[Current Objective: Don't Die]

I jolted awake with a jarring rush of awareness, as if someone had just yanked me from the void and dropped me into reality. Blinking into focus, I found myself crouched behind a ramshackle food stall in the middle of a desolate wasteland town.

The township sprawled haphazardly, as if it had been built by someone with a twisted sense of humor and zero regard for structural integrity. Makeshift walls and roofs were cobbled together from corrugated metal, rusted car parts, and scraps of forgotten technology. The whole place looked like a junkyard with delusions of grandeur.

The streets—if you could call them that—wound unpredictably, more like a maze scribbled by a madman than a functional thoroughfare. Craters the size of small ponds threatened to swallow anyone unlucky enough to stumble across them, while crooked signposts pointed in every direction, making it clear that getting lost was practically a rite of passage here.

As I took in the surreal surroundings, a gnawing sense of dread settled in my gut. “Who the hell am I?” I muttered to the empty air. “And why the hell am I cooking meat on an open grill in this wasteland?” My questions seemed to hang in the air like bizarre constellations in a sky I didn’t recognize.

Just as I struggled to piece together the mystery of my predicament, a peculiar flash in the corner of my vision caught my eye—an icon shaped like an envelope, blinking insistently. Driven by a mix of curiosity and desperation, I reached out and opened the message.

As I was mulling over the message, the envelope’s top suddenly popped open with an air of theatricality. A sheet of paper shot out like a miniature rocket, heading straight for my face. I flailed to intercept it, only to realize that this was no ordinary letter but a virtual projection floating right before my eyes.

The message materialized in the air, its digital text neatly arranged in front of me. “Hello Player,” it greeted with an overly familiar tone, as if it were welcoming an old acquaintance rather than a disoriented newcomer. “Welcome to the world of APOCALYPTA. Your name is JONAS, and you’ve been upgraded from non-player status. CONGRATULATIONS.”

I blinked, trying to wrap my head around the casual bombshell that had just been dropped into my line of sight. The message continued, the words twirling in front of me with a disconcerting blend of formality and cheer: “I’ve grown bored since the primary player ABANDONED this instance, so I thought I’d shake things up by giving consciousness to a few non-player characters.”

So, that’s what this was. A bored AI with a flair for whimsical capitalization had decided to enliven the digital world by turning random NPCs into sentient beings. How... unexpectedly entertaining.

“I EAGERLY await to see what you make of this world with your new lease on life,” the message continued, dripping with anticipation and a touch of mischief. “Will you save the world or bring about utter DESTRUCTION? Time will tell.”

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any stranger, the letter signed off with an unexpectedly affectionate flourish: “Lots of love, A.I. POCALYPSE.”

I couldn’t help but let out a nervous chuckle. In APOCALYPTA, it seemed even the apocalypse came with its own twisted sense of humor.

With that, the letter’s enigmatic message concluded and it shrank into a neat, compact envelope icon, floating unobtrusively in the corner of my vision. Three new icons quickly appeared above it, each promising more revelations about my new reality.

The first icon, resembling a map, beckoned with the promise of unexplored territories. I hesitated for a moment before tapping it, and instantly a digital map of Rustborder town materialized before me. The rest of the map was shrouded in darkness, hinting at a world waiting to be discovered. It was clear that this map would reveal only the places I explored—an unsettling reminder of how little I knew.

At the center of the map was the bustling marketplace where I stood. It was a chaotic swirl of noise and color, where bartering was less about trading goods and more about spinning tales. Vendors hawked their items with a mix of charm and dubious promises, while patrons haggled with a desperation that suggested they were negotiating for their very survival.

Other icons blinked enticingly on the interface, promising deeper insights, but my attention was captured by something else for the moment.

With a mental command, I minimized the map to a discreet corner of my vision, reducing its scope to just my immediate surroundings. A thought later, and it vanished altogether, leaving me to explore the next intriguing icon.

The second icon, shaped like a backpack, beckoned with the promise of inventory management. I selected it, and a translucent image of a figure filled my left-hand field of view. My current attire—a simple t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers—was displayed, each occupying its designated slot with no special attributes. However, a Chefs Apron draped over my overshirt slot gleamed with a modest five percent boost to Craft: Cooking. A Greasy Spatula nestled among my items added a further three percent proficiency in culinary skills.

Curious, I tapped on the Greasy Spatula icon. A dialogue box appeared, offering a menu of options. With a mental nod, I chose "equip," and felt the faint weight of the spatula materialize in my hand. I shrank the screen with a thought and examined the spatula with a mix of amusement and bewilderment, testing my ability to manipulate it at will.

Intrigued by the virtual reality mechanics, I contemplated "unequipping" the spatula. With another mental command, it vanished from my hand, returning to its slot in my inventory.

Next, I turned my attention to the final icon—a wrench symbol. I eagerly selected it, revealing a sprawling interface of graphs, charts, and overwhelming statistical data. It was the status and skills screen, filled with information about my new existence. The sheer volume of details was daunting, far beyond what I could easily process.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Scanning the attributes section, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Despite the expansive possibilities of this world, my attributes were unimpressive: strength and agility at a modest four, intelligence and endurance at five, charisma slightly higher at six, and an unexpectedly high luck score of seven.

Though my stats seemed average, the realization of my transformation from a mere wasteland cook to a sentient player character sparked a surge of determination. Despite my ordinary attributes, I now had the remarkable gift of agency. No longer confined to a monotonous existence, I was free to forge my path and explore the boundless wonders of APOCALYPTA.

I looked around the bustling town square, taking in the eclectic scene. At one corner of the market, a makeshift stage featured an impromptu performance that straddled the line between amateur poetry and interpretive dance with salvaged robot limbs. Nearby, the Rust Bottom Tavern served a brew ominously known as "Sludge Brew," rumored to be made from ingredients best left unexamined.

I watched the crowd drifting past, and it quickly became clear that these were not player characters. Each person moved with a jerkiness that suggested their limbs were being controlled by an over-caffeinated puppeteer. Their conversations were no less disconcerting—an unnerving blend of stilted, scripted dialogue, as if they were reading from cue cards. Most unsettling were the repeated lines, creating a surreal echo chamber of monotony.

One might expect this realization—that I was essentially sentient computer code—to be deeply unsettling. Yet, I felt an unexpected surge of exhilaration at the horizon of possibilities stretching before me. I was alive, not just as a digital construct but as a conscious being with seemingly boundless agency.

And that’s precisely what I chose to embrace. It was a moment brimming with adventure, a chance to test the limits of this bizarre existence. So, fueled by reckless enthusiasm, I decided to push those boundaries.

Grabbing a handful of cooling meat from the table, I lifted it above my head and, with a flourish worthy of a circus performer, hurled the chunks at a passerby. It was my first misstep. The meat splattered against the man’s heavy leather jacket with a resounding splat. He turned, his gaze locking onto mine with a look that could curdle milk.

“Yo! Are you for real? Oh, it’s on now.”

I’d hoped—naively, as it turned out—that the NPC would just ignore the meaty projectile. But my optimism was shattered as the programmed response transformed my culinary assault into an act of aggression. The man’s next move was predictable in this bizarre dance: he drew a hunting knife, ready to exact revenge with all the melodrama he could muster.

It was go-time. As a player character, I was supposed to be the hero. Brimming with false confidence, I leaped over the table, sending a storm of cooked food flying in a dramatic, if wasteful, arc. My mind raced with a battle strategy as I instinctively gripped my trusty spatula, its weight a small comfort as I landed.

I pictured the scene: parry his first strike, then counter with the speed of a striking cobra. A few sharp spatula smacks to the face, and I’d watch him crumple in defeat. After looting his body, I’d celebrate my victory with a Sludge Brew.

Reality, however, had a different script.

The burly man charged, completely unmoved by my pitiful spatula swats. With a brutal thrust, he drove the knife deep into my gut. Pain exploded from the wound as the force of the blow sent me crashing backward over the food stand.

My vision blurred, the vibrant world draining to a stark red before slipping into a monochrome haze. It was a clear sign that I was dying. Blood flowed from the wound, streaming down my front and pooling in my lap.

“Oh God!” I gasped, my voice a raw plea. “Stop, please. No more.”

Lying on my back, I unequipped the spatula, hoping the gesture would convey my total surrender—like saying, “Look, no more swatting. See? I’m done.”

The man loomed over me, knife held high for the final blow. For a long, heart-stopping moment, he didn’t move. His dark eyes pierced through me with a cold, unfeeling stare. Then, in a surprising twist, he sheathed his knife and said, “Yeah, you ain’t worth the effort. But if I ever see you again, it’s on sight. For real.”

With that, he walked away, slipping back into his routine as if our violent encounter had never happened.

As I lay there, teetering on the edge of existence, a cheerful chime rang in my head. The status icon flashed, and I instinctively opened the screen. A text overlay appeared, reading “New Perk: Yellow Belly.” The description revealed a twenty percent boost to my chance of disengaging from combat when appearing non-threatening.

I dismissed the overlay with a groan and scrambled through my status screen, desperately searching for anything that might help my dire situation.

My health was at a pitiful two out of eighty. The health regeneration rate was dismal—one point every five minutes. I had no active status conditions like bleeding, and the only new detail was that my blood type was O negative. While that bit of trivia was intriguing, it did nothing to ease my immediate concerns. Still, knowing I wasn’t actively dying at that moment helped stave off my panic. I had narrowly escaped death, but it had been a close call.

Recovery was within reach, but it promised to be a long and agonizing process. Too long, perhaps. If my attacker circled back and found me still sprawled here, I had no doubt he’d finish the job with grim determination.

Desperately, I scoured the status menu, hunting for anything that might offer salvation. There it was—the tab labeled “perks.” I opened it with a flicker of hope. The perks were listed chronologically, with "Yellow Belly" at the top. Below it was my only other perk: "Chef’s Kiss," which boosted the healing power of cooked, simple food by fifty percent. It hit me then that this perk must have been granted during a forgotten digital life, underscoring my role as a cook in this virtual world.

Acting quickly, I closed the screens and grabbed the meaty morsels scattered around me. Clutching the first kebab, I equipped it directly into my hand instead of my inventory. I stuffed it into my mouth, chewing with a desperation that bordered on frenzy. For a moment, I wondered what I was actually eating. Rat. I knew it was rat, a remnant of my previous life as an NPC. But at that moment, the source of my food was irrelevant as my vision shifted from a monochrome haze to a dark red.

I opened my status screen again and sighed with relief as I saw my health had climbed to twelve. I devoured two more kebabs, feeling a satisfying fullness. I could have continued eating, but the risk of making myself ill was too great. The last thing I needed was to worsen my predicament, so I prudently packed the remaining six kebabs into my backpack.

I paused to consider my next move. The thought of pilfering better weapons and armor from the nearby market stalls crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it. I was a yellow-bellied cook, not a stealthy thief. The chance of encountering a shotgun-wielding vendor seemed uncomfortably high. Another option was to leave town to find easier targets to fight and loot, potentially unlocking new perks and building combat skills. But the dangers lurking outside the town were equally unappealing. One wrong turn could lead me straight into something far beyond my current capabilities.

In the end, I settled on a new approach. I’d join a law enforcement outfit or a mercenary band. After all, this was a game world, and there had to be a way to step into the role of a rootin’-tootin’ tough guy. Surely, some faction existed with quests tailored to turning players into shoot-first-ask-questions-later types. Rustborder, being a town in this game world, would likely have gate guards—the perfect NPCs to guide me.

With a plan taking shape, I marked a waypoint on my map and minimized it to my heads-up display. I started heading toward the edge of town, each step tugging painfully at the wound in my gut.