“Take it slow, there’s a lot of info there,” Atsushi tries assuring me.

“Wait, there’s more?” I ask, not caring if I sound like a salesperson on an ancient taped infomercial.

As the question leaves my lips, I hear a massive stampede of booted footsteps running down the hall, as if tonight could get any worse.

“Well, have fun,” Atsushi says, his cheeky tone returning. “Oh, and you're welcome.”

Just like that, Atsushi Tanaka vanishes into thin air. 'You're welcome?' for what? Now that I think about it, my side doesn’t hurt at all. Was that something extra he did? Why would he-? Damn it, I can’t worry about that now. I need to think about what to do next.

Before I can even do that, a group of armed soldiers and a young girl burst into the room, assault rifles immediately pointing at me. Standing in the center of this heavily armed group is a tall, wide-framed, and muscular old man who looks like he’s in his fifties, with a scruffy gray beard, wearing a blue beret on top of his long gray hair and with scars visible on both his arms. The young girl standing right next to him is sporting a black tank top, gray cargo pants, and brown boo—wait a minute! That’s the girl from the crater!

Do these soldiers know who these two really are?

On the surface, they are just everyday, ordinary people, but now I know they aren’t even people at all. They are only programs created by this.... system to protect its very existence . . . including keeping it hidden from the people within the servers.

According to the visions that the kid has shown me, I realize now they are known as Admins.

I'm honestly not even sure how I know that exactly. But after what the kid has shown me, I see the people in front of me differently. I see a green border around these two people’s bodies, or models, I guess. If I connect my sudden vision issues with the info I got from those visions, then there is no question that these two are not just ordinary people. I’m going to need to be careful with how I talk to them. I can’t let them in on what I know. If I can tell who they are just by looking at them, who knows if they can do the same thing?

The old man breaks the silence created by the rows of guns and barks out the question, “Where’s the boy?”

I’m sure this guy is a riot at parties. Son of a . . . this isn’t a time for jokes, damn it!

“Boy? What boy?” I respond, parroting what Jumpy told me before he started beating the crap out of me. I’m not a good liar, so in Jumpy’s case, that is the truth. I have to latch on to that for now.

“Atsushi Tanaka!” the girl finally speaks up with an angry, no-nonsense tone as if she can instantly see through my Rotter shit. For all I know, she may be able to.

“Where is he?” she continues, her eyes staring daggers at me.

Despite my fears that she may know I’m lying, I can’t give up now. Who knows what the hell they'll do to me if they find out I know about our grand illusion of a world?

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I answer her.

“Then why are you shaking?” the bearded man asks.

Not going to lie—a causal question is pretty refreshing, but I think the answer to it is kind of obvious.

“Well . . . it’s hard not to be nervous with all the gu—”

“Who cares about this? We’re wasting time here, Sir.” Once again I get cut off before I can finish my answer, this time by the girl.

If what Atsushi says about her being his girlfriend is true, then talk about a match made in hell.

In a lecturing tone, the old man says, “Patience, Maria. You have a lot to learn about people.”

Can’t say he’s wrong though, not that I’m one to talk. The old man points at Jumpy’s dead body with a finger gun. He makes a clicking noise with his mouth, resulting in one of the soldiers unloading a third of their clip into the corpse’s head. A dead body with a head that’s popped like a balloon filled with blood and gray matter is not an uncommon sight in this world.

“Sorry, it’s just a precaution. I don’t mean to worry you,” the old man reassures the girl.

I get it . . . the virus activates an hour after death, turning the corpse into a raving, mindless Rotter, unless you shoot the brain before or after the transformation. With what I know now, I have to ask, why make a world like this? The old man motions to the soldiers to lower their weapons, and they comply.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“So . . . what’s your name, pal? I’m Arturo Santana. What’s yours?”

I stare at him dumbfounded for a minute. “Arturo Santana? Leader of the Azure Guererros? The man known around these parts as ‘Arturo the Artist’?”

Jesus Christ, what a night. I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact that the leader of one of the deadliest gangs in La Vega seems like such a nice guy, or that he’s technically not a guy at all.

Arturo seems to roll his eyes when I mention his nickname, Arturo the Artist… you really don’t want to know what he specializes in. Many gang leaders, and Rotter hunters, are often given cheesy nicknames when they gain notoriety. Arturo happens to be both—a Rotter hunter in his youth before joining up and rising through the ranks to become the leader of the Azure Guerreros. Now I wonder if his past isn’t just some elaborate facade to fool the masses into not suspecting their gods are actually living among them. Though given what I know now, can’t he just change his nickname if it bothers him so much? I guess the powers of an Admin have strange limitations.

He is nice enough to give out his name before I do, but on the other hand, I don’t know if my name will be stored in a database after giving it out. On that note, he probably knows my name anyway, asking about it seems like a formality so his cover isn’t blown. Damn it, it's times like these that make me wish I lacked morals, like most people in this world. Otherwise, I could stop myself from doing stupid shit like answering him this way:

“Name’s Mathis Michaels.”

God, what the hell is wrong with me? I’ve always thought I didn’t belong in this world, and as it turns out, I’ve been kind of right.

“Mathis, huh? Nice name you got there,” Arturo the Artist says.

Complimenting me? Tonight is just full of surprises, huh?

Arturo walks up to me, starts patting my side, and with a big toothy grin. I’m sure he flashes to try to be inviting, but he comes off like a creep. He asks me, “So, Mathis, mind cutting out the Rotter shit and telling me about your friend Atsushi? I could tell my armed friends to step outside if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

Upon that suggestion, the soldier that shot Jumpy’s corpse objects. Still, Arturo immediately shoots him down with a glare so piercing that I can almost feel my side acting up again. Without a word, all the soldiers march out of the room. Arturo stops the last soldier from leaving and points at his assault rifle. Without word or second thought, the soldier unslings the rifle from his shoulder and leans it upright at the door.

So just to review my current situation . . . I’m being held in a former hotel room, now being used as a makeshift prison, being interrogated by a Japanese high school girl with an attitude and the extremely dangerous leader of a paramilitary gang who seems both highly in control and highly unstable at the same time. Yeah, can’t say this was how I imagined this night would turn out. Before I forget, I should mention something before things get too hot.

“By the way, thank you for patching up my side.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank her,” Arturo emotionlessly replies, motioning to the girl he calls Maria, who only gives an embarrassed blush in response.

“If it were up to me, I would have left you bleeding on the streets for what you did to Gonzales.”

“Gonzales?” I reply though I have a feeling I know where this is going.

“The man whose face you blew into pieces at the record store.”

Yep, I knew this is exactly where this was going. Not sure how to react, aside from doing what the man told me to do, “Well then, thanks, Maria.”

“Don’t call me by my name,” she says to me while looking away.

“Okay then . . .” I awkwardly reply, not sure where to go with this conversation.

After taking a deep breath, Arturo turns to Maria and tells her, “Maria-san, be a dear and get the rifle over by the door please?”

Maria walks over to pick up the rifle and brings it back to the old man. “It’s all right, dear, that one’s yours.”

At that moment, Maria and I both let out a confused, “Huh?”

I take back what I’ve said before about him being totally in control; this guy is totally nuts. Offering a teenage girl an assault rifle? What the hell, man?

“Actually, I had one on me before we even came into the room,” Arturo says with a sly, mischievous grin. He then lifts his left leg and opens a black holster attached to the bottom of his pant leg. “Remember this?”

Shit! Damn it all to hell!

He’s got my sawed-off, and he’s pointing it straight at my face. Son of a bitch!

“I-I thought we were playing nice . . . ?” I remind him, trying not to seem like the cornered animal that I am right now. I can honestly say now, I'm totally screwed. Who knew a psychotic, tactical mastermind staring you down with the barrel of your own shotgun is more frightening than any horde of Rotters?

“Oh, I’m still nice. I’ll give you back the shotgun and let you go if you just answer my and the little lady’s questions,” he assures me. “I think you know that in this world—or should I say, server—negotiating power is determined by who’s got the most guns. And I’d say I win in that category,” he continues, his smile widening.

Not that he needs to brag, since he’s strangling me with my own security blanket.

There is one thing he said that piques my interest though.

“Server?” I ask.

“Huh, I guess he didn’t tell you everything,” Arturo wonders aloud, still pointing my shotgun at my face.

“Sir!” Maria interrupts, holding the assault rifle.

I know it’s common to see teenagers or even kids carrying firearms around here, but somehow this visual is just plain wrong.

“Maria-san, no need for formalities. Call me Art.” he requests, relaxing his shit-eating grin just a little bit.

“Understood, Art, sir,” she replies, seemingly only half listening to his request.

Arturo lets out an annoyed yet resigned sigh and says, “Fine, I guess that will have to work.”

Usually, I’d be laughing about how ridiculous this whole tangent is getting. However, if laughter is the best medicine, I get the impression that the medicine in this case is arsenic.

“Anyway, If he just got corrupted, his . . . ‘behind-the-scenes knowledge’ should be limited at this point.”

Corrupted? What the hell is she talking about? What the hell has Atsushi done to me, damn it?

“Well, there is only one way to find out how much he knows,” Arturo suggests before lightly pressing the barrel of my shotgun up against the tip of my nose. “So? Talk.”

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