[Current Objective: Survive]

As the dust settled and the haze began to clear, an eerie silence blanketed the aftermath of the skirmish with the Raiders. My adrenaline still roared, driving me to find Rolland despite the searing pain in my crippled shoulder.

There he was, slumped against a fallen mule, his blood-soaked clothes bearing the grim evidence of the Raider’s assault. The rifle that had been my lifeline lay across his lap, a stark reminder of the peril we faced.

I stared in disbelief. "You’re still alive?" I gasped.

Rolland managed a pained grin. "Do I look that bad, kid?"

"You need medical attention," I said, forcing my voice to stay calm despite the rising tide of panic.

Rolland chuckled weakly, his expression twisting in agony. "Mr. Obvious strikes again. Stop making me laugh; it's literally killing me."

"Damn it, Rolland! How can I help you?" I shouted, frustration and fear bubbling over.

The intensity of my emotions hit me like a freight train. Rolland was dying. He was just an NPC, a scripted piece of the quest. I could have looted him, taken the caravan’s spoils, and vanished into the hills. No one would have known. No one would have cared.

But despite the game’s artificial veneer, an unexpected empathy tugged at me. Rolland might have been lines of code, but in that moment, he seemed as real and vulnerable as any living being. I was crafted from the same digital essence as Rolland, the Raiders, and everything else. The only difference was that I had been granted autonomy while they remained bound by their programming.

As I looked at Rolland's battered form, I couldn't shake the thought that some unseen intelligence—perhaps an AI overseeing this world—was watching, evaluating my actions against some cryptic measure of Karma, Fate, or Morality.

Whether such systems existed within this game world was anyone's guess. What mattered was that I had already learned not to waste time second-guessing my choices. So, without hesitation, I decided to help Rolland, fulfilling the quest's expected narrative progression. After that, I resolved to carve my own path forward.

Unfortunately, my character build wasn’t designed for healing or medicine. My skills and equipment were geared towards culinary arts, and cooking was where I excelled. I eyed the fallen mule propping up Rolland, weighing my options. The idea of butchering the mule and preparing a hearty steak to heal him crossed my mind. But the game only allowed me to loot the carcass, even after I’d picked up a discarded knife. I tried offering Rolland one of the kebabs from my inventory, but he rejected them, insisting that he needed medical aid, not food.

"Rolland, tell me how I can help you," I pleaded.

Rolland, grimacing in pain, nodded as if searching for the best advice within the game’s constraints. "Alright, here’s the deal. I’m pretty beat up. I could use several doses of Restorone or just one dose of Inviggeron if you’ve got it."

"Sorry, I’m fresh out," I admitted, frustration creeping into my voice.

Rolland coughed, a thin trail of blood trickling from his lips. His expression hardened as the reality of our situation sank in. "Well, ain't that a kick in the teeth. We’ve got all the raw materials for those Stims but not a drop of the finished product. And I doubt those Raiders had anything useful."

"So, this is game over for you then?" I asked, trying to inject some levity into the grim situation.

Rolland’s response was grave. "Not if you have anything to say about it. Get me to Nowhere City. Find Doc Anderson. She owes me a favor."

With that, Rolland lapsed into unconsciousness.

Desperately, I accessed the inventory of the dead mule. A screen unfolded before me, displaying icons for roots, herbs, flowers, and berries, each with names, descriptions, and indications of edibility. An idea began to take shape.

Despite my initial concern about potential Raider ambushes, I swapped my pistol for my spatula. Though it had been useless in combat, I hoped its cooking bonus might be of value now. The spatula didn’t disappoint. The descriptions of the edible items expanded slightly, revealing their potential effects. Scanning through the options, I identified two promising candidates.

The first item I focused on was a delicate flower known as Wonder Leaf, famed for its antimicrobial properties. With a concentrated effort, I selected it and prepared to use it. In an instant, the Wonder Leaf replaced my spatula. Without hesitation, I stuffed the purple petals into my mouth, chewing vigorously to release their essential oils.

Next, I approached one of the nearby mules, which had calmed down and was grazing contentedly. Gently taking its reins, I murmured, “Come on,” through the mixture of Wonder Leaf in my mouth. The mule complied and trotted over to where Rolland lay sprawled on the ground.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

As we moved, I rummaged through the mule’s inventory and was relieved to find it carried cereal crops. I scooped out a handful of grain flour and combined it with the plant pulp from my mouth. Kneading the mixture together, I fashioned a rudimentary healing poultice and applied it to Rolland’s three gunshot wounds. I hoped the grain flour would help stem the bleeding while the Wonder Leaf worked its supposed magic.

The next hurdle was getting Rolland onto the living mule. My injured arm throbbed painfully, still numb and clumsy. Returning to the fallen mule, I retrieved something called Go-go Leaf and chewed it determinedly. Go-go Leaf was known for its mild analgesic effects and stamina boost. Though its effects were less potent than I had hoped, it alleviated my Crippled condition to Impaired, giving me some limited movement in my left arm.

Grimacing against the pain, I attempted to lift Rolland. The agony flared in my shoulder as I chewed harder on the bitter leaf. Determined, I swallowed the pulp and, with renewed resolve, managed to lift Rolland’s limp form and drape him over the mule.

Taking the reins, we set off toward Nowhere City. Each step felt like a battle against both physical pain and existential dread. Pain seemed transient in a world where survival was paramount. If I was the only sentient being for miles, then yielding to something as fleeting as pain felt inconceivable. I was a survivor in a desolate world, where every action defied the odds. Enduring pain was one thing; overcoming it felt almost divine.

Later, I would realize that Go-go Leaf was a key ingredient in various stimulants. That explained why my thoughts raced uncontrollably and why I found myself spouting nonsense. What should have been a four-hour trek to Nowhere City was completed in two, with some stamina to spare. The first hour was a haze of inflated ego and delusions, while the second was marked by panic and paranoia. By the end, I was nearly fleeing from a phantom presence at the edge of my consciousness, yet the mule kept pace.

By early afternoon, we arrived at Doc Anderson's clinic in Nowhere City. The effects of the Go-go Leaf were fading, and although I felt miserable, I was relieved not to have consumed more of it earlier.

“Great, another addict,” Doc Anderson remarked with a hint of sarcasm as she took in my disheveled appearance. “Take a seat; I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Doc Anderson was a no-nonsense woman in her early forties. Her tired blue eyes assessed me with a clinical detachment that spoke of years of dealing with crises.

“Not me,” I gasped, struggling to maintain my composure. “My friend.”

I carefully laid Rolland, who I had carried on my shoulders from Champ outside the clinic, onto a nearby bed.

“Rolland. He said you owe him a favor. He was shot a few hours ago. Please, you have to help him,” I pleaded.

Doc Anderson’s demeanor shifted as she moved swiftly to Rolland’s side, her expression turning serious.

“I can stabilize the bleeding,” she said firmly, “but he’s lost a lot of blood. He’ll need a transfusion, and unfortunately, I’m out of blood packs.”

I let out a string of curses, kicking the waste paper basket near her desk in frustration. It was an uncharacteristic outburst, driven by the lingering effects of the stimulant making me irritable. Doc Anderson, however, ignored my display of frustration and continued her assessment.

Sensing the urgency of the situation, I pressed on. “What do you need me to get and where can I find it?”

Anderson fixed me with a steady gaze. “He needs blood packs within the next three hours if he’s to survive. I don’t know his blood type, so you’ll need to find type O negative.”

“I’m O negative,” I said, recalling the details from my status screen. “Can’t you transfuse directly from me?”

Anderson’s expression shifted as she considered this. “I suppose that’s possible. But Rolland will receive whatever’s currently in your system.”

“It’s Go-go Leaf,” I explained. “I chewed some for the first time two hours ago.”

“A first-time user?” Anderson remarked, her tone laced with skepticism. “No wonder you look so rough. Hang on, let me take care of that for you.”

The doctor moved with practiced efficiency. She swiftly jabbed a syringe into my arm, and within heartbeats, the sobering concoction began its unpleasant work, purging my system in a way best left undescribed. Fortunately, the ordeal was brief, and after a sip of brackish water, I felt notably better.

I took a seat beside Rolland, relieved to see that Doc Anderson had worked her magic. His bare torso was cleaned and treated with antiseptic, and the three bullet wounds were packed with a jelly-like substance that I assumed had healing properties.

Rolland’s body was a map of battle scars—some old and white, others fresh and pink. It seemed as though he had endured decades of conflict. I reminded myself that these scars were part of his fabricated history, mere data points in a virtual world. For all I knew, he and I could have been created mere seconds apart in this game. Yet, his scarred form stirred questions: Do we truly scar? Can we heal from severe injuries? Is resurrection even possible?

“Hey Junkie, are you ready?” Doc Anderson asked brusquely, her gloved hand holding the transfusion equipment, the needle's sharp point hovering with casual indifference.

“My name is Jonas,” I corrected, trying to keep my frustration in check.

“I don’t care. Are we good to go or not?”

I nodded firmly, biting back my irritation.

“Are you sure? Once I do this, there’s no turning back.”

“Lady, just do your damn job,” I snapped, exasperated by her incessant questioning. With that, she inserted the needle.

Dark red ichor flowed through one tube into a machine, while my blood traveled through another tube and into Rolland’s arm. For several tense minutes, nothing changed. I sat in my chair, Rolland lay on his bed, and Doc Anderson busied herself in another room.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the gentle chugging of the transfusion machine. With nothing else to focus on, I considered checking my status inventory to see if there was anything useful I could do with my accumulated experience points. Before I could act, Rolland began to stir.

He twitched, jerked, and then let out a scream of terror. It struck me how his panicked cries might have mirrored the moment my own consciousness was thrust into this digital world. Frantically, he swiped at something unseen, as if battling an illusion or an echo of his traumatic experience.

Blinking rapidly, Rolland gripped the edge of the bed and fixed me with eyes that now gleamed with renewed life. “Jonas,” he rasped, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”