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Initiating Character Creation…
Blaine studied the sexless, unformed avatar in the tank. It floated, oblivious to his scrutiny, a feeble beginning to this new world. Beyond, the cloning laboratory spread out in a forest of identical tubes. The place was sterile and commercial, a farm of human lives under harsh industrial lights.
His mind tightened and he yanked his thoughts back to the current task. There was a holographic interface next to the test tube showing a variety of options for appearance. Blaine amused himself with the genetic sliders, freely combining heritages and refining features like a sculptor adjusting clay. In the end though, he settled on a mix of Germanic and Celtic DNA, reflecting his own ancestry. The embryo expanded as he sent the command to the tube, sending ripples through the suspension fluid. It aged visibly, growing into a youth with dark hair and a bold face. If I ever had a son... he might look like that. Satisfied, he moved on to the next step.
The hologram flickered and shifted to a new display, listing stats and describing their uses. When the audible instructions warned him gravely that the stats would never change he felt lost. What kind of game didn't have natural progression?
"You have five points," the instructions continued in mechanical cadence, the clinical tone detached from the weight of the choices. "Strength governs carrying capacity and recoil control, essential for handling high-caliber weapons. Agility enhances your movement speed, giving you the flexibility to maneuver through the battlefield. Endurance expands your stamina and health, ensuring you outlast your opponents in combat."
Goddammit why didn't I look this game up first?
The manual he'd read had nothing at all about gameplay, instead focusing on silly things like safety overrides and disclaimers. Logging out and doing some research made sense, but was he really going to take the easy way out?
If he chose wrong, he could always respec later. What he'd lose in money he'd make up for in insight. After all, one man's meta might be another man's meme.
Strength was an easy choice; he raised it to three points and felt confident he could handle all but the heaviest machine guns. Endurance nearly claimed the rest, but he hesitated. This was a game, not real life–long slogs on foot probably weren't very common. In the end, he raised Endurance to two points and dropped the rest into Agility. Quick maneuvers for cover sounded more exciting than trying to push straight through enemy fire.
The boy in the cloning pod grew larger, swelling into a man with a lean, predatory build. The user interface allowed him to tweak the details so Blaine made the brow a bit heavier, grew out the hair into a sleek lupine look, and added a short thick beard. The result was defined, masculine, and carried an edge of danger. This young version of himself looked good, but the brash, almost cocky look didn't sit right with him. He found the age slider and dialed it up, frosting the beard and temples and etching hard-earned lessons into the corners of the eyes. The final image was evocative, a grim veteran whose flinty gaze suffered no fools.
A notice informed him that tattoos and scars were earned through gameplay. That was a bit disappointing, but he supposed that it made sense, it would show some progression in the game, maybe a way to display victories and defeats? He'd find out soon enough. With nothing left to tweak he accepted the new body with a final mental command.
There was a whirling sensation as his consciousness dived forward. He flailed for a solid hold as the fluid of the cloning pod swirled about his limbs, draining from the pod. There was light, sharp and blinding as the breathing mask unsealed and lifted away. Hard steel grating bit into his feet–his feet! After years of nothing below his pelvis this flood of sensation was overwhelming. He felt as if he was standing on nails, the shock of sensation exploding up his legs. For the first time in years he could stand, unsteadily at first, but he clutched at the edges of the front hatch until he felt more confident.
He had feet! He could even wiggle his toes! Biting back a hysterical laugh he flexed his knees and jumped. Just an inch off the ground, but he felt like he was floating. Already this was worth the plunge. He'd have to send Dr. Schofield a card–and flowers.
Damn, that felt good. Too good–so good it almost scared him. It's only a game. Don't get addicted already. That thought sobered him, and he looked about for a towel to clean off the fluid. Several were stacked on a shelf, he took one down and started rubbing himself dry. The sensation tingled over his skin. His mind was back on track now, the euphoria of walking fading to mellow satisfaction as he looked around for the next step in the game.
A green light flickered to life over the door. Blaine stepped forward, wet footprints gleaming on the polished floor behind him. The door hissed open as he approached, and he entered a locker room. The place was as generic and sterile as the growing room, punctuated by the faint sting of bleach. A young man stood by the bench, his gray uniform crisp and his stance rigid. He reminded Blaine of the military valets officers had in the old movies, polishing boots and offering grounding advice. Was this a trainer? Probably just an NPC. He nodded in greeting anyway just to be polite.
The young man nodded back. "Welcome to Gun Meister. Is this your first time playing?"
"Yeah," Blaine peered around the room, looking for any more details, but it seemed they were alone.
"You must have many questions," the young man watched without much interest as Blaine continued to dry off. "The valet nodded back. "Welcome to Gun Meister. Is this your first time playing?"
"Yeah," Blaine peered around the room, but they were alone.
"You must have many questions," the young man watched without much interest as Blaine continued to dry off. "There are a veritable plethora of virtual games. Some fantasy, others modern or futuristic fiction. In these, your character will level struggling to gain power and abilities. Not so with Gun Meister. Here your avatar doesn't grow, you do." There was a dramatic pause. Blaine wasn't sure if he was supposed to be impressed. "The valet nodded back. "Welcome to Gun Meister. Is this your first time playing?"
"Yeah," Blaine peered around the room, but they were alone.
"You must have many questions," the young man watched without much interest as Blaine continued to dry off. "There are a veritable plethora of virtual games. Some fantasy, others modern or futuristic fiction. In these, your character will level struggling to gain power and abilities. Not so with Gun Meister. Here your avatar doesn't grow, you do." There was a dramatic pause. Blaine wasn't sure if he was supposed to be impressed. "We strive for a realistic experience. There are no levels, no stat increases, no legendary items, in fact, there is no inventory system at all. We have eliminated the entire user interface."
Come to think of it, that was a little odd. Blaine tried to examine the corners of his field of vision, and found no health bar, no action buttons or shortcuts, nothing like what he usually saw in video games. The kid nodded, seeing Blaine's confusion. "In order to access the system menu touch the side of your temple with two fingers. Like so. Of course the emergency codes are still in place, as well as the emergency overrides. But we don't encourage making their use a habit."
Blaine checked the menu, then tossed his wet towels over a bench. "Is there..."
"The lockers you see contain uniforms of various sizes. Probably a middle size for you."
Opening the recommended locker, Blaine reached first for the boots–black synthetic material, heavy soles, practical but dull. He'd worn boots nearly identical in Basic training, marching till his heels bled. "I'm hoping I can upgrade these later?"
"The uniform is only a basic starter item, and doesn't need to be kept," the young man assured him. "You will have the opportunity to purchase new clothing items and discard the issued gear. Everything must be worn. Guns, equipment, and even ammo will be carried into battle."
Blaine blinked. Really? Would he have to reload his magazines by hand too?
"Winning matches, killing enemies, and surviving will earn you money," the valet continued. "You can purchase most items in the game with the exception of weapons. Those are a bit more... personal."
The boy seemed to have deviated from script to explain the uniform policy. It wasn't like a video game character... more like a teacher who'd given the same lecture a thousand times. Blaine was impressed. He'd expected canned dialogue that followed trees of possible answers. If he didn't know any better... he raised a finger, half-smiling. "Wait. Are you real?"
"I am an NPC, if that is what you mean," the boy said. "But Skybox Studios has a dynamic system for all its NPCs that's changing the gaming industry." He spoke a bit eagerly. "Each NPC has its own history of experiences that it uses to weigh responses from a multitude of databases. Just like the players, we do not change our base nature manually, but evolve and learn over time."
Now that was interesting, and Blaine hesitated on the brink of a rabbit hole. The boy saw his expression and grinned. "I'm sure you have many more questions about the technical nature of my design, but I'm afraid I don't have time for them all. Your gun will be able to answer questions at your leisure. Come on," he gestured to the next door with a wink. "Let's go to the armory."
Perhaps it was Blaine's interest, but the boy seemed a bit more energetic as he led the way through another door and gestured proudly. "The weapons you see have all volunteered to be here. You may pick one. If you're not satisfied, you can choose another later."
He'd called it an armory but Blaine thought it looked more like an sculpture gallery, with spotlights casting light down over sleek pedestals, each presenting a single pistol in a padded case. Blaine stared, impressed by the presentation. He'd grown up shooting BBs at grasshoppers and using guns came as naturally to him as power tools or cooking utensils, but a well-crafted firearm was just as impressive to him as any work of art. In his opinion, guns were like women--beautiful, dangerous, and demanding of full respect. Grinning, he took a hesitant step. The boy nodded encouragingly, and Blaine rubbed his hands together.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Decisions, decisions.
He paced down the rows, his nostrils flaring at the tang of metal and gun oil. He passed the Glocks without much interest, the 1911s with far greater reluctance. If one of STI's 2011s had been on that shelf he would have jumped on it, but Browning's classic design was just a little outdated for a modern fighting pistol. He didn't consider the revolvers at all. A wheelgun might make a nice backup, but for his primary he needed something fast and efficient.
A row of FN pistols caught his eye, and Blaine paused to study them. As his interest grew a hologram sparked to life. An idealized man or woman stood preening or flexing above each piece. One man struck a bodybuilder's pose while a woman tousled her hair languidly and smirked at him. His eyebrows rose. Were the avatars connected to the guns somehow?
"That's right," the boy anticipated his question. "Each gun is a fully realized NPC with its own unique identity. When not serving as a firearm they can take the form you see previewed above."
Well. This changed everything. He was half tempted to go back and look at everything again, just to see who had the biggest breasts, but the kid anticipated the thought and gave the smallest shake of his head. Whoa. Was that an actual suggestion? If all the NPCs were this sharp he couldn't think of the guns as just tools. Were they... partners? He felt himself straighten a bit as the responsibility settled over his shoulders. This first pick had to be right.
Too many conflicting thoughts. He tightened his focus, studying the weapons and ignoring the eye-catching holos. He passed over several internal-hammer designs–just too blunt for his taste–and lingered on a CZ that looked great but was chambered in an unfamiliar cartridge. And then he saw it. A familiar shape, like an old friend, sitting at the very end of the row. It was a big matte black .45, with a polymer frame and no-nonsense lines. An external hammer, a rail under the barrel, a threaded barrel--this looked like the big sister of the FNP 9mm his father had taught him to shoot with. He'd spent many hours with that pistol, he knew it fit his hand well. Tilting his head he saw that this one was an FNX. Worth researching later, he thought, and certainly worth his time now.
He looked up at the holo finally and saw delicate features, blonde hair, and eyes brimming with hope and excitement. Grinning, he scooped up the pistol. The holo vanished but a happy purr tickled his ear as he checked the pistol's chamber. When he pointed at an empty corner, and dry fired with a crisp snap there was a gasp of excitement.
"An excellent choice," the boy said. "Are you sure you haven't played this game before?"
"I was in the Army," Blaine said absently, tucking the weapon into his waistband at 4 o'clock. The high-speed operators he'd worked with had sworn by appendix carry, but Blaine preferred comfort. This pistol was full-sized, she deserved a proper belt holster.
"Ahhh, we find many veterans in this community," his guide nodded. "You'll find a large number of guilds that use military structure, if that's your thing. Now, take your gun into the next room. She'll guide you from there. There's a lot to learn, but trust your weapon and you'll do well."
"Thanks," Blaine said, walking toward the green-lit door and pushing it open. Soft, sultry piano music greeted him, the warm notes curling through the air like smoke. His boots scuffed softly against plush carpet as the sterile sharpness of the armory gave way to muted lighting and an almost intimate atmosphere. The air was warmer here, faintly perfumed with something floral, and Blaine’s steps slowed as he took in the room.
His eyes narrowed. The only piece of furniture was a wide, low bed draped in crimson sheets that shimmered faintly under the dim light. What kind of tutorial ended in a brothel room? He couldn't see a weapons bench or targets or anything else even remotely appropriate here.
Sudden heat against his hip made him flinch. The pistol had glowed blue before vanishing from where he'd tucked it. Wow, smooth, way to impress your weapon, jumping like a cat.
"Thank you for choosing me for your first weapon," a soft voice said at his elbow. Blaine turned. He was no longer alone in the room. The same girl from the holo was standing there, vibrant and impossibly real. Blaine's breath caught in his throat–she was heartbreakingly beautiful. Her delicate bone structure gave her face a sculpted grace softened by plush lips quirked in a soft smile. Her eyes, startlingly green, met his gaze boldly.
Blaine stared at her. The little black bikini she wore accentuated the elegant curves of a dancer. Even as he fumbled for words she smiled wider and twirled playfully on the balls of her feet. Then she ruffled her blonde hair and stepped closer almost touching him, her breath warm on his cheek.
"What is your name?" she asked, her words flavored with a European accent–French, maybe?
He wiped quickly at his mouth, just in case he was drooling. "I'm Blaine," he managed, his tongue suddenly a size too large. "Do I need a username? They didn't give me one."
"You don't need a username unless you'd like to go by a specific 'handle'," she replied coyly. "You can just introduce yourself. Hi Blaine. It's very nice to meet you. What's my name?"
"You're an FNX," Blaine said tentatively.
"No," she chuckled. "I'm sorry, I don't have a name. Just a unique ID number like you. It's up to you to name me–if you want."
Blaine had always thought the guys who named their rifles were weird. "Why don't we hold off on that. Just till I get to know you better, if that's okay with you?"
She nodded eagerly. "As you wish. Are you going to contract with me?"
Now he was really lost. "What do you mean?"
She reached behind her back, and the top fell away. Beautiful breasts were set free, bigger than he'd expected, with small eager nipples and a bounce that drew his eye. His heart hammered against his chest and fire roared in his loins. She gave him a knowing, sultry smirk, bit her lip, and slid her hands down her toned belly to her bikini bottoms.
"Stop."
He hadn't even decided to speak, but his voice was steady, only a hint of fire crackling in his throat. She froze with her thumbs hooked into her waistband, her eyes wide and startled as they peered cautiously up at her. They stared at each other. Blaine felt strength and confidence surging up from where it had long lain atrophied, and something more.
His old pride uncoiled. He didn't know much about this game, but he knew a woman's body. This wasn't going to be a rushed fumble, and he sure as fuck didn't need a tutorial.
He took her chin in hand and ran his thumb over her mouth, dragging gently at her soft lips, and she made a soft needy sound that made the blood roar in his ears. Her eyes fluttered closed and she shivered under his hand, her body tense and eager. He craved her now more than ever, but this moment would be his. He would do it on his terms.
"What does this mean?" he asked again, voice a little rougher now. His other hand now rested on her shoulder, his thumb running over the curve of her collarbone. He wanted her, craved her with every fiber of being, but he needed to know more before he crossed this threshold.
She turned her head and kissed his thumb lightly before her green eyes met his again, bright with excitement, her features serene. “This is what it means to contract with me, Blaine,” she whispered. “It means you must take me and know me, fuck me and make me yours. Conquer me in the oldest way and I will serve you with all of my heart.”
Wow, way to grab the male ego by the dick.
He bent down, pulling her face up and exposing her throat. until his lips gently brushed against hers. She shivered. He teased her mouth again, lips feather-light. Their first kiss was slow and sweet, tantalizing as they explored each other’s mouths for the first time.
She whimpered into his mouth, her body shifting closer, and it set his mind on fire.
He let his control go. His mouth hardened against hers, his teeth raking her bottom lip, and he invaded her soft mouth, certain now of his purpose. Her initial surprised gasp melted into another moan, her body pressing urgently against his, her small hands fisting in his shirt. Her hips ground against his thigh in desperate need of friction, her frantic efforts making the blood pound in his ears.
He gripped her ass with one hand, seating her exactly where she belonged, her body fitting into his with perfect feminine grace. The other cupped her throat with enough pressure to make her pulse flutter. She tipped her chin back in eager submission and moaned aloud as their kiss broke, the sound desperate and hungry.
He knotted his fingers into her hair and pulled her head back so he could meet her gaze. Her eyes locked onto his, wide and shining with need. “Undress me,” he ordered, and her trembling fingers flew to his waistband. She was panting now, breaths short and eager. Warm arousal tickled his nostrils, an intoxicating scent that mingled with the smell of hot steel. Her fingers grazed over him, hard and ready, and she shoved impatiently at his pants, freeing him to step out of them.
"Come here," he growled, gripping her wrist and pulling her to the bed. She came eagerly, and when he turned her to face the bedspread she climbed forward without hesitation, palms flat and back arching, her ass raised in perfect submission. She looked back over her shoulder at him as her knees spread, eyes heavy with desire, lips parted. The fire in his chest roared again.
He leaned over her, trailing his hand along her spine, and she shifted backwards in instinctive need, soft moans slipping from her lips. He tangled his fingers in her hair once more before mounting her, and she shuddered with pleasure as he filled her. She would have thrust herself back, desperate to take him to the hilt, but his fingers tightened and she surrendered. He was in control.
He set a deliberate pace, savoring the way her body trembled at every movement.
Her hands clawed at the sheets as cries of pleasure broke from her lips, her voice rising in frustrated need, his name running over her tongue in frantic pleas. Tightening his grip, he drove forward and her words dissolved into incoherent wails of ecstasy.
The pace increased and she was growing tight, her breaths ragged and desperate. She was close, and her gasping whimpers of his name only drove him harder. His hips pistoned and he pulled back on her hair as they both raced towards the brink, the room echoing with their combined cries.
She broke first, clenching down on him and crying out in delight, her body shaking. His last shred of self control tore away as she shrieked his name, and he slammed home with one final thrust before his own body snapped like a live wire. The fire in his chest roared out and consumed him, every nerve blazing. They clutched at each other, losing all control for a moment, as pleasure swept over them like a great wave.
Slowly he came back to himself. He released her hair and let her slump forward on the bed, her body gleaming in the soft light as she gasped for breath. He sat down heavily next to her, one hand on her hip, his chest rising and falling as the haze of release began to clear. Her warmth pressed against him as she shifted, curling into his side, still shivering with aftershocks. He basked alongside her, stroking her thigh while their bodies cooled down. Eventually their breathing steadied and the world began to slip back into focus. She sat up and leaned into his chest, kissing him softly. He stroked her hair, gently combing out the tangle he'd made.
A plastic collar encircled her throat, black and gleaming under the lights. When had that gotten there? When he peered at it he saw a series of numbers. Probably the unique ID she'd mentioned earlier. He reached out to touch it, and she smiled up at him, turning her head to kiss his finger once more.
“Thank you, Blaine,” she whispered breathless and soft, as if speaking from the bottom of her heart. “Oh, thank you so much…”
He didn't even hesitate. “You are welcome, Katya,”
The effect was instant. She shuddered as if he’d touched her again, eyes fluttering closed, a soft gasp of satisfaction punctuating her delight.
“Katya…” she repeated, and as he’d expected, her accent turned the noun into a truly beautiful sound. She made another happy coo, and snuggled closer. His chest tightened and he slid his arm around her while they existed, drifting together in a world of soft flesh and shared warmth.
At last he sat up. She giggled softly, her mirth warm and musical, and extended her hand. He took it and pulled her to her feet. They began to get dressed again. Somehow his clothing had ended up all over the room when did I undress? and her bikini bottom was found after some confusion tangled up with the bed sheets.
"That was contracting," Katya explained as she tied her minimalistic clothing back on. "We will have to reaffirm our contract at least once a month." She shot him an impish grin. "Or more often."
"More often indeed," he sighed, pulling on his boots. "Fuck! I haven't done that in ages."
"We could always go again..." she purred, leaning over the bed to kiss the side of his head. His heart raced but he shook his head ruefully, leaning forward to lace up his boots. "If we stay here any longer I'll never want to leave."
Her chuckle was an understated thing, soft but rich. "Oh, I understand Blaine. All right, come with me." She pulled aside a curtain to reveal the exit, looking back coyly over her shoulder. "I can answer questions for you as we go."