[Current Objective: Make a new friend]

Rolland handled the initial hours of his full consciousness surprisingly well, considering the circumstances. Since his awakening was, in some convoluted way, my fault, I felt he deserved an explanation. I did my best to clarify things, though with my own consciousness barely a day old, my grasp on the world was admittedly shaky.

“So, you’re just figuring this out as you go along?” Rolland asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Pretty much,” I replied with a wry grin. “Unless you happen to have a guidebook for this wasteland.”

Rolland gave me a bemused look, adjusting his torso clothing with a flick. We both jumped as it snapped into place on his body.

“What makes you think I know anything, Jonas?” he asked.

“You remembered my name,” I pointed out. “When I first woke up, I had no memory of recent events. I wouldn’t say I knew nothing—I had the knowledge of a twenty-four-year-old street vendor, but nothing beyond that. I was just a cook, serving food and then retreating to my hovel until the next day.”

Rolland’s eyes softened with a hint of pity. “So, you don’t remember your family, friends, places you’ve been, or your own misadventures?”

I shook my head. “It’s not that I can’t remember the ‘before times.’ It’s more like those memories were never programmed into me. I didn’t need that knowledge.”

“Like it wasn’t your purpose to have a life,” Rolland said sadly.

“Exactly. But you were a quest-giver. You had a life to draw from, to create dialogue, and to remember limited information. I’m guessing that knowledge has transferred into your new life.”

“And my wife and daughter?” Rolland asked, hope mingling with skepticism.

“They exist exactly as you remember them,” I said carefully. “But they’re still just scripted characters—automata performing their programmed behaviors. They’re not real. Not alive.”

I could almost feel the dread coiling around Rolland. I couldn’t imagine the weight of realizing that everything you’ve ever known was a mere illusion. The pain of discovering that the love and life that sustained you through the darkest times was an utter fabrication was almost beyond my comprehension. The grim look in Rolland’s eyes told me the pain was nearly unbearable.

“What if we could wake them?” I asked gently.

“There’s no guarantee they’d wake up the same people they were before,” Rolland said, his voice cracking under the emotional strain. The weight of his words was palpable, and I felt a deep sense of debt to him for his courage.

“You don’t seem all that different,” I said, attempting to lighten the mood. “Besides, this wasteland needs people to help shape it. We can’t be the only ones walking around. That would be a very lonely existence.”

Rolland nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right, Jonas. I need to know if my family really loved me, or if it was all just an illusion.”

We spent some time discussing our next steps. We speculated that something in my blood might have triggered consciousness in non-player characters, and Rolland’s blood might share the same catalyst. If so, he might be able to awaken his family.

“Hey Doc Anderson, I have a medical question,” I said as I entered her office. The room was a reflection of wasteland aesthetics: a windowless vault with buzzing lights hanging from a damp-stained ceiling. Healthcare posters peeled off yellowing walls, and sagging bookcases were burdened with ruined books. A dented metal desk dominated the cluttered space, strewn with files and medical detritus around a humming computer terminal.

“What can I do for you?” Anderson asked, slamming a filing cabinet shut and turning to face us.

“Can Rolland give blood to his family?” I asked.

Doc Anderson scratched her chin and blinked slowly, clearly struggling to process the question. After a moment, she managed to respond.

“Unless you know that the donor and recipient are an exact blood type match, I wouldn’t recommend it,” Anderson said, her tone clinical and cautious.

Her response felt disheartening, like a scripted reply lacking the depth and insight I had come to expect from characters like Rolland. It underscored the stark difference between those with rich narratives and nuanced responses and those bound by their roles.

“I’m blood type B positive,” Rolland interjected, his vacant stare as he checked his status screen betraying no emotion.

Anderson remained silent, her demeanor suggesting she had nothing more to add.

“You need to prompt them with something their AI can work with,” I advised Rolland.

Rolland reframed the question, asking, “If my blood is B positive, would it be dangerous to give it to a recipient with an unknown blood type?”

“That would be a very foolish thing to do,” Anderson snapped, clearly exasperated with the basic medical inquiry. “I don’t have time to explain why it’s dangerous, but the likely result is death. Unless you have type O negative blood, don’t go around transfusing people without proper testing.”

Rolland glanced at me, absorbing the implications. “She knows you’re type O negative,” he noted.

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“That’s true,” I acknowledged. “But she’s talking to you, not me. I don’t think I exist to her until we interact again.”

Rolland nodded, scratching his beard as he contemplated his next move. “If I find someone with type O negative blood, can you perform the transfusion?” he asked, trying to be concise and direct.

Anderson shook her head decisively. “Nope, I’m out of supplies. If you bring me the necessary items, I can prepare filled blood bags for you. Then you can handle the transfusions without bothering me again.”

“What do you need, and where can I get them?” Rolland asked, quickly understanding the need for specific information when dealing with non-player characters.

Anderson listed her requirements: sterile empty blood bags, tubing, and needles. She also pointed out the location of an old medical center a few hours’ walk south of Nowhere City. It was marked on my map as a small blue dot against a sea of darkness.

After Rolland collected several healing items from his inventory, we set off.

The journey to Mercy Pines Medical Centre was mercifully uneventful. During the downtime, Rolland and I took the opportunity to explore our menus further. Opening my status screen, I was greeted by a cheerful pop-up announcing I had reached level two. The quest reward from healing Rolland had pushed me above the level threshold, but I had been too preoccupied to notice.

As I examined the breakdown of experience points between levels, I couldn’t help but shiver at the stark reality of the experience economy. Murder seemed the most profitable venture compared to other sources. Dropping a grenade at a dinner table of six yielded far more experience than cooking the dinner itself. But with no guarantee of resurrection in Apocalypta, it was only a matter of time before the pool of characters to kill would be exhausted.

“I got nothin’,” Rolland muttered in dismay, reflecting on his lack of experience points accumulated from his days as a Notter.

Rolland’s term “Notter” for non-player characters intrigued me more than the usual NPC acronym I’d considered.

“It shows progression,” he explained. “First, you’re a Notter, part of the background. Then you become a Player, with choices and agency. And if you’re not careful, you end up a Gonner, like you never mattered at all.”

I shoved aside the creeping existential dread and skimmed through the list of perks available at level two. Many were locked due to my modest stats, but with a high luck stat, several luck-based perks were within reach. After the close calls I’d faced recently, I opted for endurance-based options to avoid ending up as a Gonner.

I chose the perk Connoisseur, which increased healing from food sources by ten percent and revealed hidden properties of natural ingredients. It fit well with my wasteland chef background, though I knew I’d need time to hone my culinary skills.

As Rolland and I reached the top of the hill overlooking the large hospital complex, he raised a hand to stop me.

“Hold up,” he said, his tone serious. “Give me a moment to scope things out.”

He equipped a rifle with a powerful ocular scope, lying prone to survey the area below. The landscape sprawled out before us with a unique post-apocalyptic beauty. Cracked asphalt rivers snaked through the remains of what were once bustling neighborhoods, now reduced to scattered ruins and rusted vehicles. Nature had begun to reclaim its territory, weaving through the wreckage of human ambition.

In the distance, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers loomed over the desolate urban sprawl, their hollowed-out interiors now home to the whispers of the wind and the occasional bird finding refuge. A river, once tamed by engineering marvels, flowed freely between banks overtaken by resilient weeds and sprouting saplings.

Above us, the sky painted a canvas of shifting hues from apricot to indigo, witnessing the passage of time unmarked by civilization. Birdsong mingled with the distant pop of gunfire, a reminder of life adapting to new rhythms in the land. I’d been so engrossed in the scene that I hadn’t considered whether the gunfire signaled another player or just a part of the world’s ongoing chaos. The moment felt too real.

From this vantage point, it was easy to imagine the apocalypse as a thematic choice, a pause for reflection and renewal before humanity—if it dared—could script a new act. Amidst the wreckage and encroaching wilds, a peculiar beauty emerged.

At the foot of the hill, the hospital complex loomed large and weathered, a remnant of its former grandeur now overtaken by tangled, unkempt gardens. Moss and ivy clung stubbornly to its concrete facade, giving it a fortress-like appearance worn down by time. Broken windows, their frames rusted and defiant, stared blankly at the sky, remnants of a structure once proud and purposeful.

The hospital grounds were a chaotic burst of wildflowers, their vibrant hues clashing with cracked pathways like a disordered palette, starkly contrasting the once-manicured lawns of old. Inside, the hospital was a labyrinth of forgotten rooms and echoing corridors, where motes danced lazily in shafts of sunlight piercing through the shattered roof, casting fleeting patterns on worn linoleum floors.

“It’s a damn nest,” Rolland growled, his voice a low rumble of discontent.

“A nest of what?” I asked, bracing for the answer.

“Porcs. Half-man, half-pig. Tough as nails. Run if you encounter one.” He paused, a bemused expression crossing his face. “Well, damn. That knowledge came from nowhere. Must’ve been pre-scripted from when I was a Notter.”

We fell into a contemplative silence, acutely aware of the logical choice: retreat. The only reason Rolland would know about Porcs was to warn low-level Players to steer clear. It made sense to forget about Rolland's family and sneak away. Yet, neither of us was ready to confront the moral truth that fleeing would make us shameful cowards.

“So, we go in through the front door. Guns blazing,” I joked, trying to lighten the oppressive atmosphere.

Rolland snorted in derision. “We’d need bigger guns. The roof looks like a promising way in, if you can fly.”

“That’s next on my list of things to figure out.” We both chuckled softly, sharing a moment of absurdity in a world where the impossible had a disquieting way of becoming uncomfortably possible.

“What’s that over there?” I asked, pointing to an outbuilding situated between the hospital and the treeline at the base of the hill.

“I don’t know,” Rolland replied, squinting at the distant structure. “Could be storage. Could be an emergency generator.”

“If it’s a generator room, there might be tunnels leading back into the hospital. Chances are the supply rooms are underground, right?”

Rolland shrugged with a nonchalance that belied the gravity of our situation. “Worth a shot regardless.”

We hashed out a plan. It wasn’t perfect, but it was our only option. I would sneak down to the outbuilding, trying to stay out of sight. Once I reached it, I’d signal Rolland if there was an entry point into the hospital. Then, Rolland would create a diversion by sniping at the Porcs from his elevated position. Fortunately, he had one hundred and seventy-six rounds of 5.56 ammunition.

He wouldn’t be able to take down every Porc, but the hope was his assault would draw enough attention for me to get in and out without major issues. If necessary, Rolland would conduct a fighting retreat until the Porcs lost interest. That would leave me without covering fire, but it might clear the area enough for me to slip away unnoticed.

“I don’t like this,” Rolland grumbled, his voice tinged with genuine concern. “I have no way of knowing what’s happening once you’re inside.”

“It all seems simple enough. Get in, get the blood packs, get out. What could possibly go wrong?” I replied, my gallows humor hanging heavy in the air.

Rolland rolled his eyes at me, resigned to our less-than-ideal plan.

“One thing before you go,” Rolland said, looking at me with almost paternal worry. “Do you have any skill with lockpicking?”