The dawn stretched over the plains, a ghostly blue painting the world in sharp contrasts of shadow and light. The cold bite of the morning air did nothing to cool the fire burning inside Britt. His muscles ached, his throat felt dry as sandpaper, but his mind was a steel trap locked on one singular purpose.Find them.

  Midnight’s hooves crunched over the frostbitten grass as Britt rode northeast, his eyes scanning the landscape for anything out of place. His hands were steady on the reins, but the rage simmering beneath his skin kept him from feeling the cold.

  The fragments in his inventory pulsed softly in the corner of his vision, their weight growing heavier with each mile he covered. He hadn’t fully understood what the shards meant yet, but the simulation had made it clear they were important.

  Somewhere out there, Esahabitu’s boy was being held captive. And Britt would bring him back if it was the last thing he did. He guided Midnight through a narrow pass, eyes sharp as knives. His thoughts wandered back to the last conversation he had with the Comanche chieftain. Esahabitu’s words echoed in his mind like the distant rumble of thunder.

  “North, across the plains. Their trail passed near the sacred canyon.”

  But he also remembered the chief’s warning. This was enemy territory, a place where his presence was about as welcome as fire ants at a picnic.

  “Trust is earned, not given,” the simulation’s cold voice had told him. But trust wasn’t what he was after. Vengeance was.

  The trail grew fainter as the sun rose higher. Britt’s gaze never wavered from the ground, his eyes tracing every bent blade of grass, every scuff of dirt. The prints of horses mixed with the lighter impressions of bare feet. They were close. But something else was waiting for him on the trail. A deep voice barked out from the thicket ahead, the kind of voice that held authority backed by violence.

  “Hold there!”

  Britt’s hand tightened around the rifle at his side, but he kept it lowered. His gaze shifted, locking onto two white men stepping from the brush. They looked rough, their clothes dirt-streaked and their faces cracked and leathery from years of hard living. Slave catchers.

  “Well, well,” the taller of the two sneered, his lips twisting into a mockery of a grin. “What do we got here? A runaway, maybe?”

  “I’m free,” Britt said calmly, his tone steady. “Got the papers to prove it.”

  “Papers, huh?” The shorter man’s eyes narrowed, his own rifle raised just enough to be a threat. “Let’s see ’em.”

  Britt’s hands rose slowly, the way a man does when he’s handling dynamite. “They’re in my bag. Just gonna reach for them.”

  “Real slow now,” the taller one growled, his hand drifting toward the six-shooter at his hip.

  Britt nodded and eased his hand toward the saddlebag. His fingers slid over the rough leather, his heartbeat pounding like war drums. The man’s eyes locked onto his every move, the tension coiling between them like a loaded spring. But Britt wasn’t the only one planning.

  The tall man’s grin widened into something vicious, his fingers twitching just before he shoved his rifle into its riding holster. His hand flashed to his six-shooter, the metal glinting in the morning sun as he drew with murderous intent. But Britt was already moving.

  He rolled off the side of Midnight like a ghost slipping through shadow, his body twisting as he hit the ground in a crouch. The blast of the pistol missed him by a hair’s breadth, the bullet tearing through the air where his chest had been.

  In a blur of motion, Britt’s own revolver was in his hand, the hammer pulled back with a smooth click. The shot exploded from his weapon, the bullet punching through the taller man’s chest with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed the air, the man’s eyes wide with shock as he crumpled to the ground. The second man gaped like a fish, his fingers fumbling with his rifle. But Britt didn’t give him the chance.

  A second shot roared through the silence, slamming into the shorter man’s throat. He made a choking sound, his eyes rolling back before he collapsed in a heap of blood and dirt.

  The morning air was still once more, the scent of gunpowder mingling with the sweet, coppery tang of fresh death. Britt stared at the bodies, his breath ragged but controlled. They hadn’t been the first men he’d killed. And they wouldn’t be the last.

  He dragged the bodies into the brush, kicking dirt over the stains they left behind. The trail would be gone soon enough, nothing but dust and bones. Britt mounted Midnight once more, his knuckles white against the reins. And then the notification came.

  NEW OBJECTIVE COMPONENT ACQUIRED: Fragment 2/5 – Memory of the Hunted.

  “What the hell…?” Britt muttered. He hadn’t seen any fragment. Nothing but the two dead bastards he’d just left behind.

  But then it hit him. It wasn’t about finding the fragments. It was about becoming them. Surviving them. Living through the nightmare until there was nothing left but fire and steel. The path ahead was becoming clearer. But every step forward came with blood. His eyes fixed on the northeast, the direction where the boy was held. Where his family’s freedom was chained.

  “Let’s go, Midnight. We’ve got devils to kill.”

  The horse snorted and surged forward, the world blurring into a dark and endless road. The sky bled orange as the sun melted into the horizon, leaving the world drenched in shadows and restless wind. Britt’s body ached from the long ride, his muscles tight and unforgiving as he pushed himself further across the plains. The air was thick with the smell of earth and dust, and somewhere beneath it all, the faint metallic tinge of blood still clung to him.

  He’d been riding hard since dawn, his mind consumed by thoughts of the child he was sworn to rescue and the family torn from him. The weight of it all pressed against his chest, like chains trying to drag him beneath the ground. But he had to keep moving. If he slowed down, even for a moment, he was afraid his own rage might tear him apart.

  Midnight’s hooves thudded against the ground with a steady, rhythmic beat. The horse’s breath came in hot, heavy bursts, its flanks slick with sweat. They needed rest, but Britt couldn’t afford to stop out in the open. Not with what might be tracking him.

  Up ahead, the faint silhouette of a small settlement rose against the fading light. Fortified by nothing more than a rough line of sharpened logs, it was clear the place wasn’t meant for any real kind of war. A desperate attempt at survival rather than a true bastion of defense.

  Britt’s eyes swept the landscape, his gaze tracing over the fields and sparse clusters of trees. The fort’s presence meant people. People meant information. Maybe even food if they didn’t turn him away at gunpoint. But he wasn’t about to risk getting gunned down by some trigger-happy settler looking for an excuse to kill a Black man. No, he’d keep his distance for now.

  A quick scan of the area showed an old barn leaning against the wind just outside the settlement’s reach. Its roof sagged in the middle, and the wood was weathered to a dull, splintering gray, but it would do.

  “Looks like our stop for the night,” Britt murmured, patting Midnight’s neck.

  The horse snorted, tossing its head as if agreeing with the sentiment. He nudged Midnight forward, guiding the beast toward the barn with the slow, deliberate caution of a man used to having death at his heels. His eyes darted between the shadows, every flicker of movement igniting his nerves.

  When he reached the barn, Britt slid off the saddle, his boots crunching softly against the dry earth. Midnight huffed, its massive head swinging toward the barn as if it could smell whatever ancient decay lingered within.

  “Easy now,” Britt whispered, leading the horse inside.

  The darkness swallowed them whole, only slivers of moonlight slicing through the gaping holes in the roof. The air was cool and damp, tinged with the scent of hay and mildew. The barn creaked with every step, as though the ground itself might swallow them up if they lingered too long.

  “Better than sleepin’ out in the open,” Britt muttered to himself. His voice sounded hollow in the darkness.

  He tied Midnight to a sturdy post, stroking the horse’s neck until the beast’s nervous snorts slowed to calm, even breaths.

  “Good boy. You’ve earned yourself a rest.”

  Britt dug into his saddlebag, pulling free the last of the smoked jerky he’d been rationing. His stomach twisted with hunger, the gnawing sensation having become a familiar, uncomfortable companion.

  He gathered some scattered pieces of wood, breaking them into manageable chunks and arranging them into a small pile. His flint and steel came out next, the sharp clinking of metal on stone echoing softly against the wooden beams.

  The spark caught, flickering weakly before blooming into a fragile flame. Britt fed the fire with care, coaxing it until it crackled and swayed, the orange glow casting his shadow across the uneven walls.

  His fingers worked with mechanical precision, tearing pieces of jerky and tossing them into his mouth, the taste more salty than savory. But food was food, and he wasn’t about to waste what little he had left.

  He leaned back against the splintered wall, his eyes half-lidded as the warmth of the fire seeped into his aching bones. Midnight chewed noisily on the handful of grass Britt had pulled from outside, the horse’s contentment a small comfort in the darkness. With the hunger kept at bay, Britt’s gaze shifted to his HUD. The second fragment glowed softly, its outline pulsing like a heartbeat.

  Fragment 2/5 – Memory of the Hunted.

  It was becoming clearer now. Whatever this simulation was meant to do, the fragments were essential to completing the mission. They weren’t just pieces of metal. They were echoes of something larger. Something powerful.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  And whoever designed this nightmare had gone to great lengths to make sure Britt experienced every moment of agony and struggle. Rico was somewhere in there, his own consciousness clinging to a world built from steel and sorrow. But right now, he couldn’t feel like Rico. He was Britt Johnson. And the only way out was through.

  He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the cold that had settled into his bones. His eyes flicked over to Midnight, who seemed content enough with his makeshift meal.

  “Gonna get you some real food once this is all over, boy. I swear it.”

  The barn creaked again, a low groan that rippled through the silence. Britt’s hand moved instinctively to the rifle at his side, his body tense and ready. But there was nothing. Just the wind rattling against the walls like a restless spirit.

  He settled down beside the fire, letting its warmth draw him into something that almost felt like peace. The day had been long, and the road ahead promised nothing but more violence and blood. But for now, he would rest. His eyes closed, his breath slowing to a deep, even rhythm. And sleep took him like a thief in the night.

  SESSION CONTINUED: 0641015

  LOCATION: Southern United States

  Britt woke to the creak of wood and the musty stench of hay. The barn’s beams groaned under the gentle push of the morning breeze, and shafts of sunlight sliced through the gaps between the weathered planks. His fingers curled around Midnight’s reins, the leather cool and reassuring against his skin. The horse stirred beside him, his breathing a steady rumble that eased some of Britt’s anxiety.

  They’d arrived at the makeshift community fort just before midnight. A few scattered lights flickered from the main building, but Britt kept his distance. Didn’t matter if he was a free man. His skin was still the wrong color in the wrong place.

  His belly rumbled angrily. His supplies were dwindling, and the gnawing hunger clawed at his stomach like a wild animal. Maybe if he played his cards right, he’d scrounge up some food and information before heading back on the trail.

  He rose to his feet, brushing stray bits of straw from his coat. Midnight watched him with dark, unblinking eyes, already sensing the tension that Britt couldn’t quite shake.

  “Just a little while longer, old friend,” Britt murmured, patting the horse’s neck. “Gotta see if these folks know anything ’bout the tribe I’m after.”

  He glanced down at the glowing indicator on his HUD. The fragments were pulsing again, the second one absorbed from the battle with the slave catchers the day before. The fragments were a part of him now, his memories twisting with theirs, each one sharpening his senses and filling him with something more than human. Something more than pain. But that pain was still there.

  He led Midnight out of the barn, keeping his head low and his gaze fixed on the ground as he approached the small fort. It was more of a settlement barricade than anything, a crude line of sharpened logs with a few shoddy watchtowers thrown up for good measure. The people inside weren’t soldiers. They were settlers, families trying to carve out a life from the wilderness and fend off the darkness that crept in from all sides.

  The few men who patrolled the fort’s perimeter looked about as experienced in battle as a child with a stick. Their muskets hung awkwardly at their sides, hands twitching nervously anytime something moved too fast.

  “Good folks out here,” Britt muttered to himself. “But they’re gonna get slaughtered if anyone comes for ’em.”

  He made his way toward the gate, bracing himself for the looks that always followed him. Sure enough, the minute he stepped into view, two men at the entrance tightened their grips on their rifles, eyes narrowing like hawks spotting a wounded rabbit.

  “What you doin’ around here, boy?” One of the men growled, his voice thick with suspicion.

  “Lookin’ for someone,” Britt said evenly. “And food, if you got it.”

  The other man sneered, spitting on the ground between them. “Your kind ain’t welcome ’round here. Free or slave, makes no difference.”

  “I got coin,” Britt said, holding his hands up. “Ain’t here to cause trouble.”

  “Too bad, trouble’s already here,” said a new voice, thick with arrogance.

  Britt turned to see a man swaggering over, a sheriff’s badge pinned to his chest. His face was angular and mean, eyes the color of old piss and just as full of bile.

  “Well now,” the sheriff continued, voice dripping with contempt. “Seems we got ourselves a runaway, tryin’ to sniff around where he don’t belong.”

  “I’m no runaway.” Britt’s voice was cold. “Name’s Britt Johnson. I’m a free man. Papers to prove it.”

  The sheriff laughed, the sound like dry leaves crushed underfoot. “Papers don’t mean a damn thing out here, boy. You’re trespassin’. And folks ’round here don’t take kindly to trespassers.”

  “I ain’t looking for trouble.”

  “Too bad,” the sheriff spat. “’Cause trouble’s what you’re gonna get if you don’t get your black hide outta here. Now.”

  The tension coiled between them, thick and choking. The other men flanking the sheriff had their weapons raised, their gazes hard and unforgiving. Britt’s hands tightened into fists, the urge to fight burning hot in his chest. But he had no time for this. His family was out there, waiting for him to tear the world apart if need be to get them back.

  “Suit yourself,” Britt said, turning his back on the men. His voice was low and steady, but every muscle in his body trembled with the effort it took to walk away.

  He made it five steps before the world exploded into chaos. War cries ripped through the air, harsh and jagged. The thunder of hooves came next, the ground trembling under the weight of horses charging straight for the fort. The men of the settlement panicked. Their shouts overlapped, frantic and terrified. The sheriff’s face twisted into something between fury and fear.

  “Comanches!” one of the settlers yelled. “They’re comin’ straight for us!”

  Britt didn’t hesitate. His rifle was in his hand before he even knew he’d drawn it. Instinct and rage fueled his every motion, each movement precise and fluid.

  “Get those damn gates shut!” the sheriff roared, his bravado crumbling under the reality of what was bearing down on them.

  But it was too late. Britt leaped onto the nearest wall, his hands grabbing the rough wood as he hauled himself up with the strength of a man possessed. The guards above scrambled to load their weapons, their fingers trembling with terror. They would die. All of them. Unless someone showed them how to fight.

  Britt took up position along the wall, his eyes narrowing as the first wave of Comanches crested the hill. Their painted bodies shimmered with sweat and blood, their weapons raised high as they roared their challenge to the sky.

  “Hold steady!” Britt bellowed. “Aim for their horses first. Make ’em fall!”

  The men around him gaped, stunned by his authority. But they obeyed. They had no choice.

  Britt’s rifle barked out its command, and the first rider was torn from his saddle. Blood sprayed the ground as the man crumpled to the earth, his body trampled by the hooves of his own comrades.

  “Reload and keep firin’! Move, damn you!”

  They scrambled to keep up, but Britt’s rhythm was relentless. He moved from one target to the next, his rifle spitting death with mechanical precision. His fingers moved as if guided by some force beyond his own will.

  Another rider fell. Then another. And another. Twenty dead by his own hand. But Britt didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His fury was a living thing, snarling and ravenous. And the Comanches felt it, their charge faltering under the rain of bullets and blood.

  The battle raged on, a storm of violence and madness. But when the dust began to settle, it was Britt who stood triumphant. The Comanches retreated, their war cries fading into the distance like ghosts carried off by the wind. And that’s when the people of the fort started to cheer.

  Britt jumped down from the platform near the wall, his muscles strung tight from the frenzy of the battle. The taste of gunpowder still lingered on his tongue, sharp and bitter. His fingers ached from the brutal repetition of firing and reloading, each motion as automatic as breathing.

  The faces of the townsfolk stared at him from beyond the ramshackle wall. Their eyes were wide, fearful, and awestruck all at once. He hadn’t been fighting for them, not really. He’d been fighting for himself, for his own survival, for the rage burning a hole through his chest. But they didn’t know that.

  “Come on, Midnight,” he said softly, giving his horse’s reins a gentle tug. The beast nickered, its dark coat slick with sweat and grime.

  They’d spent too long in this place already. He needed to keep moving. Every second wasted here was another second stolen from his family. But before he could even take a step, a woman’s voice broke through the silence.

  “Wait!”

  He turned, his eyes locking onto a small crowd of settlers gathered near the gate. The woman who had spoken stepped forward, her hands wringing the worn fabric of her skirt. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, her cheeks gaunt and her eyes rimmed with dark circles.

  “Please, sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “Take this.”

  She held out a small bundle of bread wrapped in old cloth. Another woman approached, pressing a tin of jerky into his hand. Then came a man with a canteen, a child with a battered apple, and another woman with a rough woolen blanket.

  Britt shook his head, holding his hands up defensively. “I can’t take this from y’all. You need it more than I do.”

  But the woman’s eyes shone with something fiercer than gratitude. “You saved us, sir. And you deserve more than what we can give.”

  “I just did what needed doin’,” Britt said, his voice rough.

  “No,” the woman insisted. “You did what none of our men could do. You saved this place. You saved us. And it’s more than the lot of us deserve after what that sheriff said to you.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, the townsfolk’s expressions slowly shifting from wary suspicion to genuine respect.

  “If it weren’t for you, those Comanches would’ve overrun us,” an old man spoke up, his voice trembling. “And we all know damn well the sheriff would’ve been the first to run.”

  Britt’s eyes flicked over to where the sheriff stood, his expression twisted and ugly. But he didn’t care what that man thought. His gaze returned to the people in front of him.

  “I appreciate the kindness,” Britt said, nodding stiffly. “But I got no use for charity. I’m just a man trying to get back what’s been taken from me.”

  “Then take these things as a show of our gratitude,” the woman said firmly. “No charity. Just people trying to repay a debt they can’t ever fully repay.”

  She shoved the bundle of bread into his hand, her eyes flashing with determination. “You don’t have a choice in this matter, mister. Now take it and be on your way before someone else gets a stupid idea in their head about making trouble for you.”

  Britt chuckled despite himself. “Well, since you put it that way.”

  The crowd’s mood lightened slightly, some of them even daring to smile. Britt slung the blanket over his shoulder, packed the bread and jerky into his saddlebag, and took a long drink from the canteen before handing it back.

  He mounted Midnight, tipping his hat to the woman who’d spoken up. “Thank you.”

  “No, sir. Thank you.” Her voice was strong, steady. The voice of someone who’d seen too much suffering and still refused to let the darkness win.

  But not everyone shared her appreciation. As Britt rode away, he felt the sheriff’s eyes boring into his back. The man’s face was a sickly shade of red, and his fists clenched tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

  Britt didn’t look back. His ears still rang with gunfire, his muscles still trembling from the fury of the fight. The town slowly shrank behind him, swallowed by the endless sprawl of wilderness. But his instincts prickled with unease. Something was wrong.

  The sheriff’s boots crunched over the dirt as he marched around the back of the fort. His chest still heaved with the fury boiling in his gut. How dare that N***** walk into his town and make him look like a damn fool. But his anger was nothing compared to his fear. Fear of the man watching him from the shadows.

  The Comanche warrior loomed in the darkness, his eyes cold and unreadable. His horse stood nearby, stamping at the ground with restless impatience.

  “He wasn’t supposed to be here,” the sheriff hissed. “Was supposed to ride past, not come inside the fort and start playin’ hero.”

  The Comanche’s gaze never wavered. “You were to kill him. Make sure he didn’t interfere.”

  “I tried!” The sheriff’s voice was a harsh whisper, panic fraying the edges of his words. “But that bastard’s too damn tough. But I can lead you to him.”

  The Comanche’s eyes narrowed, the expression more threatening than a dozen blades. “Lead me, or die. It makes no difference.”

  The sheriff swallowed hard, the sweat beading on his forehead. “Just... follow me. I’ll take you right to him. I know where he’s goin’.”

  The warrior’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “Good. But you will fight beside us.”

  “What?”

  “For the hacker,” the Comanche said, his voice low and dangerous. “You swore allegiance to the Hacker. Now prove it.”

  The sheriff’s shoulders slumped, his eyes darting from the Comanche’s face to the darkness beyond. “Fine. Whatever it takes.”

  The Comanche turned his horse, his voice carried on the wind like a curse. “Then follow. And pray your skill matches your cowardice.”

  The group of twelve rode out, their shadows blending with the deepening dusk. The sheriff followed them, his lips twisted in a sour grimace as they disappeared into the night. Midnight’s hooves clopped over the uneven ground, the moonlight casting long shadows over the broken landscape. Britt’s eyes never stopped searching, his gaze piercing the darkness with the intensity of a wolf on the hunt.

  But the prickling unease had only grown stronger. The air felt thick and sour, his every instinct screaming that danger was close. Too close. He tugged Midnight’s reins, bringing the horse to a halt. His rifle came up, its cold weight reassuring in his hands. And then the first arrow cut through the air like a whisper of death.