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So, yeah. I still wasn’t sure if I’d been Isekai’d or not, but I was definitely, one-hundred percent dead.
Tail lashing, I opened my menu and searched for some hint, some clue as to why I had been sent to frolic in ‘Sorvival’ of the Fittest. There were three menu tabs along the top of my character information window: Channel, Messages, and Odds. I clicked Channel first.
The Channel tab appeared above the other three screens. It was a streaming interface with an active livestream in focus. The video gave the viewers a magnificent view of my sandy black ass, complete with a long whippy tail, a cat-like butthole, and a nice pair of peach-sized nads. At least I wasn’t neutered. There were other features of the interface. A clicker, a live chat feed… but no option to turn the video off. Three people were watching my stream. One of them, ‘Xez'gith’, had even left a helpful comment:
“Hey, you - Captain Spelling Bee. Can you tell me what the fuck is going on?” I tried telepathically posting to the channel.
[Comments are disabled. Reason: Breaking Immersion and compromising Spectator experience.]
Huh. I tried again. Something neutral this time. “Hi! Hello!”
[Comments are disabled. Reason: Breaking Immersion and compromising Spectator experience.]
There was no way this was actually some kind of real afterlife. But if I was in some kind of bootleg VR… I could have been murdered, and my brain data—my consciousness, my personality, my memories—trafficked into this badly edited shithole.
Next up were Messages. I wasn't expecting to see anything, but there was one message, already opened and read. That explained the lack of alerts. The message was titled: 'welcome to the afterlife, bitch'. No caps, no comma.
"The hell...?" Who had opened this? Because I sure as fuck hadn’t.
If you’re reading this, congratu-fucking-lations. You made it to Arcadia. Now you’re in my world. You can't get out. You can't leave. You're stuck here, and so will she. My guys, they cut your body into pieces and ripped your brainbox out and crushed your head under the front wheels of my BMW 7 Series, and then they sent what was left of you to your little 'agency' in a box. Probably the first and only time you flew first class in your life.
Everyone you knew, everyone you loved, we pulled all of it from you. We found your dog and shot it. Then we burned your house down, with your dead dog inside. By the time you read this, we’ll have tracked down your whore of a sister and everyone she loves. Your parents, your friends. Her fucking school gym coach. And don’t you worry: I'll make sure you get to see her again.
This is what you both get for fucking with me. With the Solonovs. I want you to think of this message when I put the control collar on you. I called in a favor with the Society to leave your mind intact so you could read this.
See you soon, bitch.
Dimitri.
I read it again, and as I did, my head began to throb. Yikes. Big yikes. On a scale of one to crazy, we were sitting at a big fat ten.
" Man. Someone needs to lay off the coke." I tilted my head. Chorus had just told me I was in some place called Malae. "Hey, Chorus. Where’s Arcadia?"
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
[… Nothing you need be concerned with at this stage,
“Just answer the fucking question.”
I swore that I could somehow feel Chorus’s disembodied presence break into a sweat.
[I’m sorry – I really am - but we… I am prohibited from answering your query.]
Interesting.
So, I had a collection of facts. I had, in fact, been murdered. During my life, I’d worked for some 'agency' against these Solonovs and possibly the ‘Society,’ whoever they were. ‘The Sound’ implied the Pacific Northwest to me. Seattle, maybe, or another Washington State city. The word Dimitri had used to describe the people I’d worked for was important: 'agency'. Not 'precinct' or ‘office’. Had I been a Fed? An FBI agent or something? And now I was here. In some afterlife, or a virtual reality… or both. I wasn’t sure.
"Well. Fuck." Frowning, I started a third re-read. I was about halfway through when my Odds tab beeped and flared bright yellow.
I sighed, and opened up the third tab. My lip curled when I saw the contents. It was a sports betting panel. People, somewhere, were gambling on me. Needless to say, virtual blood sports with real human data wasn’t legal in any country or territory.
Odds (Moneyline)
1.
2.
One person had made a bet against the bookie on Option 1. They thought I’d live through my first day here. That was big of them.
Even as I watched, another bet description appeared:
1. (New!)
It was the closest thing to a warning I was gonna get.
I got all four feet under me and stumbled forward into an awkward run up the beach. Made it about fifty feet before a piercing squeal tore the air behind me. Still running, I switched the camera so I could see over my shoulder without needing to turn my head. A huge royal blue razorback—a pig bigger than a truck—exploded out of the jungle, ropes of drool swaying beneath its jowls. The monster fixed blazing white eyes on me, and as it did, a bright red highlight appeared over its head: [Hyperboar (Lvl 10)].
[You have identified a new Legion: Hyperboar.]
[The universal, wild and unfortunately powerful Body/Air/Fire Legions are known for their fearlessness and strong build.]
The voice that read out the description wasn’t Chorus’s. It was male, young, with a thick accent east of Europe. It sounded like a bad recording. Before I could puzzle out the poorly translated description, the giant porker bucked and squealed. Electricity rippled up along its legs, frying the sand black and blowing the burned-plastic stench of ozone into the air. Snapping and crackling, it charged after me, and I did what every sensible tentacle-beast who’d just woken up on Crazy Murder Island would do.
I put my head down, tucked my tail, and ran like a little bitch.
The tentacles still had a mind of their own as I blundered down the sandbar, sprinting for the tree line. Ferns and rotten logs crushed under my claws as I tore a trail through the ass-end of the jungle, flapping around like a whacky inflatable arm-tube man. Behind me, the snapping and squealing grew closer.
I charged through vines that would have strangled the real me, tearing them from the trees. Birds whirled up in a screeching chorus from the branches. Birds with teeth and horns and clawed wings, long lizard-like tails. Dinosaurs. I got one startled look at them before the Hyperboar came crashing through the ferns behind me, throwing smaller trees to the sides with its tusks.
Panting, I struggled up a hill, my stamina meter dropping from green to yellow. As it did, a huge heartbeat filled my ears, double pulse tripping beneath my tongue. I charged through the undergrowth, barely able to see, until some instinct brought me to a skidding halt just before the hill dropped off into a steep ridge. There was a dry gully full of rocks below. No water.
“SQUEEE! SCREEEEE! WREEEHH!” The Hyperboar was closing in, surrounded by the stench of burning hair.
Before I thought about it too hard, I put my shoulders down, charged the cliff, and took the leap of faith.