Trial

The lights in the conference room were dim.

Anderson sat at the end of the long table, with no one in front of him, but behind him stood a row of fully armed "security personnel".

Around the conference table, twelve holographic projections lit up one after another, casting a cold blue light on the conference room.

The people projected were members of the board of directors, and most of them appeared realistically, as if they were actually there.

Some projectors, even with lights on, project completely black human figures.

"We've reviewed the operation report," said Projector Number Three, a round-faced man in his fifties. "Please double-check the list of losses."

Anderson's lips trembled slightly, but he couldn't utter a word.

"Three brain-computer interface project operators went missing, and nine regular operators were wiped out." Number Three continued, "Three sets of brain-computer interface devices, three sets of exoskeletons, three sets of level 6 protective suits, a fully modified M14, and an AWM."

"Nine sets of Level 5 protective suits, special ammunition, communication equipment, medicines, injections, hormones..." Number Three's voice grew louder and more furious. "All lost inside Tide Prison!"

"There's also a live stream," the seventh projector chimed in. It was a woman wearing glasses, her tablet constantly scrolling. "A total of 420 million views worldwide. Screenshots, recordings, derivative works, it's spreading across the entire internet."

"What's most infuriating is that our brain-computer interface project, which we've painstakingly researched and developed for so long, was exposed on the spot by that warden, leaving us speechless and unable to defend ourselves."

"They knew we were still researching brain-computer interfaces before, but they had no evidence. Now, they have all the evidence! Our stock price has dropped by 34%!"

Anderson kept his head down and remained silent, staring intently at the table as if trying to see through it.

"And then there's the betting side," the second projection spoke, its voice hoarse. "Whether we can kill the warden or not, we've set up betting odds, with over a billion bets placed on his death. Win or lose, we're the house, we won't lose."

"And now? We killed the warden, we finished the game, and now he's back to life? What on earth is going on?"

This second-largest shareholder is clearly in charge of the gambling side, and he's having a huge headache right now. Even in 3D projection, you can see his spittle flying everywhere.

"There are rumors going around that we rigged the whole thing, that the live stream was fake, and that we controlled the wins and losses! How are we supposed to continue doing this?!"

"Weren't we the controlling shareholders before?" one of the shareholders scoffed, asking mockingly.

"Yes, but we can't admit it, especially not now."

After a brief silence, Anderson heard his own breathing.

"Anderson," Number Three called to him.

He raised his head.

What were you thinking at the time?

Anderson opened his mouth, recalling that day when he confidently assured the board that with the capabilities of the brain-computer interface and overwhelming numbers and equipment, they could quickly resolve the situation and annihilate the warden.

The results of it?

He underestimated his opponent.

He despised not only the warden, but every prison guard in Tide Prison.

What he despised was that even though he knew the other party was different from other map bosses and possessed intelligence, he still didn't think about why he would scatter most of the prison guards to their deaths.

He thought he had the victory in his grasp, and he thought everyone else was stupid.

"I thought..." he said.

"What do you think?" Number Three interrupted him. "What do you think? That your judgment is more accurate than everyone else's combined?"

Anderson shut his mouth; anything he said now would be wrong.

"We approved of your previous actions, and the board of directors approved of them as well," Number Three continued. "But this time you've messed things up terribly. Previous actions, even when they failed, never had such big problems, but this time it just so happened."

The meeting was now entirely chaired by Number Three, who continued, "You wrote 'controllable' on the risk assessment. You approved the highest level of equipment, you selected the best personnel, and then what?"

"The brain-computer interface project is now known worldwide," said the fourth person. "The United Nations previously banned brain-computer interface projects, and the whole world suspected that we were doing it, but they had no evidence."

"If the project is completed, we will once again dominate the world, not only in dangerous areas but also in the real world."

"But it's all because of you!" Number 4's tone became increasingly vicious.

"Now, overnight, the whole world has evidence that we are still developing brain-computer interfaces. Do you know how many countries and organizations have united to condemn us?"

"This brain-computer interface is the culmination of that esteemed person's... hard work."

When Number 4 mentioned "that person," there was a moment of silence. At the same time, all the holographic images almost simultaneously glanced silently at the position of Number 12, at that black image.

"And the equipment itself," Number 5 said. "Three brain-computer interfaces, with complete data interfaces, exoskeleton power systems, three bodies, six sets, AWMs, and .338 Magnum bullets—all found in the prison. Do you know how much cutting-edge technology is in all of this stuff?"

"And what is the cost of these cutting-edge technologies?"

Anderson was well aware that, apart from the inestimable value of the brain-computer interface, every single one of the other resources was a technology that other countries and clubs coveted.

The meeting room fell silent once again.

Anderson kept his head down. He knew his situation. Having been the head of the Bald Eagle Society for so long, he knew better than anyone what the Bald Eagle Society was like.

They had no reason to let him go. His fate was either a dignified death, being scattered to different places, or becoming a walking corpse controlled by the Bald Eagle Society like John and the others.

He chuckled softly, never expecting that one day, death would become his most dignified end.

He glanced at his suit, which was still the same one he had worn that day, without any change. The sleeves and chest were full of wrinkles, after all, the security personnel who detained him were not going to be polite to him.

There's a stain on the collar; I don't know when it got there.

"Ha, I can't believe I'm even paying attention to the stain on my collar," Anderson thought.

"I accept," he said.

Number Three looked at him: "What are you going to accept?"

"I accept responsibility for this operation."

A few seconds later, Number Three picked up a document. Although it was a holographic projection, the action was very realistic.

"Anderson, male, 31 years old, eight years of service, participated in 17 operations with a success rate of 82%, previously rated A."

Number Three reads, "This action is rated F. It is recommended that you be stripped of all duties and transferred to the internal review committee. The review committee will assess whether it constitutes gross negligence and recommend the final course of action."

He put down the documents: "Do you know what an internal review committee is?"

Anderson knew that it wasn't a review body; it was a closing body.

Of those who went in, very few came out alive. And those who did come out alive were never seen again.

"I suggest," Number Three said, "that we go straight to the highest level of procedure."

Someone raised their hand.

"I agree," she said.

Number four also raised his hand.

"agree."

"agree."