Chapter 2 : First Lessons
The deadbolt clicked open on my forty-seventh attempt.
I checked the timer on the burner phone. Eight minutes and fourteen seconds. Pathetic by any professional standard, but the system registered it regardless:
[LOCKPICKING: 0 → 1][XP GAINED: +45 (BASE) | FIRST SUCCESS BONUS: +20]
I sat back on my heels and stared at the open door. Progress. Miserable, glacial progress, but progress nonetheless.
The living room was littered with the evidence of six hours' work. Practice locks from a hardware store—padlocks, pin tumblers, a combination lock I'd bought by mistake and couldn't return. My fingers ached. The tension wrench had worn a groove into the pad of my thumb.
But Lockpicking was at Level 1. Which meant it was no longer at Level 0.
I pulled myself up, knees popping in ways Sheldon's body probably wasn't used to. The host was in decent shape—mid-thirties, light muscle tone, no obvious injuries—but he clearly hadn't done anything demanding in a while. My predecessors in this body had lived a careful, measured life.
That was about to change.
[SYSTEM NOTE: Repetitive practice without variation yields diminishing XP returns. Novel challenges recommended.]
"Yeah, I noticed." The last three successful picks had given me progressively less experience. The system wanted me uncomfortable. It wanted stakes.
I checked the clock. 2:14 PM. The hardware store trip had eaten my morning. Now I needed something harder.
The hotel idea came from one of Sheldon's memories—not a complete one, just a fragment. A job two years ago. Getting into a room without leaving traces. The Fontainebleau on Collins Avenue had electronic locks now, but plenty of mid-range hotels still used traditional keys.
I showered. Changed into clothes that looked respectable but unremarkable. The kind of outfit a minor sales rep might wear between meetings.
The system tracked my preparation without comment. No XP for getting dressed, apparently.
The Palm Court Hotel sat halfway between luxury and budget, which made it perfect. Security competent enough to notice obvious problems, lazy enough to miss subtle ones.
I walked through the lobby like I belonged there. Shoulders back, eyes forward, the walk of a man too busy to make eye contact with strangers. Sheldon's body language memories were surprisingly useful here—he'd done this before, or something close to it.
The concierge desk was staffed by a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain. I approached with the specific combination of frustration and embarrassment that sells the "lost my key" story.
"Sorry to bother you. I'm in 412 and I—this is embarrassing—I was out on the terrace and the door closed behind me. Keycard's still on the nightstand."
She looked at me over the glasses. Assessment. Did I look like a guest? Did I look like someone worth helping?
"Name on the room?"
"Robertson. Jack Robertson."
A pause. Then she turned to her computer.
My heart rate spiked. The name was a guess—common enough that there was probably a Robertson staying somewhere in the hotel. If not, this was about to get awkward.
"Room 412, you said?"
"That's right."
Her fingers clicked across the keyboard. I watched her expression for tells. Furrowed brow—she was searching. Slight lift of the eyebrows—found something.
"I've got a J. Robertson in 403. Fourth floor, but not 412."
I manufactured a relieved laugh. "403! God, I'm sorry. It's been a long week. Three cities in four days. I must have gotten the number mixed up."
She smiled. The universal response to competent social performance.
"Happens all the time. I'll have security walk you up with a temporary card."
"Actually, could you just—" I gestured vaguely. "I've got a call in five minutes with Tokyo. If I could just grab the spare, I'll bring it right back down."
Another assessment. The Tokyo detail was deliberate—implied business traveler, implied tight schedule, implied someone for whom a security escort was an unnecessary inconvenience.
She made a decision. "Just this once. Please return it within the hour."
"You're a lifesaver."
I walked away with a keycard that would open room 403 of the Palm Court Hotel. Inside my chest, something cold and sharp coiled tighter. The lie had worked. The performance had worked.
The system confirmed:
[DECEPTION: 0 → 1][XP GAINED: +55 (BASE) | REAL-WORLD APPLICATION BONUS: +15%]
I didn't use the card. Didn't even go to the fourth floor. Just walked out the service exit and dropped the keycard in a trash can two blocks away.
The goal wasn't theft. The goal was calibration.
Back at the apartment, I spread my notes across the kitchen table.
Day One results:
Lockpicking: Level 2 (pushed it another level on the practice locks after the hotel)Deception: Level 1Surveillance: Level 0 (no opportunities yet)Counter-Surveillance: Level 0Combat: Level 0
The progression wasn't fast enough. At this rate, I'd have maybe Level 5 or 6 in my best skills before Michael hit town. Enough to not look completely incompetent. Not enough to actually matter.
[SYSTEM NOTE: Experience multipliers stack. High-stakes situations provide 2-5x base XP. Creative applications provide 1.5x. Novel challenges provide discovery bonuses.]
Translation: if I wanted to level fast, I needed to take real risks. Pick locks while someone might catch me. Lie to people with actual consequences. Put skin in the game.
I laughed. The sound was hollow in the empty apartment.
The system rewarded danger. Real danger. It was designed to push someone toward exactly the kinds of situations that got people killed.
[SYSTEM CLARIFICATION: Risk assessment remains the host's responsibility. The system provides capability enhancement, not mortality protection.]
"Thanks for the reassurance."
I reviewed the interface again. The blurry text had sharpened slightly over the past day—still not crystal clear, but readable without squinting.
New options had appeared in what I was starting to think of as the skill menu:
Surveillance: Monitor a target without detection.Counter-Surveillance: Detect and evade observation.Technical Skills: Electronics, forgery, computers (subdivided categories, all at 0).Social Skills: Beyond deception—persuasion, intimidation, rapport building.
Each category branched into specializations. The lockpicking section alone had five subtypes: pin tumbler, wafer, disc detainer, electronic, biometric bypass.
This wasn't just a leveling system. It was a skill tree. One that rewarded breadth and depth simultaneously, with synergy bonuses for combining related abilities.
I grabbed the practice locks again.
Tomorrow, I'd hit the streets. Test the surveillance skills against actual targets. Find out if anyone in Sheldon's contact network could teach me something useful.
But tonight, I'd grind the basics until my fingers bled.
The clock read 11:47 PM when I finally stopped.
[LOCKPICKING: 2 → 3][SESSION XP: +312 (DIMINISHING RETURNS THRESHOLD REACHED)]
My hands trembled. The fine motor control was shot. But the numbers kept climbing, inch by inch.
Tomorrow would be harder. Tomorrow I'd need to meet the people Sheldon knew—people who might notice something off about the man they'd worked with for years.
The interface pulsed gently:
[SURVEILLANCE and COUNTER-SURVEILLANCE now available for training.]
I set an alarm for 5 AM.
In the quiet dark of someone else's apartment, in someone else's body, I let myself think about the show again. Michael Westen with his voiceovers. Sam Axe with his beer and contacts. Fiona with her explosives and vendettas.
They didn't know I existed yet. In the story as I remembered it, someone like Sheldon Kendrick had never been part of the equation.
But the equation was changing. I was here now.
Time to see what that meant.
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