Typhon was the kind of place that didn't feel real until it tried to kill you.
A frontline world. A war world. A planet where the Resistance and the IMC chewed through steel, land, and lives like it was routine. The sky always felt too wide, the wind always carried ash, and the ground was scarred with old explosions—like the planet itself was tired of being used as a battlefield.
James stood beside a massive frame of metal that looked like a fallen god.
A Vanguard-class titan. BT-7274.
It was kneeling, half-dead, its armor cracked and burned, joints stiff from damage and power loss. Even like that, it was intimidating—six meters of war machine, silent and heavy, as if it was only pretending to sleep.
James exhaled a long breath, like he'd been holding it for days.
Then he reached behind him and pulled out a titan battery.
He leaned in, found the slot on BT's side, and slammed it into place.
The battery locked in. Energy surged. BT came back to life.
Metal shifted. Joints rotated. Systems hummed like a giant waking up from a coma.
A low mechanical voice spoke—cold, clear, and strangely calm.
"Power two-thirds. Data core re-initializing. Visual system—active."
BT's body tried to rise.
But the old damage betrayed it.
It swayed, struggled, and dropped back down onto one knee with a heavy clank.
"Adjusting focus."
A blue glow lit up from the cockpit area—soft, almost gentle. The titan's visual module stared at James, studying him like a scanner checking identity, searching for answers.
Then BT asked, quiet and direct:
"Are you alright, Pilot?"
James scratched the side of his helmet, shoulders loose like he was brushing off something casual.
"How should I put it?" he said. "Still alive. So… yeah. I guess that counts."
But inside, it didn't feel fine.
The body exhaustion was manageable.
The mental exhaustion was worse.
Being hunted alone. Cut off. Surrounded by IMC forces on an alien planet where every hill could hide a patrol and every quiet minute could be the calm before the next ambush…
Only someone who'd lived it would understand.
James looked up at the titan's cockpit.
"Introduce yourself," he said. "We should get to know each other."
This wasn't just a machine.
It was a partner.
And even though James already knew who BT was, this was their first real moment—first contact, first link, first trust.
"I am BT-7274," the titan said. "Vanguard-class titan, assigned to the Resistance SRS Marauder Corps. You may call me BT."
"Nice to meet you, BT," James replied. "I'm James."
BT's voice remained flat and professional. "My system is restarting. Three batteries will accelerate the process. I will wait here—"
He didn't get to finish.
James already had the remaining batteries out. One after another, he inserted them into BT's body like he was feeding a starving beast.
James installed the remaining batteries. BT's restart accelerated instantly.
"Accelerating restart," BT corrected. "Please wait a moment."
There was no emotion in BT's voice.
But James swore he heard something close to relief.
"It's fine," James said, stepping back. "I'm not in a hurry."
He sat on a nearby rock and finally let himself breathe.
No drones circled overhead.
No IMC soldiers marched nearby.
He'd already wiped out everything within a few kilometers—clean, silent, and brutal. Typhon's terrain helped him. Wide spaces, broken sightlines, natural cover. It was a planet built for lone operators who knew how to move.
The IMC had tried using drones earlier. They'd floated overhead broadcasting propaganda and scanning heat signatures.
James shot down more than a dozen.
After that, the sky stayed empty.
Minutes passed.
Then BT's chassis shuddered again.
Internal systems lit up. Repair functions kicked in.
BT carried its own repair support—nanomachines and self-healing structures like shape-memory alloys. It had been trying to fix itself all along, but without power it had been forced into dormancy. Repairs stopped halfway. AI went to sleep. A titan turned into a statue.
Now it had power again.
"Full power!" BT declared.
The voice didn't change, but the effect did.
Internal circuitry began restoring at maximum speed. Critical components mended. The outer armor still looked damaged, but the inside was coming back online fast.
Then BT rose fully, standing tall, XO-16 chain gun in hand.
BT stood at full height—an armed titan back in the fight.
The sheer presence was suffocating. Six meters of metal, weight, and calculated violence.
Then BT lowered itself again, kneeling like a loyal giant.
Its cockpit opened.
"Pilot," BT said, "a neural link must be established before we proceed. Please board when ready."
James didn't hesitate. He climbed in.
The cockpit felt familiar—tight, armored, designed for war. It reminded him of training pods he'd used before. He wasn't an official Pilot by rank.
But he had been a Pilot reservist once.
If life had gone differently, if wars had stacked up in a neat career ladder, he might've earned his own titan someday.
But it would never have been a Vanguard.
Vanguards were rare.
Vanguards were priceless.
BT was not supposed to belong to someone like him.
James ran his hand along the cold steel paneling, then sat in the Pilot's seat.
The hatch sealed shut.
BT stood.
"Protocol 1," BT said. "Link to Pilot."
"Neural linking…" James muttered.
His helmet initiated the connection.
The feeling was strange—like braindance, like his mind stepping out of his body. Like his senses were expanding beyond skin and bone into something larger.
"Neural link complete," BT said.
And this time, BT's voice wasn't just sound.
It resonated inside James' mind.
"Rifleman James, you are now confirmed as the acting Pilot of BT-7274."
Then BT continued, steady and absolute:
"Protocol 2—Uphold the mission."
"Orders are to continue Special Operation 217 and rendezvous with Major Anderson."
"Protocol 3—Protect the Pilot."
As the last words landed, James' vision shifted.
The cramped cockpit feeling faded.
The outside world became crystal clear—not through glass, but through BT itself.
James flexed BT's hands, rotated the shoulders, took a step, then another.
The titan moved like a body.
Like his body.
And the scary part?
There was no lag.
No blockage.
No loss.
Most rookies struggled. The instructors used to warn about neural sync issues, delayed response, painful feedback loops. But James moved like he'd been born inside a titan.
Maybe his talent was unusually high.
Or maybe BT's systems just accepted him completely.
"Checking all weapons and equipment," James said, testing the feel.
BT responded automatically.
"Checking. Vortex Shield status good. Rocket pod status good. Primary weapon control link re-established…"
But a titan waking up always made noise—energy noise. Signal noise. System noise.
And the IMC was listening.
"Enemy titan signal detected," BT warned.
James wasn't surprised.
Sooner or later, they'd come. Breaking the IMC blockade meant titans were inevitable.
James rolled BT forward along a stream, following the signal.
Then the sky boomed.
A shockwave cracked the air.
An IMC Beast-type titan dropped from orbit like a falling hammer.
It landed hard, spraying mud and water.
"Resistance titan spotted…" the IMC Pilot began, trying to report.
He didn't get the sentence out.
James fired. Eight rockets launched at once.
The IMC Pilot snapped up a shield—but too late.
Only half the rockets were fully caught.
The rest slammed into the Beast titan's shield and drained it dry.
Ten seconds to recharge.
He didn't have ten seconds.
James surged forward and rammed the enemy titan with full force, driving it to the ground.
BT's chain gun angled down, barrel aimed directly at the cockpit.
The IMC Pilot screamed—high and terrified.
Then the rounds tore through armor.
The enemy Pilot was shredded inside the cockpit. The Beast titan went still.
The entire fight was clean.
Fast.
Surgical.
And horrifyingly smooth for a "first time."
"Enemy titan down," BT said. "Well done. Our combat efficiency rating has increased."
Even BT sounded impressed.
Because James didn't fight like a rifleman.
He fought like a real Pilot.
But James didn't celebrate. He didn't linger.
Because one enemy titan was never the end.
It was the beginning.
BT's sensors picked up more incoming signals—recovery units, reinforcements, a wave that would eventually become a flood.
"Pilot," BT said, voice serious, "we must rendezvous with Major Anderson as soon as possible. This is our only chance of survival."
A marker appeared.
Over a hundred kilometers away.
James leaned back in his seat.
His eyes burned with exhaustion.
"Understood," he murmured. "Proceed according to protocol."
Then he added, as calmly as if he was asking BT to drive him home:
"You take over from here. I need sleep."
BT paused for a fraction of a second.
Then answered like a soldier.
"Received, Pilot. Transferring authorization."
BT scanned the nearby area, confirmed a temporary safe window, and began moving.
James closed his eyes.
The world slipped away.
And his consciousness fell into pure white.
---
The Four Nuos
The white space was familiar now.
A meeting place. A mental crossroad.
A place where versions of him from different worlds gathered—each carrying their own scars, their own battles, their own problems.
Time flowed differently in each world.
But somehow, they always met.
"A newcomer, finally!"
Titan James—battle-hardened, impatient, sharp—looked at the new arrival. This one wore knight-like gear, with the presence of a rough fantasy world clinging to him.
Titan James lunged forward like a kid greeting a friend.
Then he absorbed the memories.
And immediately shoved him away with a disgusted expression.
"Tch," Titan James muttered. "Another noob."
The fantasy-world James bristled. "Hey! I'm not that bad. I've got growth potential! Think long-term—when I become a god someday—"
Titan James cut him off, annoyed. "When you become a god, can you tank a planet-destroying cannon?"
The fantasy-world James opened his mouth.
Then slowly shut it.
"…My world is based on idealism."
"You know it too," Titan James snapped. "Even if you become a god, how much of that power can you actually bring into my world when rules clash? And when will you even become one?"
The argument was harsh—but honest.
The fantasy James had trained his body. He wasn't weak by normal standards. His world allowed higher physical potential.
But compared to titans and orbital warfare?
He was still tiny.
Still fragile.
Still a beginner.
Still… not enough.
Then the discussion shifted.
Cyber James—Night City James—raised a hand. "Alright. Enough. We've synced. That's it."
Titan James stepped forward, high-fived him, and the synchronization completed.
Then Titan James went offline.
---
Back to Night City
When James opened his eyes again, he wasn't on Typhon.
He was back in Night City.
And the first thing he saw was a raised blanket below him.
He stared at it for a second, then sighed like a man who already knew what the next line would be.
"Stop it," he said tiredly. "Lucy."
After a brief mess of movement and muffled complaining, Lucy ended up exhausted in the bathtub, talking to Kiwi.
From Lucy's half-lazy conversation, James caught the important update:
Sasha was back with the team.
Lucy's voice sounded casual, but her eyes weren't.
She was worried.
Not because Sasha was weak.
Because Lucy had a woman's instinct—and it was screaming.
James showered, changed clothes, and sat down to check Sasha's messages.
The plan was moving.
Smooth.
Quiet.
Deadly.
Information about Arasaka's "Project Adam" cyberware had already been transferred to Militech through cyberspace.
James had chosen Sasha for two reasons.
First: she'd been too free lately. It was better to keep her busy than have her sending private photos every day. He wasn't complaining—beautiful photos were beautiful photos.
But Lucy had been sensitive lately.
So he was being careful.
Second: Sasha was good. Really good. She handled corporate-level problems better than most. And her identity was cleaner than Lucy's—less risk, fewer chain consequences.
Militech moved fast.
Through the middlemen Sasha monitored, it looked like the corporation had already started reaching out.
After all, it involved Arasaka—Militech's biggest enemy. And recently, Arasaka had stolen one of Militech's newest prototypes.
Militech wanted blood.
James typed a reply.
"Focus on Faraday. The others won't have the guts to touch a corporate war."
Sasha replied quickly.
"Faraday? Maine has been working with him a lot lately. Taking many of his commissions. Could it be…"
James' jaw tightened.
"Hard to say," he typed. "Just keep watching him. Don't let Faraday sell you out."
Sasha sent back a teasing line.
"Would you really bear to see me get sold out?"
James didn't hesitate.
"Of course not," he replied. "You're my rescued Miss Cat."
The reply landed like a direct shot.
Sasha's heart fluttered so hard she couldn't hide it.
Rebecca, sitting nearby, looked utterly confused.
Maine, across the room, wore a proud, aunt-like smile—except with his rough face, it looked ridiculous.
Sasha sent another message:
"Hmph. Don't forget you still owe me my reward."
James answered simply.
"I remember."
He meant it, too.
But Sasha refused money, which made it harder.
Debts like that were difficult.
Too personal.
Too deep.
James smirked at his own thought.
Maybe he should just marry her and get it over with.
Then—
"JAMES!"
Lucy's voice echoed from the bathroom like a command.
James jolted, almost dropping the device.
"Come help me blow-dry my hair!"
James closed his eyes, inhaled, and calmed himself.
He stood up, muttering, "Coming."
And for a second, he couldn't tell if the real danger was corporate war…
Or a jealous netrunner in a bathtub.
End of Chapter.
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