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Chapter 16 - The Illusion of Choice

  The Illusion of Choice

  Roy's eyes locked onto the figure across the street. It had been days since his last visit to the CDPO/CGOM Headquarters. And he finally realized he was on a goddamn watchlist.

  At first, he thought he was just being paranoid. That no way they’d actually waste resources over him. But after enough observations, enough "coincidental" encounters, enough familiar patterns, he knew.

  The guy tailing him tried to mix it up with different outfits, different routes, different postures, but he failed to hide the way he moved.

  The way his eyes flicked too often, the way his hand hovered near his belt, the way he never let himself be boxed in by a crowd.

  Roy had seen a lot of their kind before. Government agents. Military types. The “official” side of the underbelly.

  And now, one of them was on his ass. Being on a watchlist was worse than Roy had anticipated. It meant he couldn’t take gigs freely. It meant he had to watch every move. It meant he couldn’t make money the way he needed to.

  And Irya?

  She had personally delivered the message to him with an ‘I told you so’ glee:

  “You fucked up.”

  She didn’t say it outright, of course.

  Instead, she had leaned against his kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression amused as she told him not to take any jobs for a while.

  Then she uncharacteristically grinned, in that cold, almost playful way of hers, and said, "It’s exactly your fault for not immediately leaving the hotel gig. What, you thought they wouldn’t flag you?"

  Roy had exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to throw something at her.

  Because she was right.

  And he hated that she was right.

  He had been desperate for credits, and too confident in his ability to stay unnoticed despite the obvious.

  He should have left the job immediately. Should have vanished the moment the assassination attempt on Dumas failed because of the idiots who took the shot first.

  But no.

  He had stuck around, thinking he could squeeze out a few more paychecks.

  And now?

  He was under surveillance. No big jobs. No risk-taking. Just laying low and hoping the heat died down.

  The more he thought about it, the more it irritated him.

  How does someone even remove themselves from a watchlist?

  He had no idea. Roy exhaled, rubbing his temple. He still had a foot in the brighter side of society, while the other was deep in the underbelly.

  And he was starting to question if that balance was even possible anymore. He had already helped Irya with a few murder jobs. Carried guys into getting their organs harvested.

  He had worked with the Callisto Syndicate, rubbed shoulders with Sepp and Uncle Lin Fang, taken gigs that a law-abiding citizen would never even consider.

  And yet he still held onto the illusion that he wasn’t fully in the dark yet.

  That he could still pull himself back.

  That he wasn’t too far gone.

  Maybe that was a delusion.

  Because when he really thought about it. People like Irya, Sepp, Pedro, and Kasi didn’t agonize over morals.

  They did what they had to do.

  And Roy?

  He felt like he was stuck in between, clinging to some distant version of himself that probably didn’t exist anymore. Roy flexed his fingers, watching the agent across the street.

  He could probably grab the guy, drag him into an alley, beat the shit out of him, and make him beg for mercy.

  But then what?

  He wasn’t an idiot.

  The moment he attacked, CDPO and CGOM would kick down his door within hours because he proved them right.

  And without the protection of the Syndicate, the Cartel, or the Feng Hua?

  He’d be dead or in a prison pod before sunrise.

  Because joining them didn’t mean they’d protect him.

  They only looked out for those who were useful.

  And Roy?

  He wasn’t useful enough yet.

  So, like it or not he had to accept the situation.

  He had no one to blame but himself.

  Irya had warned him. Kasi had warned him. Hell, even Sepp had called him an idiot for staying in one place too long.

  And he had ignored them all.

  Now, he was paying the price.

  The reality was simple.

  Roy couldn’t take big jobs until the heat died down.

  Couldn’t move freely.

  Couldn’t earn like he used to.

  And for what?

  A few extra weeks of stable paychecks?

  His own stupidity had backed him into a corner, and now he had to sit and wait.

  He hated waiting.

  But there was one thing he hated more. The fact that, deep down, he was still trying to hold onto something that was already slipping away. He told himself he wasn’t fully in the dark yet. That he still had lines he wouldn’t cross. But how much longer until those lines blurred completely?

  Until he stopped pretending he was different?

  Roy left for work immediately.

  Alba City was, as always, a sensory overload.

  Neon-lit buildings flashing advertisements, the hum of traffic cutting through the Martian air, and the distant wail of sirens bouncing between steel, concrete, and glass towers.

  The sky, that ever-present blue tinged with red, stretched over the cityscape like an artificial dome.

  It used to fascinate him. Now it was just another backdrop to his everyday life.

  He was used to it.

  He felt Martian now.

  Roy pulled his Mustang into Pedro’s garage, the familiar scent of burnt rubber, motor oil, and industrial coolant hitting him as he stepped out.

  The place was sprawling, an old warehouse converted into a fully functional repair shop, where machines and mechanics worked in perfect sync.

  Hulking metal rigs lined the walls, automated arms whirring as they tended to vehicles ranging from civilian transport to high-grade military beasts. There were only a few who got Pedro’s personal touch.

  Today, it was CGOM again.

  A heavily armored vehicle sat in the middle of the bay, pockmarked with fresh bullet holes, its ceramic plating cracked and warped.

  Roy sighed. They were never not busy.

  Pedro, already running a scan, barely spared him a glance as Roy crouched down next to the vehicle.

  “CGOM’s busy again, huh?” Roy muttered, tracing a bullet indentation with his gloved fingers.

  “Not surprising,” Pedro replied, adjusting his bracer-like wrist terminal. “That’s the thing about the government—once they get a chance, they never stop swinging their rods around.”

  Roy huffed a laugh.

  That sounded about right.

  Pedro tapped a few keys, sending a data package to someone on the other end of the call.

  “We need to patch it up with ceramic plates. Sending the data to you, sir.”

  His tone was all business. No small talk, no unnecessary words, just efficient and professional.

  Roy pulled over a crate, unsealing it to reveal polygonal ceramic plating, stacked neatly like oversized puzzle pieces.

  Pedro nodded in approval, speaking into his terminal again.

  “We’ve got some stock on hand, but we’ll need a few extra parts. We’ll have it ready by tomorrow.”

  A pause.

  Then, a curt nod before Pedro ended the call.

  He turned to Roy.

  “We’re in for a long one. You in? Might need to work until nine.”

  Roy rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in his arms.

  “Sure, why not? It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

  Pedro smirked, leaning against the side of the vehicle.

  “Oh yeah, I heard you were flagged.”

  Roy groaned inwardly.

  “Man, you’re stupid, you know that?” Pedro continued, laughing.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Roy wasn’t even surprised that Pedro knew. He was well-connected.

  The man was neutral territory, he worked on everyone’s vehicles. Syndicates, government forces, mercs, smugglers. If it had an engine and needed fixing, Pedro didn’t discriminate.

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  And because of that?

  Nobody wanted to mess with him. There was no point.

  “Let’s get started.” Pedro clapped his hands together. “You can follow the instructions on the glasses.”

  Roy nodded, pulling his AR visor over his eyes.

  A quick gesture of his fingers, and the overlay flickered to life.

  The CGOM armored vehicle was a beast, military-grade, reinforced plating, with a turret slot on top that had been blown clean off.

  The HUD overlay in Roy’s visor highlighted the damaged areas in red, bringing up data readouts and repair estimates.

  [Front panel: 70% compromised]

  [Left flank: Ceramic plating breached]

  [Rear axle: Shock absorption integrity at 43%]

  Roy let out a low whistle.

  “Someone gave these guys a hell of a greeting.”

  Pedro grunted. “Gangs, probably. Maybe a hit from a rival corp. Could’ve been anyone, really.”

  Roy didn’t ask further.

  He knew better than to dig into CGOM’s business.

  Instead, he focused on the job. Dragging the AR-overlay’s instructions above his view.

  Roy grabbed a power drill, aligning it against the damaged ceramic plating.

  Whirr and a click.

  The drill’s magnetic bolts released, and Roy peeled off the dented armor.

  The interior revealed layers of synthetic ballistic fibers, designed to absorb kinetic force.

  They were frayed and burnt, completely useless now.

  Pedro rolled over a cart, unloading fresh poly-ceramic sheets, their dark matte surface absorbing the shop’s overhead lights.

  The internal shock absorbers were shot to hell.

  Roy retrieved a hydraulic joint replacement kit, sliding under the vehicle to access the rear axle and suspension systems.

  His visor’s AR overlay guided his hands as he disassembled the damaged joints, pulling out the shattered hydraulic components and replacing them with reinforced alloy pistons.

  Once the internals were secured, it was time to reapply the armor.

  Roy positioned the new ceramic plates, aligning them seamlessly into place before securing them with industrial-grade adhesive.

  Pedro followed up with spot-welding, ensuring that the plating was fused perfectly with the chassis.

  The final touch was protective nanopolymer coat, sprayed over the surface to increase heat resistance.

  Roy stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  The vehicle gleamed under the garage lights, looking brand new, if you ignored the patched turret slot.

  Pedro let out a satisfied exhale.

  “Not bad. We’ll have to let it sit overnight, though. The bonding needs time to set.”

  Roy stretched, feeling the strain in his shoulders.

  “Are you sure this is just a repair shop?” he asked. “Feels more like we’re fixing tanks.”

  Pedro chuckled, tossing his gloves onto the workbench.

  “On Mars, a good mechanic is worth more than a soldier.”

  Roy leaned against the vehicle, taking a deep breath.

  He didn’t disagree.

  The way things were going, with tensions rising, and more CGOM patrols flooding the streets of Alba and outside the city.

  Having a well-armored ride was becoming a necessity.

  And something told him, this wasn’t the last time they’d be patching up bullet holes.

  The work had been long and exhausting, but by the time Roy and Pedro stepped away from the CGOM vehicle, the repair job was flawless.

  The armor plating gleamed under the fluorescent lights, smooth and unblemished. If you ignored the minor inconsistencies in color, you’d never know this thing had been shot to hell just a day ago.

  Pedro crossed his arms, nodding in approval.

  “Not bad, Inman. Maybe you should stick to fixing cars instead of getting flagged by the government.”

  Roy let out a dry laugh, stretching his arms behind his head.

  “Yeah, maybe. Too bad I like eating.”

  Pedro smirked, reaching for his cigarette case, shaking out a single stick.

  “Ain’t that the truth. Let’s wrap this up and send them the bill.”

  After cleaning up, Roy stepped out of the garage, stretching his legs.

  The air was cool, the atmosphere of Alba City carrying a faint, metallic tang.

  A faint drizzle had begun, the red-tinted sky reflecting in puddles along the cracked pavement.

  Across the street, neon signs flickered, displaying ads for augment clinics, cyberware vendors, and nightclubs promising every vice imaginable. Roy was momentarily tempted, but the eyes poking his back soured his mood.

  A few blocks away, the hum of patrol drones buzzed overhead, their red optics scanning the streets for trouble.

  This was Mars.

  A planet of progress, opportunity and danger, all packed together in a city that never truly slept.

  It was home now.

  He still didn’t know how the hell he ended up here, but he was here.

  And he had to make it work.

  Then, he felt it again.

  That sensation.

  Being watched.

  Roy didn’t react immediately.

  Instead, he took a slow breath, adjusting the collar of his jacket before casually glancing around.

  And there he was.

  Same guy as before.

  Different clothes, different stance, but the same mistakes.

  He had the gait of a trained officer, the way his eyes moved before his body followed, the way he kept his hands loose but ready, a government type, through and through.

  Roy sighed, rubbing his temple.

  “You gonna keep pretending, or you wanna come over and grab a beer?” Roy called out, his voice carrying just enough amusement to piss someone off.

  The agent froze, just for a second, before casually turning and disappearing into the crowd.

  Roy grinned.

  “Thought so.”

  Still, this was getting annoying.

  His PDA buzzed in his pocket.

  A message.

  Irya.

  [Your tail's getting sloppy.]

  Roy exhaled.

  [Yeah, no shit. How bad is it?]

  [Bad enough. Want me to handle it? I can offer you a discount. Make it quick and painless.]

  Roy stared at the message.

  He knew what that meant.

  He could say yes.

  Irya could make the problem disappear.

  But that would mean escalation.

  And right now?

  He needed less heat, not more.

  [Not yet. I’ll figure something out myself.]

  A pause.

  Then a reply.

  [Your call. But be careful, Inman.]

  Roy leaned against his car, staring up at the hazy Martian sky.

  He had two options really. Disappear for a while. Lay low. Work quiet gigs. Hope the government types got bored and moved on. Confront it head-on. See if there was a way to get off their radar.

  Neither option was great.

  Roy watched the city move around him, the glow of neon lights reflecting off the rain-slicked streets.

  He thought about Irya’s offer, about how easy it would be to just make the problem disappear.

  A simple word and a quiet death.

  And suddenly, the government’s eyes wouldn’t be on him anymore.

  He’d owe Irya, which wasn’t that bad.

  But…

  That wasn’t his style.

  Roy didn’t mind violence, but he didn’t like unnecessary risk.

  And killing a government tail?

  That was exactly the kind of thing that would put him on every watchlist in the solar system.

  He wasn’t that desperate yet.

  Instead, he rolled his shoulders and let out a deep breath.

  “Screw it.”

  For now?

  He wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

  He’d let them watch. Let them follow him around like lost puppies.

  As long as he didn’t give them a reason to act, they’d eventually get bored.

  At least, that’s what he hoped.

  Besides, working with Pedro wasn’t half-bad.

  The pay wasn’t amazing, but it was steady.

  And steady meant he could eat, could put gas in his car, could stay under the radar without doing anything reckless.

  Not to mention, Pedro wasn’t an idiot.

  The man knew how to operate, how to keep his business neutral.

  Roy had been around enough criminal factions to know that a good mechanic was worth their weight in gold.

  Syndicates, government agencies, smugglers, mercs, everyone needed repairs.

  And Pedro had mastered the art of keeping everyone happy. Because he was a resource. No allegiances. No loyalty beyond business.

  Just fixing things and getting paid.

  And honestly?

  That kind of life didn’t seem so bad right now.

  Roy pushed off the hood of his car, giving one last glance toward the street where his tail had disappeared.

  He knew the watch wasn’t over.

  But he wasn’t going to worry about it tonight.

  Instead, he climbed into his Mustang, cranked up the engine, and started driving back to his place.

  The roads were still wet from the drizzle, the tires kicking up small sprays of water as he cruised through Alba City’s lower districts.

  He passed by neon-lit alleys, through empty intersections, watching the city’s nightlife wake up as he drove.

  For now, he’d keep things simple.

  Keep his head down.

  Keep working with Pedro.

  And wait for the heat to die down.

  * * *

  The day started normally enough.

  Roy showed up at Pedro’s garage, threw on his overalls, and got to work.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Just another job, just another day spent under a vehicle, fixing what needed fixing.

  The city outside hummed with its usual chaotic energy. The distant sirens, neon lights flickering in the smog, the hum of aerial vehicles cruising overhead.

  And for the first time in weeks, Roy actually felt like he could relax.

  That feeling lasted about two hours.

  Because that’s when a messenger arrived.

  A young man, dressed in a slick black suit, stepped into the garage like he owned the place.

  Pedro barely glanced up, but Roy knew.

  He felt it before he even saw the card.

  This wasn’t just some customer.

  This was Syndicate business.

  The kid walked over, handed Roy a black calling card embossed with red ink, then said in a calm, practiced tone.

  "Boss Devon is calling in a favor."

  Roy stared at the card, his fingers tightening around the edges.

  Shit.

  The messenger was already walking away, leaving Roy with the weight of those words hanging in the air.

  Pedro finally looked up, wiping his hands with a rag.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked casually.

  Roy exhaled through his nose, flipping the card between his fingers.

  “Something like that.”

  Pedro didn’t ask further.

  He didn’t need to.

  Roy had been laying low, staying out of business.

  But some debts?

  Some debts didn’t just disappear.

  And when Boss Devon called in a favor, you answered. He felt compelled especially after the Dumas job.

  Roy turned the card over, scanning the address.

  A private hangar, deep in the industrial district, not far from the spaceports where the big cargo ships landed and a spacejet waiting for him.

  The message was clear.

  They needed a pilot.

  And for some reason?

  They wanted him.

  But if the Syndicate was calling him in, this wasn’t some simple smuggling job.

  This was bigger.

  And that meant one thing, he wasn’t getting out of this.

  Roy let out a slow breath, tossing the card onto Pedro’s workbench.

  “Do you ever get that feeling?” Roy muttered.

  Pedro raised a brow. “What feeling?”

  Roy cracked his neck.

  “Like no matter what you do, the universe is just pushing you in one direction?”

  Pedro snorted.

  “That’s not the universe, kid. That’s just bad luck. Looks like I won’t be seeing you for a while… Can you even fly?”

  Roy sighed.

  “Yeah. Afraid so. Cause I’m maxed out on skills man.”

  “Good luck, Inman.”

  Roy was starting to think he was born with bad luck.

  It seems just because he has a choice, doesn’t mean that others won’t force him into one.

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