REPO

Entry Log, Timestamp: 0482.67-C

Agent ID: 1173-B
Territory: Gamma Reclamation Zone
Status: Active (barely)
Quota: 4 assets behind
Morale: Low
Ammo: Lower

I didn’t sign up for this job because I had dreams. I signed up because I owed interest on the oxygen I was breathing. Now, every morning, I wake up to a smiling AI face and a list of things I need to “reclaim.” Half of them are people. The other half used to be people.

That’s R.E.P.O. for you. You don’t just work for the system—you are the system, reinforced with reinforced armor and a debt-tracking chip installed behind your ear.

Mission Debrief: The Shard District Incident

Today’s job was a Class 4 breach—standard collection with hostile interference. The client: SolPay Banking Corp. The debtor: some washed-up mercenary who defaulted on his augmented spine payments. Target had barricaded himself in a vertical complex built out of old subway cars and rusted office furniture.

I entered with my standard loadout: Auto-slicer, G-Burst sidearm, and the ever-unreliable “Compliment Drone” (an HR incentive module—fires praise and suppressing fire).

The entry hallway was a mess of laser tripwires and motivational posters: “Debt Is Temporary. Our Ownership Is Forever.” I cleared the first room in under 20 seconds. The drone told me I was “performing above expectations.” It said that last time too, right before it caught fire.

Hostile Profiles and Environmental Risk

Opposition was tight. Debt Defenders (Series 9s, armored), a couple of rogue collectors who’d gone freelance, and a loan shark with a jetpack. Not metaphorical. A literal shark, genetically uplifted. Don’t ask.

I made it halfway through the asset retrieval point before the environment started fighting back—floor collapsed under a timed compliance drill, and a morale trap deployed (projects sad childhood memories until you surrender). I pushed through. There was a quota to hit.

Every room pulsed with a synthetic soundtrack—beats per minute matched to blood pressure. The higher it goes, the harder you hit. Some call it flow. I call it survival panic with a corporate soundtrack.

Upgrades and Internal HR Policy

After the job, I got a 0.6% pay bump in “FlexPoints,” which are only redeemable at the in-house vending machine. Got a new scope attachment for my G-Burst and a single-use coffee coupon that self-destructs after 4 hours.

They also unlocked a new skill tree: “Workplace Efficiency.” First perk? Faster reload if you hum the company anthem while firing. I didn’t even know we had an anthem.

What I did know is that every upgrade comes with a clause. More power, more oversight. The more efficient I get, the more I’m watched.

On the Concept of “Story”

There’s no epic tale here. No noble cause. You get orders, you follow them, or you get replaced. But if you look—really look—you start to see the cracks. Old terminals still logged in. Messages left by previous agents who didn’t make it. Notes scratched on walls: “This isn’t what I signed up for.”

Sometimes I stop. Read them. Wonder if I’ll end up a story someone else ignores while sprinting to their next paycheck.

Final Assessment

R.E.P.O. isn’t a game. It’s a job wrapped in gunmetal and neon. It doesn’t reward kindness. It barely rewards competence. But every time I pull the trigger, dodge a plasma bolt, and claim a frozen account, I feel something I haven’t felt since I joined: control.

Even if it's manufactured. Even if it's temporary.

And that? That’s enough to keep me clocking in.

End of report. Requesting permission for synthetic rest cycle. Denied, obviously. Quota’s still not met. One more job. Always one more.