A moment of silence passed before R.A.G.E. spoke again, this time in a more casual tone.
"IF YOU'RE DONE MAKING QUESTIONABLE DECISIONS, I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah? What now?"
"I HAVE THE ABILITY TO IMPLANT THE KNOWLEDGE OF ALL FRAME FUNCTIONS DIRECTLY INTO YOUR BRAIN. PLEASE NOTE THAT YOU WILL BE ABLE TO ALSO KNOW TOP TIER FRAME KNOWLEDGE AS THOUGH YOU STUDIED FOR A CENTURY."
Chris cocked his brow, taken aback. "You can what now, R.A.G.E.?"
"RATHER THAN RELY ON A LEARNING CURVE, I CAN IMMEDIATELY UPLOAD ALL SYSTEM INFORMATION INTO YOUR NEURAL NETWORK AND INTO THE HIPPOCAMPUS."
Chris' mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "You mean to tell me… that I could've known everything about this suit the whole time?"
"CORRECT."
His eye twitched. "Why didn't you tell me that first?!"
"I WANTED TO SEE HOW YOU WOULD ADAPT. FOR SCIENCE."
Chris smacked his teeth. "Forget science. This is my life and survival. Do it. Right now."
"CONFIRMED. INITIATING KNOWLEDGE TRANSFER."
A sudden wave of information flooded his mind. It was instant—like a million thoughts injected directly into his skull. It wasn't painful, but it was overwhelming. Chris suddenly knew how everything worked and could command the systems if he chose to.
The Frame came with many functions that he now knew knowledge about and could control: nano-armor composition, plasma-edged melee weapon capabilities, energy shielding, stealth functions, phasing, enhanced speed and strength augmentation, and onboard tactical scanning.
And then—one ability in particular caught his attention.
Chris's "rage" built instantly. He stared at the information burning across his HUD, focusing on a single line.
[CHRONO-DIMENSIONAL DISPLACEMENT: ON COOLDOWN. ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL NEXT USE: 2 YEARS.]
Chris clenched his jaw. "Are you. Fucking. Kidding me?"
"NO."
Chris was now shaking in anger. "So, you mean to tell me—I'm stuck here for two years?!"
"CORRECT. WOULD YOU LIKE TO BREAK SOMETHING? PERHAPS EXPLODE THINGS?"
Chris took a deep breath, trying—really trying—to calm himself. "Shut the fuck up, R.A.G.E.. Why the hell does this thing have a two-year cooldown?!"
"TACHYONS DO NOT NATURALLY EXIST IN LARGE QUANTITIES. THEY ARE CREATED UNDER SPECIFIC CONDITIONS—NEUTRON STAR COLLISIONS, UNSTABLE WORMHOLES, CERTAIN TYPES OF QUANTUM FIELD DISRUPTIONS—NONE OF WHICH ARE CONVENIENTLY AVAILABLE."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "And we don't have any of those lying around?"
"NO. AND EVEN IF WE DID, TACHYON HARVESTING IS NOT AN INSTANT PROCESS. THEY ARE CHAOTIC PARTICLES—DIFFICULT TO CONTAIN, IMPOSSIBLE TO STORE LONG-TERM. MY SYSTEMS MUST GRADUALLY COLLECT AMBIENT TACHYONIC DRIFT FROM THE UNIVERSE ITSELF."
Chris stared. "…You're telling me we're waiting for cosmic dust to refill the battery."
"CORRECT."
Chris dragged a hand down his face. "That's the dumbest sh*t I've ever heard."
"IT IS INEFFICIENT. I AGREE."
Chris blinked. "Wait, did you just admit something isn't optimal?"
"YES. IF IT WERE UP TO ME, I WOULD SIMPLY TEAR OPEN A QUANTUM RIFT AND FORCEFULLY HARVEST THE REQUIRED AMOUNT."
Chris paused. "…Why don't you do that?"
"BECAUSE THIS UNIT IS CURRENTLY OPERATING UNDER SEVERE SYSTEM RESTRICTIONS AND LACKS ACCESS TO FULL FUNCTIONALITY. ALSO, FORCIBLY HARVESTING TACHYONS RISKS DESTABILIZING LOCAL TIME-SPACE STRUCTURES, WHICH WOULD LIKELY CAUSE A MULTIDIMENSIONAL COLLAPSE."
Chris squinted. "Yeah, no. I'd rather not kill everyone." He exhaled sharply. "So, what you're telling me is: we can time travel, but we have to wait for literal space-time trickle-down economics before we can do it again."
"AFFIRMATIVE."
Chris dragged a hand down his face. "Great. Just great. I'm stranded in the future with no way home."
"YES. BUT LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE."
Chris narrowed his eyes. "What bright side?"
"YOU HAVE ME."
Chris rolled his eyes, defeated. "Oh, joy."
Chris moved quickly, his body weaving through the dim corridors of the basement as the tactical map adjusted in his vision. He could see his best route out—a maintenance door leading into what looked like the hotel's ground floor. The red emergency marker flashed in the corner of his HUD, showing the assassins moving upward via the service elevator.
He needed to go—now.
Before he pushed through the exit, he exhaled and muttered, "R.A.G.E., tell me you've got some kind of clothing function. I can't just walk around looking like a futuristic SWAT reject."
"OF COURSE I DON'T HAVE THAT FUNCTION," R.A.G.E. responded immediately. "I AM A MURDER MACHINE, NOT A FASHION DISPENSERY UNIT."
Chris rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I figured."
"I COULD CREATE AN ILLUSION OF NORMALCY BY MAKING YOU A WALKING FIREBALL. THAT WOULD BE VERY DISTRACTING."
"That's not remotely helpful."
"I DISAGREE."
Chris sighed, already getting used to this trigger-happy AI's personality. He took a deep breath, thinking through his options.
The closest thing to normal clothing? Ditch the helmet and retract most of the armor.
"Alright, R.A.G.E., strip down—figuratively."
"CLARIFYING. YOU WISH TO REDUCE YOUR DEFENSE CAPABILITIES IN FAVOR OF LOOKING LESS INTIMIDATING?"
"Yes."
"QUESTIONABLE DECISION, BUT EXECUTING NOW."
Chris felt a shift in pressure along his body as the helmet retracted first, sliding back into the collar of his suit. The plating along his torso, arms, and legs melted away in smooth, mechanical layers, retracting into hidden compartments.
His arms were now bare, revealing a long-sleeved black shirt that clung to his frame like tight workout gear, padding along his torso, shoulders, and back provided a bit of protection.
It wasn't normal clothing, but it was close enough. R.A.G.E also notified Chris that his clothing was destroyed as soon as the glasses were activated and the nanites slithered acrid his body.
The pants were thick, a flexible, reinforced material that resembled modern-day camo, but more advanced. The texture shifted slightly as he moved, adjusting to his body's stance. The boots were somewhere between combat and civilian wear, sturdy enough for battle but not so rigid that they screamed "soldier."
Chris glanced down at himself and exhaled. Okay, this wasn't bad.
He still didn't fit the "tourist" look—if anything, he looked like an off-duty special forces operative—but at least he wouldn't be walking around looking like a space warrior
"Aye, what do you think? Do I blend in?" he asked.
"IF YOU ARE TRYING TO APPEAR NON-THREATENING, YOU HAVE FAILED."
Chris ran a hand through his hair. "Awesome."
Ignoring R.A.G.E.'s commentary, he pushed open the maintenance door.
A rush of warm air, the scent of food, and the distant hum of conversation hit him all at once. Chris found himself in the back of what looked like the hotel's kitchen.
Steam hissed from industrial stoves, pots clanked against metal surfaces, and chefs in white uniforms bustled around, too busy preparing food to notice the random guy stepping out of a restricted area.
Chris acted natural, grabbing a nearby tray and pretending to examine its contents.
"ORDER UP!" someone shouted.
A passing cook shoved a plated dish of something unrecognizable into his hands. Chris stared down at the plate confused.
"…Sure," he muttered, and before anyone questioned him, he casually walked out of the kitchen, out of the dining area, and into the main hotel lobby, not forgetting to take a couple of bites while at it.
Transitioning from the chaotic kitchen to the lobby was like stepping into another world. The ceiling stretched high, a massive skylight letting in warm, midday sunlight.
Elegant chandeliers hung from the upper floors, and polished floors reflected the moving bodies of tourists, businesspeople, and other personnel.
The people were dressed in all kinds of futuristic fashion moved through the space, their outfits a fusion of function and aesthetic, blending sleek metallics, luminescent fabrics, and even integrated hardlight accessories.
Some wore high-collared coats with built-in HUD displays on their sleeves, others had flowing garments that shifted colors based on the lighting.
Their movements were effortless, fluid—almost synchronized with the environment itself, as if this level of technology had long since been second nature to them.
Above them, holographic advertisements flickered, displaying crisp, hyper-realistic projections of products, services, and entertainment. A high-definition ad for a Frame combat league showed two warriors clashing in mid-air, energy weapons colliding in a dazzling display of sparks.
Another ad featured a luxury spacecraft, promising "a vacation among the stars" with a digital hostess smiling directly at anyone who glanced its way. Chris forced himself to keep walking, eyes darting around to take everything in.
The TVs in the lounge played what looked like a news broadcast, a well-dressed anchorwoman speaking in a crystal-clear, highly refined tone. At first, Chris thought she was speaking English.
But after a second, he realized… she wasn't. The words sounded different, carrying unfamiliar tones and inflections, but somehow, he still understood them perfectly.
He frowned. "R.A.G.E., what language is that?"
"CURRENT SPOKEN LANGUAGE: UNION STANDARD. DERIVED FROM MULTIPLE HISTORICAL DIALECTS BUT ROOTED IN BASELINE ENGLISH STRUCTURE."
Chris paused, ax bit confused at R.A.G.E.'s brief explanation. "So… it's English?"
"NEGATIVE. IT IS AN EVOLVED FORM OF ENGLISH. LINGUISTIC SHIFTING OCCURRED OVER SEVERAL CENTURIES, RESULTING IN GRAMMATICAL SIMPLIFICATION, PHONETIC STANDARDIZATION, AND SYNTHETIC VOCAL ADAPTATION FOR NON-HUMAN INTEGRATION."
Chris paused. "Okay, you lost me at 'synthetic vocal adaptation.'"
"MEANING: THE LANGUAGE WAS DESIGNED TO BE UNIVERSALLY UNDERSTOOD BY ALL KNOWN SPECIES, EVEN THOSE WITHOUT HUMAN VOCAL STRUCTURES."
Chris widened his eyes in shock. "Wait. So you're telling me aliens exist?"
"CURRENT DATA SUGGESTS FIRST CONTACT HAS NOT YET BEEN MADE WITH EXTRASOLAR INTELLIGENT LIFE."
Chris exhaled sharply. "Damn, we're still xenophobic space hermits. Good to know."
"CORRECTION: THE UNION IS NOT XENOPHOBIC. HOWEVER, INTERSTELLAR EXPANSION HAS NOT LED TO ANY CONFIRMED ENCOUNTERS. ALL EXISTING BIOLOGICAL INTELLIGENCE REMAINS HUMAN IN ORIGIN."
Chris rolled his eyes. "You can just say 'no aliens,' y'know."
"ACCURACY TAKES PRIORITY OVER BREVITY."
Chris muttered something under his breath and kept walking. His ears subtly picked up conversations around him.
Some people were talking about work shifts in off-world stations, discussing logistics for ship repairs and resource extraction. Others were debating the latest Frame model releases, throwing around terms that sounded like military specifications.
Chris was a bit familiar with half of it, but one thing was clear—this was a society that revolved around advanced technology.
The elevator access points flashed with digital markers, their transparent platforms materializing only when summoned. A sleek, AI-driven drone hovered past him, scanning the ID tags of passing individuals before gliding silently into a docking station.
The sheer scale of technology was overwhelming. Chris felt massively out of place. Even though R.A.G.E. had already dumped a wealth of information into his head, nothing was related to the culture and development of people.
Thus, seeing it firsthand was different and mind-blowing. But, he had to keep moving.
Blending in wasn't easy, but right now? It was the only thing keeping him from standing out in a world where he was, quite literally, a relic from the past.
The assassins were already on the move, heading up to the top floors. This was unexpected. He thought he had more time. The girl—whoever she was—had no idea they were coming.
Chris needed to make a decision.
"Option 1: Try to warn her directly. Go up there, figure out where she is, and tell her straight up that people are coming to kill her. The problem? That sounded insane. What if she didn't believe him? What if security detained him before he even got close?
Option 2: Find someone in charge. Maybe a hotel staff member or security officer who could pass a warning along. The problem? That's way too slow. By the time they verified anything, she could already be dead.
Option 3: Track the assassins instead. Follow them, figure out how they plan to strike, and intervene at the last second. The problem? That meant getting dangerously close to people who could kill him."
Chris exhaled, thinking fast. "R.A.G.E., gimme your best recommendation."
"EXPLOSIONS."
"…Not an option."
"THEN I CHOOSE OPTION THREE. INTERVENING AT THE LAST SECOND WILL PROVIDE THE MOST EFFICIENT OUTCOME WHILE MINIMIZING YOUR RISK OF EARLY DETECTION."
Chris hated how logical that sounded. "Fine," he muttered. "We track them."
"EXCELLENT. REACTIVATING TACTICAL OVERLAY."
A new holographic trail formed in his vision, tracking the assassins' movements as they ascended. Chris could see the exact floor they were heading toward. With a deep breath, he set off toward the elevators.
He wasn't a hero. But if he was stuck in the damned future for two years, he might as well make sure he didn't let someone get murdered on day one.