'No. Fucking. Way.'
A single thought crashed right into my brain.
'That's not the same thing from the crater. It can't be.'
I tried to unscramble my thoughts, to rewind to the memory of the crater, the swirling sand, the world-ending pressure. But the two images—the apocalyptic figure and this broke, haggling customer—refused to merge. It was like oil and water; my brain was violently rejecting even the mention of such a possibility.
A single, involuntary step back. I shook my head, a hard, desperate motion, as if to physically dislodge the impossible idea. The world suddenly felt unsteady. The oppressive heat of the forge, the rhythmic clang of a distant hammer, the smell of coal and hot metal—it all began to close in. The metal plates of my own armor felt like they were constricting, shrinking.
Claustrophobic.
'Am I breathing? I can't breathe. S-something is coming down… everything is coming down.. on me-–!'
My visor, my own damn visor, suddenly felt like a cage locked around my skull.
'I have to get it off. I have to—'
"Ahk–!"
My foot caught on nothing, my ankle twisting as I stumbled backward. My arms flailed, grasping at empty, superheated air. I was going down.
But I didn't hit the ground. A hand, firm and steady, clamped around my breastplate, arresting my fall and pulling me back onto my feet with surprising ease.
"Woah—are you okay, guy?"
The voice was… normal. Almost… disappointingly so. It held a note of genuine concern that was utterly at odds with the source. I looked up, only to find the swirling of a hurricane.
He tilted his head, his crimson eyes unblinking. It wasn't my mind playing tricks on me. They weren't just red. They were busy, a swirling vortex of embers. I felt a terrifying vertigo, as if I were plummeting into them.
"Um, hello? Are you there?"
A hand waved in front of my visor, a pale shape. It was obscuring… saving(?) my eyes from an uncanny. The motion shattered the trance. I blinked, the world snapping back into focus. The blacksmith's grimy counter. The rack of flawed iron swords. The mundane, frustrating reality of my situation.
I wrenched my gaze away from him, turning my head so fast my neck protested. It was physically hard to look at him, like staring into the sun. Nausea.
"Yeah, yeah… I, err… I'm good. Good," I managed, my voice sounding distant. I focused on the blacksmith, on the solvable problem, the anchor. "So, yeah. I'll pay. That works for you, right?"
The blacksmith gave a dismissive 'hmph,' folding his thick arms over his chest. He was still mad, but the promise of coin was a powerful balm for his wounded pride. Ultimately, all he wanted was money. He begrudgingly nodded, and the man with the red eyes was taken somewhat aback, opening his mouth as if to speak to me, talk back, or argue.
I ignored him completely. The last thing I needed was another problem, another conversation, another reason to be stuck here. Whether it was lingering trauma from the desert or just a desperate urge to escape, I couldn't face him. Instead, I forced my attention towards the blacksmith, hoping my focus would signal my complete unavailability.
"Now for my stuff," I stated, my tone all business. "I have three pieces that need work."
I unstrapped the battered vambraces from my forearms and placed them on the counter. I followed them with my shoulder pads, one of which had a nasty dent in it. Finally, I pointed down to my feet. "And these boots. The soles are practically gone."
The blacksmith eyed the pieces, his greedy gaze calculating. His anger hadn't vanished, it had just found a new target. "For these three… and for your attitude, brotha… it will be twenty-five silver."
I didn't even flinch. It was a ridiculous price, extortionate, but arguing would only prolong the interaction. My current goal, my only goal, was to log out.
"Fine," I said. I reached into my pouch, counted out the silver, and slid the coins across the counter.
As the blacksmith greedily scooped up the money, a prickle of paranoia ran down my spine. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the man I'd just paid for. He wasn't leaving. He was lingering by the exit, looking around the dusty shop with a feigned casualness. But he wasn't fooling anyone. He was waiting. For something. For me.
'Creepazoid..?'
A knot of anxiety tightened in my gut. My business here was done. I turned from the counter and started for the door, my pace just shy of a full-on run.
I clattered down the three raggedy wooden steps of the forge's porch and hit the dirt street without looking back.
"Hey."
The voice came from behind me. I didn't turn. Didn't even break stride.
Nope. Not happening. Get me out.
'Whisper, whisper, whisper.'
"Command: [User Interface]."
A soft thud of boots hitting dirt behind me, faster than my own. He was following.
"Wait up!" he called out. "You really didn't need to do that!"
My focus narrowed to a single point, the escape. The holographic UI shimmered into existence in my peripheral vision, visible only to me.
Almost there.
"Command: [Log Out]."
A hand landed on my shoulder.
The mental confirmation was already forming on my tongue—the final "Confirm" that would release me from this world. But a notification flared in the corner of my vision, sharp and unwelcome.
[--System Alert--]
[-Command Unsuccessful. Contact with another player initiated.-]
A growl rumbled in my chest. I gritted my teeth. With a violent jerk, I shrugged his hand off my shoulder.
I spun around to face him. "Sorry, what was your name?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Actually, I don't care."
He was taken aback, his red eyes widening for a fraction of a second. But there was no anger. Just… Surprise.
"Well, I understand if you probably don't care that much about paying for me," he began, his voice surprisingly calm. "But I do appreciate it."
I stared at him. He was being nice. Awfully nice. And I was being an ass.
'Stop being such a jerk... Just be normal, for once. This is the last interaction—Don't end the day on a bad note.'
I let out a slow breath, forcing the tension from my shoulders. It was time to act like a 'good-natured person.'
"It's alright," I said, my tone softer now. "It's something that had to be done. I just needed to get my stuff fixed, was a bit in a hurry, and I figured doing something nice for someone… *troubled,* could help." I gestured vaguely back toward the forge. "And I've dealt with him before. Trust me, you weren't going to get your way. Guessing you're new here?"
A small smile touched the corner of his lips, with a tinge of bashfulness. "Yes, it's my first time dealing with someone so… shamelessly miserly. It's an experience I deal with not very often, for sure."
The comment was dry enough to be funny. Against my better judgment, I let out a short, polite chuckle. It was forced, but it was better than hostility.
"Yeah, right," I said with a slight shrug. "It's like that around here."
I needed to end this. Now.
"Anyway, no problem," I said, already taking a step back. "I hope you have a nice rest of your day."
He didn't take the hint. He took a small step forward, closing the distance I'd tried to create. "My present circumstances regarding my… pockets, are temporary, I assure you. I am, however, a high-leveled player. If it's within my ability, I would like to offer you something in exchange."
I couldn't help it. The day's frustration finally bubbled over. My polite filter, already worn paper-thin, disintegrated.
"Really?" I asked, my voice dripping with disbelief. "All I did was pay for your stuff because it was faster. It was really more for my benefit than yours. It just… happened."
"Well, something that feels meaningless to you can still mean a lot to someone else," he countered, his respectful tone unwavering. "You gave up something unfairly for me."
He was still being nice. Still being reasonable. And I was just… I was done with it. I was tired of this town, of this game, of this entire day. And this guy, with his weirdly intense eyes and his misplaced gratitude, was the final straw.
A smirk pulled at my lips, more of a sneer, really. The exhaustion and cynicism won out.
"Okay," I scoffed. "Make me stronger."
To that, he just looked at me. The swirling in his eyes seemed to slow, to focus. In the silent, dusty street, they suddenly felt like the only thing real and alive, and their intensity made me want to flinch.
"I know you're not being serious," he said, his voice flat.
I couldn't let him have that. "How'd you know?" Was my response. Sarcasm, honey.
"I could, though," he stated, ignoring my snark. "Not magically, of course. But, I could train you." He paused, his gaze sweeping over my dented armor, my worn-out posture. "Though, something is giving me the vibe that you're not someone dedicated enough to go through with it."
The voice was calm, but the words effectively slapped me in the face. That comment was a bit far from nice. Felt… callous.
'This dude is playing with me.'
My anger, simmering all day, proceeded to boil over. "Seriously?" I snapped. "You don't think I could go through with some basic training in a video game?"
He didn't hesitate. "That's right," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I don't believe in you."
That did it. The challenge was too direct; too dismissive. My pride, what was left of it, wouldn't let it stand.
"Try me."
A flicker of something—interest? amusement?—passed through his eyes. "Okay," he said. "I'll be here for the next three days. If you show up, I'll think about training you."
He set the terms. "Meet me here. In the morning. If you don't show up tomorrow, I'll be here the next day. And the day after that." He let the words hang in the air. "If you don't show up by the third day, I won't be here at all."
Unbelievable. This guy. Is he kidding me? A laugh bubbled up in my chest—sharp and sarcastic.
'Yeah, I'm definitely not fucking showing up for this dude.'
My hand shot up to my helmet, covering where my mouth would be to disguise the sound as a sharp cough. A small smile touched his lips. He knew. He had to know I was making fun of him, but he didn't seem bothered in the slightest.
"Oh yeah, definitely," I said, my voice thick with false enthusiasm. "I'll be there. For sure~~" I leaned into the charade. "So… Don't I need to add you as a friend or something? To know when you're logged in?"
"No," he said simply. "I'll be here."
"Right. Well, do I at least get a name?"
"It's Godspeed."
I gave him a slow, deliberate head-tilt, raising an eyebrow behind my visor. He gave a slight nod in return, then turned and began walking down the dusty street without another word.
I watched his retreating back for a second before calling out to him, my voice loud and clear.
"Command: [User Interface]."
I kept my eyes locked on him as the UI shimmered to life.
"Command: [Log Out]."
The final prompt appeared, a simple box hanging in the air.
"Command: [Confirm]."
My body began to shimmer, the illusion of my armor and the world around me breaking apart into countless motes of blue light. The last thing I saw was Godspeed stopping for a moment before he disappeared into the digital ether.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Familiar black.
Not the threatening, unknown darkness of a cave in the middle of a dangerous quest, but the comfortable, enclosed black of my own reality. My hands, feeling slow and heavy, found the release clasps on the headset. With a soft click, the weight lifted, and the cool, still air of my room washed over my sweat-damp skin.
The dim, warm glow of a single lamp on the bedside table pushed back the shadows. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the soft light after the harsh glare of the game's desert sun. A wave of grogginess rolled over me, a bone-deep exhaustion that the game's level-up halo couldn't touch.
I struggled to sit up, the bed groaning in protest. My gaze fell on the alarm clock.
1:04 AM.
'Damn.' The thought was a lead weight in my skull. 'Got work in six hours. What a waste of my fucking time.'
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. As I walked toward the bathroom, my foot nudged aside an empty takeout box, the plastic crinkling pitifully. The room was a mess of discarded clothes and things that didn't have a proper home. I ran a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the matted tangles before combing it down to my neck. Looking down, I saw I was still in my work uniform. The cardigan was rumpled, the tie was loosened, and the stiff collar of the shirt was still digging into my skin. I hadn't even had the energy to change before diving in. And, of course, no pants. Just underwear. Felt like going total Winne-the-Pooh, I guess.
'Like, whatever.'
In the bathroom, the fluorescent light was harsh. I squinted at my reflection and saw the shoddily applied makeup from the morning, now smudged and tired.
'Damn, I really need a shower before I finally crash.'
As I started to unbutton my shirt, I saw a dark smudge on the collar where something had dripped.
'Gosh, fucking damn it.' Now I had to do even more laundry.
I stripped off the work clothes, the cardigan landing half-in, half-out of the laundry basket—a problem for later. As I reached for a towel, I caught my reflection in the mirror again.
A woman, pale and tired, stared back. I soaked a cotton pad with micellar water and began scrubbing at my face. The eyeliner and mascara came away in gray streaks, and as the layer of foundation disappeared, a constellation of freckles emerged across the bridge of my nose and cheeks, no longer hidden.
I leaned closer, taking in the full picture. The dark circles under my eyes, the slight puffiness from dehydration, the way the frayed ends of my tonally-dark hair framed a face that looked completely drained.
'Man,' I thought, the words landing with a dull thud. 'I'm a mess.'
My eyes drifted downwards; the jutting out of my belly, a terrible result of too many late nights and greasy takeout, was the first thing I noticed. Then, the ink. A warped, thorny garden snaked across the left side of my body. It started as a sleeve of dark, rebellious roses and brambles on my arm, crept over my rib cage, bloomed again across my thigh, and had a final, thorny centerpiece right in the middle of my chest.
My gaze returned to my reflection. The shaggy, shoulder-length black hair with its faded purple tips. The tired, amber-note eyes. The two moles just under my left eye that I always forgot were there. It was all so… sloppy. A failed attempt at looking like a functional adult.
A flicker of self-loathing, demeaning and mean-spirited, sparked in my chest. I pressed the middle finger of my right hand against the cold glass of the mirror. With a snarl, I stuck my tongue out at the pathetic woman staring back at me, the small metal stud in the center glinting under the harsh light.
The only piercing I had left. My stupid job, with its stupid dress code, meant the extras in my ears and the one in my belly button had to go. Only two boring studs in the earlobes were "professional." At least they couldn't police my mouth.
This was it. The whole picture. A walking Fuck-Up, forced to be a corporate drone, faking the act of a wannabe rebel… and too tired to be good at either.
"Yuck."