineers—Carlyle and two others—showed weld marks everywhere and had a crude, dirty appearance.

Yet the atmosphere was there. Io liked it like this.

The truck moved across the desolate wasteland. The scorching sun baked the reddish earth.

Nothing surrounded them. No cover. No buildings to take refuge in.

Only distant, massive mountains in the far distance.

If attacked here, it would be over. Game over was unacceptable. Io focused on reconnaissance.

Cruke rested his cheek on his hand in the passenger seat beside the moving truck. Their eyes met briefly.

—Sergeant, we’ll talk about the whiskey later! I can’t afford you drunk right now!

Cruke raised his voice to match the truck’s engine noise.

Io said nothing, shrugging instead. Curious about the effects of alcohol in this game, but not now—not yet.

—Hmm.

A knock echoed from the skylight embedded in the track container beneath the gunner’s feet.

Io opened the window. A young soldier looked up from within.

—Sergeant… aren’t you tired?

A data tag flickered at the edge of his vision.

Paxton Cornini. Thick brows. A face that looked plain, almost innocent.

—Private Paxton, no need to worry.

—Call me Pax.

Pax rummaged through the pouch at his waist.

Just as he reached for something, the truck lurched violently. Pax slammed his forehead into the skylight’s edge and winced.

—Ow.

—...

—Ah, uh, Sergeant, here.

What he pulled out was a solid, chocolate-like block.

As if it had been melted and re-solidified, twisted and warped. Fat had risen to the surface, turned white.

—Found it at the Carver Ve accumulation site. Sergeant, please.

Sweetness for when you're exhausted. Pax offered the chocolate.

Good guy, this one. Knew it was an AI, but still couldn't help thinking that.

Io shoved the chocolate into his mouth. Rough texture. Unnatural sweetness. Not tasty at all.

Predictably, this game simulates taste down to the last detail. Maybe hunger. Maybe the urge to defecate too.

Overexposure to such sensory feedback in-game has already been proven to negatively affect real-life function.

If you're playing Angler's game, you have to stay alert, Io reminded himself.

—Thanks, Pax.

—...Then.

Pax ducked beneath the window, brief. The boy soldiers were stirring up noise.

—How’d it go?

—Well, how can I say…?

—Did you hear anything about when Tomas was crushed?

Io’s topic had monopolized the conversation.

—Sergeant!

Crewk, who’d been monitoring the exchange, called out to Io.

—What is it?

—…We want to bring them back alive.

—…I know!

That was why Crewk, as a character, carried the burden of the world’s curse while still fulfilling her duty.

At the corner of his vision, Io spotted it—a clear sky, no clouds in sight.

A distance so great even Io’s sharp eyes blurred it. Helicopter, it seemed.

—Helicopter at seven o’clock!

Crewk leaned out the window, confirming the sky.

Shouting at Carlyle.

—Condor! Friendly!

Try sending a rescue request?

...Yeah, let's try it.

The Condor helicopter’s flight path aligns with our direction. It's moving faster.

In an instant, the Condor closed to a distance where every detail was visible.

Kreuk manipulated the terminal. Before he could call out, the other side spoke first.

This is Syndicate Assault Team First Detachment. State your affiliation.

Kreuk’s face flickered. Surprise.

Noiman in the passenger seat wore the same expression.

...This is Carver Ve Temporary Defense Outpost, 3552nd Squad.

Never expected to meet the Syndicate Assault Team in a place like this. An honor.

Apparently, they’re well-known. The sound of cheering from the container filled the air.

Data match confirmed. Your name is—

“Lieutenant Crewk McGabban, ID D-189.”

“Designation D? Ah. A young augmented soldier. … Match complete.”

What’s so obvious about that. Crewk’s expression tightens slightly.

“As you see, our unit 3552 is currently withdrawing. No friendly forces nearby.”

The truck keeps moving. Sinclair’s helicopter slows, maintaining position behind the truck.

“Requesting rescue. Most of my squad are inadequately trained youth. Only a few can fight.”

“Stop the truck, Lieutenant.”

“…? That means you’re accepting the rescue request?”

“Stop the truck. We’ll talk after.”

A harsh, domineering tone. Crewk looks unsettled.

He doesn’t understand why friendly forces would speak to him like this.

But he had no interest in arguing here—this was the kind of place where enemies could appear at any moment.

Crewk orders the truck to stop. The helicopter hovers above, its open door spewing machine-gun fire.

Crewk leaps from the passenger seat and shouts into his terminal.

—Hey, Sinclair! That gunner on your side is clearly aiming at us!

Stay still. Don’t resist.

What?!

Four soldiers drop from the helicopter. Fifteen meters of fall.

Just before impact, air vents burst from the backs and hips of their armor.

Hmm. Sure, it’s sci-fi. That kind of thing exists.

A system to assist infantry jumps and landings, apparently. The four assault team members land smoothly, no issues, and immediately point their weapons at the truck.

Lieutenant—what now?

Stand by, Sergeant! Carlyle and the rest too! ……Syndicate, what are you doing, why are you pointing weapons at us!

No reply from the Syndicate Assault Team.

The soldiers lower their stances slightly and advance with a controlled jog, knees absorbing vibrations to keep their upper bodies stable.

One scans the surroundings, two cover the truck and Io, the last watches Crewk.

And it is this final soldier who speaks, voice muffled beneath a full-face helmet.

Apologies, Lieutenant—there’s a possibility we’re carrying a surprise gift from those damn alien scum.

Allow me to check.

What kind of surprise?

As he speaks, two more figures descend from the helicopter. While the assault team wears matte-finished green armor, these newcomers wear white armor.

Lightly armed, holding a strange device that resembled a disc with a handle.

Begin.

— You came at us thinking we were children.

It will be over soon.

Sergeant Io, do not resist.

Io kept the machine gun trained on the assault team, then stepped away from the gun mount as ordered by Creeke.

The soldier in white armor confirmed their terminal, then ran the disc across Creeke’s body.

After several seconds, they exchanged a glance with the assault team and nodded once. No issues.

Captain Creeke, order your subordinates to dismount. We won’t harm them.

Young soldiers descended from the truck one after another. They were afraid.

— You really are Sinclair.

— But that Sinclair is pointing a gun at us.

Pax… we’re not going to get shot, are we?

— Don’t know. Just stay quiet.

Carlyle’s combat engineer trio wore grim expressions.

— The elite forces of the Allied Army, reduced to pointing weapons at allies, even at brats. That’s the end of it.

Hands raised above the head, kneeling in a surrender posture.

Carlyle mocks, but the soldiers show no reaction. The two white-armored soldiers finish their work swiftly.

No major issues, apparently. The assault team lowers their weapons.

Cruke turns back toward the assault team.

— Phew… so no problems, that’s good. Then explain yourselves.

— First, tell me why you’re here.

— ……Don’t you think that’s rather presumptuous, Lieutenant?

— Show respect for rank, Second Lieutenant.

Cruke snorts.

If you provide your rank, ID, and mission objective clearly, I can adhere to military protocol. Protecting your squad is my duty, Captain.

Special forces are convenient. Since you can ignore them, that’s convenient too.

I’m here for the mission. ……Well, acceptable. Concessions are necessary.

The Captain touched the back of his helmet, near the neck and jawline.

The visor retracted, revealing a man with a stubbled beard.

Blond hair. Jawline solid.

Mission code, Charger, rank, and ID are classified.

The mission is to locate and neutralize the 'surprise gift.'

And what is this surprise?

A virus. The Weedran are infecting soldiers retreating from the western sector of Karaf through some unknown method.

Temporarily designated Karaf Virus.

A virus… What are its characteristics?

High fever, excessive sweating, violent impulses increasing. Soldiers undergoing reorganization are falling ill—frequent incidents of them attacking comrades.

Not airborne, and the virus's viability isn’t particularly strong. …Still, ignoring it isn’t an option.

How do we identify it?

Detecting it before symptoms appear without a sensor is difficult. By the time you notice the fever and the suffering, the infected are already lunging at the next person.

After onset, abnormal eye congestion is visible.

…Treatment?

Pre-onset, perhaps. Post-onset, countermeasures are under active research.

Yeah…

Io winced at the exchange between Crewk and Charger.

Gabri? What the hell is that. Zombies?

Enjoying an SF shooter only to end up in a zombie apocalypse—this isn’t exactly a pleasant turn of events.

Thank you for the valuable information. I’d like to ask again—will you assist us or not?

Charger crossed his arms, paused briefly, then replied.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but supporting unit 3552 isn’t part of our mission."

Crouke exhaled dramatically.

"Thought as much. The friendly forces we met during our retreat all seemed to mistake us for Boy Scouts enjoying a picnic. You’re no different."

"Lieutenant—instead, perhaps—huh? Wait a moment."

Crouke tossed a barb even at the Major. Charger had just received a transmission from somewhere. He adjusted his helmet, lowering the guard.

All eyes fixed on him. Charger responded with a grim tone.

"...Understood. We’ll redirect our Condor. Support those bastards."

After ending the transmission, Charger immediately turned to his subordinates without hesitation.

"Charger, is there a problem with Reaper?"

"We need to draw fire from the scaled ones. Redirect our Condor to support them."

"Then we’ll need to secure transport again. Any leads?"

"Yeah. Condor 04, proceed to the designated pickup point!"

Charger shouted, signaling the helicopter above.

The chopper instantly altered course and vanished toward the east.

"...Feels like a really bad omen."

Cruke narrowed his brows sharply. Charger replied.

"Second Lieutenant, requisition that truck.

No need to worry. We’re just borrowing it. Same direction as before. Stay calm."

——

"...Depending on how you look at it... yes, it’s true. One can always find a silver lining.

…………Just think of the escort that’s arrived as reliable support."

Crouched beside Io, clinging to the foot of the gun pod, Crewk mutters under his breath.

Two trucks now moved under the control of the Syndicate Assault Team.

As the Charger had said, their destination lay near the original route of the trucks. The group continued eastward without deviation.

The Syndicate had secured a relatively safe path, one not currently occupied by enemy forces.

That meant their safety had increased—no, it had to have. Crewk repeats this to himself.

The truck churned through the wasteland, kicking up dust. Io was nearing boredom.

An event scene this long was excessive. When would the action begin?

—Hey, you don’t look like a kid soldier.

The Charger, seated on the truck’s container roof with Io and Crewk, spoke.

Before Io could decide how to reply, Crewk answered for him.

Sergeant Io, sir.

So you're Sergeant Io. You with 3552 too?

No. Not me.

No honorifics. No formality. Io answers flatly. Crewk rubs his temple.

That’s why he didn’t want Io talking much. A finely tuned NPC.

Fortunate, the Charger doesn’t care about Io’s attitude and keeps the conversation going.

Where then?

Don’t know.

Don’t know?

Crewk adds.

He was in long-term cryo-sleep. His memories are scrambled.

Right. That’s what the character file said.

Cryo-sleep? Where?

A bunker in the Echo Ravine near Carver Ve.

Hmph… got his data?

Crewk and the Charger share data from their terminals.

The Charger scans Io’s file, nods once. Hmm.

Ah, so he’s a reinforced soldier from the early combat deployment phase. Back then, the treaties hadn’t been enforced yet.

They freely repurposed enemy tech from the Weedran lineage, manipulating soldiers at will.

…You don’t seem to hold a favorable opinion of him, but his capabilities are undeniable.

That’s true. Still, why the Freezer?

Unabashed gaze from the Charger.

Io considered throwing back a remark, but stopped mid-sentence.

— A starving jackal.

Io’s sharp senses registered the warning.

『Blue Goblet has begun combat support for Agent Io.』

A goddess with cyan hair swam through the field of view. A small window appeared in the corner, and she settled within it.

Her appearance meant it was so. Io spoke sharply.

Talk later. Enemy is approaching.

What? Really, Sergeant?

I feel it. Nine o’clock direction.

Cruke and Charger rise. Io aims the machine gun toward her left side.

——

Streamlined form. Two legs bent in reverse compared to human anatomy.

Four heavy rapid-fire cannons. High mobility. Self-propelled infantry combat vehicle, Cyphs.

It bursts from behind the rock, accelerating toward the track at terrifying speed.

Rollers or something similar on the soles. Sliding forward.

On uneven terrain, it uses reverse-jointed legs. On flat ground, it rolls with a roller-dash.

Io is impressed.

“Reverse feet. Pain in the ass.”

Io fires the machine gun as Charger speaks.

Recoil is strong. The muzzle jerks violently.

Useless turret!

“Squad, prepare for combat!”

Cruke opens the container’s roof hatch and barks orders to the troops inside.

“Prepare for what? What, exactly?!”

The question was natural. No equipment. No combat skill. The track container had no firing ports. No way to aim or fire a weapon from within.

There was nothing they could do. Remaining quiet was the best course.

……Prepare yourselves!

Cruke said nothing more and shut the window.

The two trucks accelerated. Carlyle’s combat engineers climbed up the container’s roof using ladders.

Sergeant, visitors!

Cyphs. Io, what do you think?

Io adjusted his grip, switching from full-auto to controlled bursts. Fired in short intervals, reacquiring aim each time.

One enemy walker already riddled and exploded. But countless others remained.

Good work, Sergeant. Let me help.

Charger dropped to one knee beside Io. A small launcher gripped in his hand.

The device strapped to the back of his armor. A soft *shuppon* echoed as the grenade launched, detonating at the feet of the Cyphs.

Explosion. Multiple Cyphs were blown apart, scattering debris. Charger fired two more, then three. Scrap piles grew with each shot.

—Lieutenant, get down!

Io forced Crewk’s head into the ground.

Charger’s launcher had eliminated several Cyphs, but the enemy pressed forward during his reload.

Attack. The track’s armor warped with a dull thud. Vibration surged through the frame.

Io returned fire. Closer meant higher chance of impact. Expected. He riddled the advancing Cyphs with bullets.

—Sergeant Io, no ammo!

Carlyle shouted. Io? A question mark.

These turrets don’t fire infinitely, do they?

That’s what I assumed because of the games I’ve played before. This one’s meant to be realistic.

But running out of ammo is a problem. A serious problem.

Carlyle Private is firing from Raven, but the shots aren’t landing effectively.

—Enemy approaching from the opposite direction.

Charger turns toward the three o’clock position, opposite the track’s forward direction.

A swarm of walking tanks is charging in.

—Enemy count remaining: twelve.

Blue Goblet delivers the update coldly. The track has reinforced armor, but not indefinitely.

—Lieutenant, the rifle from earlier.

—Pax! SOD7, over here!

Cruck roars. Instantly, Pax throws open the hatch and hands down the heavy-caliber rifle used previously.

The enemy are fast-moving walkers. Io stands atop the violently swaying track container.

Not ideal. But this is nothing new. They’ve handled worse.

Magazine! Only twenty rounds left! Handle with care!

Accepting the bag thrust at him, along with several magazines.

Agent Io exchanged glances with the Charger.

Sergeant, leave this side to me. I’ll handle the opposite flank.

What’s your team doing, Captain? Sleeping?

Sliding a magazine into SOD7, pulling the charging handle, feeding the first round into the chamber.

The Charger said nothing to Io’s sarcasm, already leaping to the other track with the usual boost jump.

Agent Io, I can assist.

Blue Goblet’s offer.

(How exactly?)

Blue Goblet can interfere with your nanomachines and enhance their performance.

Assume firing position. Hold your breath.

Io lies prone atop the container. SOD7 raised, scope pressed to the eye, inhales deeply and holds the breath—then it happens.

—Whenever you’re ready—

Enemy movement slows. The field of view narrows, distorts, warps.

Each stone, clump of soil, cloud of dust—visible in precise detail.

Time feels like it’s sinking in mud. Sluggish.

The world appears frozen. If you miss now, you shouldn’t be playing shooting games.

—(Huh? So that’s how the system works.)

Io aims at the most vulnerable point on the nearest unit—the rear torso, a weak spot discovered in a prior engagement.

Squeezes the trigger slowly. Even the recoil feels delayed. A strange, slippery sensation.

The walking tank tumbles forward, unable to rise from the momentum of its roller dash.

Io does not wait to see it fall. Targets the next.

Fire. Next. Fire. Next. Next. Next. Next.

(Should’ve done this from the start.)

‘Good kill, Io.’

‘Ah, hit it, Sergeant! Can’t believe it—every shot one-shot kill.’

SOD7’s magazine holds six rounds. Exactly one magazine to eliminate the walking tank.

Now only the opposite side remains—Charger will handle it.

When Io turns his head back, the Charger is already leaping toward him.

‘Good aim! Not even our selected marksman could do this.’

The world, sluggish and thick, snaps back to normal. Io feels the weight of exhaustion. Even in a game.

Closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Removes the magazine. Confirms no round remains in the chamber. Drops to one knee.

— Duck shooting. I’ll break you apart no matter the cost.

Crouk nodded approvingly at Io’s bold performance.

——