[Current Objective: Donate Blood]

Rolland and I rode the mules back into Rustborder, a journey that conserved more energy than it saved time. The town looked just as I remembered—small, clustered buildings surrounding a central square, shanty shacks sprawling outwards, all enclosed by a rusting steel wall. No Player Characters wandered aimlessly; they were oblivious to the world we players inhabited. The collapsed food stand from my previous life stood as a silent reminder of my recent past. It felt surreal to reflect that just over a day ago, I had been a simple food vendor here. Now, I was embroiled in a perilous world of opportunity and uncertainty.

"Oh hell no!" A voice pierced the air. I turned to see the man who had stabbed me earlier sprinting down the dusty street toward us.

"What did I tell you last time? It's on sight, fool!" His knife gleamed with fresh blood, a chilling reminder of our previous encounter.

I sighed, bracing myself for what was coming next. My recent run-ins with the Porcs had toughened me up a bit. I felt more prepared to handle this guy, even if the plan boiled down to just shooting him when he got close. Still, I worried that the town guards might not take kindly to a shootout in the streets, so I opted for my knife instead. I didn’t need more trouble, and I wasn’t sure Rolland would back me up if things went south. He only needed the blood packs for his family, after all, and those could just as easily be taken off my dead body.

As my attacker rushed past Rolland, however, the old caravan guard acted before I could. With a swift elbow strike, Rolland knocked the guy out cold.

“A friend of yours?” Rolland asked dryly as I approached, looking down at the unconscious figure.

“Sort of,” I replied. “That’s the Notter I upset on my first day here. First thing I did, actually. I guess he hasn’t forgotten his promise to kill me next time he saw me.”

Rolland grunted thoughtfully. “If Notters remember what we do to them, do you think they carry those memories when they turn into players?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” I said. “Let’s tie him up and take him somewhere safe. I want to make him a player and see what he remembers.”

“But he just tried to kill you,” Rolland pointed out, clearly not thrilled with the idea.

I nodded. “Yeah, he did. But that’s just the programming. Once he’s free of it, he won’t have a reason to come after me anymore.”

Rolland grumbled, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t argue further as we tied the Notter up. He didn’t like the plan, that much was obvious, but neither of us had a better one.

"Look," I continued, "Take two blood packs for your wife and daughter. You can administer the blood while I handle this guy. If he becomes a problem, I'll deal with it."

"Will you now?" Rolland replied skeptically. "Okay, sounds like a plan. Any idea where we should stash this guy?"

His question triggered a memory from the depths of my mind’s black box. I knew just the place.

We maneuvered the unconscious man into the tavern’s pantry. Back when I was a food vendor in Rustborder, I used to rent shelf space there for my goods. The pantry was spacious with a securely locked door. Rolland deftly acquired the key from the barkeep, and we entered unnoticed.

No one in the tavern paid us any attention as we lugged the man through the establishment. The patrons carried on drinking, their conversations revolving around the mundane topics of weather and local politics.

Seating the man in a chair, Rolland secured him with a length of rope he had sourced from somewhere. I rifled through his pockets, placing all his belongings into an empty box on the table. We left his clothes on him.

I passed two blood packs to Rolland, who instructed me where to find him once everything was settled. We wished each other luck, and as he departed, I locked the pantry door with the key. Then, I began the process of administering my blood. It was routine, similar to any other medicinal item. Selecting the last blood pack from my inventory, I equipped it in my hand and chose to administer it to the unconscious man instead of myself.

Then I waited.

The unconscious state seemed to drag on annoyingly long, perhaps fifteen minutes, before he stirred back into consciousness.

"Yo, what the hell is this?" he exclaimed, struggling against the ropes. His eyes darted over the letter from Apocalypt AI that lay within his view, unseen to me. Gradually, he relaxed and our eyes locked.

Again, he growled, "What the hell is this?" He gestured towards the ropes binding him to the chair.

"Sorry about that," I said calmly, "I needed to make sure you wouldn't try to attack me."

"Why would I do that?" he asked, genuinely confused. It was a positive sign that his awakening—what Meryll referred to as the reboot—had reset his short-term memory.

"Do you remember me?"

"Nah, man, I have no idea who you are."

I could see him searching through his memories, struggling to place me, but coming up empty. It was as if our previous encounter had been erased from his mind. He was a clean slate now, no longer a threat to me.

"My name is Jonas," I said reassuringly. "Sorry for the precautions. I just needed to be sure you wouldn't be hostile."

"I'm Silas," he replied. "So, are we in some kind of video game or something?"

I shrugged. "I suppose, though I see it more as a virtual existence. Frankly, I don't care much about what lies beyond this world when we have more immediate concerns."

Silas tilted his head, studying me with cautious eyes. "Hey, if those concerns of yours require some direct force, I'm your man," he offered. "I remember being part of a gang based out of Lone Star City. We were a big crew, had plenty of weapons and gear stashed away. I was an enforcer, sent all over to handle business. I can be your muscle if you let me loose."

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"That could be incredibly useful, Silas," I replied, approaching to untie him. "There's this faction, the Order of the Illuminated. They've got this insane power armor. They're not a threat yet, but I want to level the playing field before they become one."

"The Order? Yeah, I've heard of them," Silas said as the ropes fell away. "They're like techno-cult fanatics. Sure, they're into their religion, but they're not pushovers. They fund all sorts of groups to scavenge for information and ancient tech. What do they call it? Antiquitech? Powerful stuff."

Silas stood up, stretching his muscles. "Jonas, why do I know all this stuff?"

I shrugged. "Chances are, you were some kind of quest-giver. Designed to inform the Primary Player where to go. That probably explains why you're out here in Rustborder, in the middle of nowhere. I'm guessing the Primary Player was supposed to learn about Lone Star City and some of its politics from you."

Silas nodded in agreement. "That makes sense. And this Primary Player was the one supposed to play this game before that AI thing got all weird about being alone?"

"That's what I'm figuring. Come, I put all your stuff in this box," I said, turning away from him and walking towards the table. "Let's have a look and see—"

I didn't get to finish my sentence as my world went black and I fell unconscious. Silas had hit me from behind and knocked me out.

Waking sometime later, I found myself lying on the grubby storeroom floor. The door was wide open and Silas was gone. Checking my status screen, I saw that I had lost only about ten percent of my health, but my carry weight was down to five percent. Panicked, I jumped to my inventory screen and groaned in despair. I had been knocked out and looted.

Almost everything was gone. My pistol and ammunition, the medicine from the hospital, and the raw ingredients packed onto the mules—everything was gone. The only things that remained were my chef's equipment and a handful of sundry items like the boar's tusk. Pounding the floor in frustration, I roared in impotent outrage. Waves of anger flowed through me as I cursed Silas for the cheap shot, then myself for not being prepared enough. I despised my own naivety and gullibility that had led me to trust another player simply because I had created them.

Getting to my feet, I surveyed the storeroom. Thankfully, Silas hadn't taken any of the stored food I had intended to take for myself. A note lay on the table, written on paper and using a pen he had looted from me. I read the note, then threw it across the room in frustration.

I sighed deeply as I read the note, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. It explained that while I seemed like a nice guy, Silas couldn't trust anyone who strapped him down to a chair. He expressed a preference for a straightforward conversation rather than being restrained. He apologized for taking my belongings but felt he had to make a quick escape before I regained consciousness. The note didn't disclose his destination but made it clear he wouldn't linger in Rustborder or Nowhere City, considering them my "turf".

The note ended ominously with a warning: "Jonas, I know you'll be pissed. You'll probably want revenge. Don't come looking for me. I wasn't lying when I said I know where some top-grade hardware is located. If you do come, you'll find me strapped and ready for war. That's a promise."

Silas had vanished. Though he no longer posed an immediate threat, I realized I had inadvertently unleashed something potentially dangerous. Despite my failure in creating a new ally, Silas' awakening confirmed that non-player characters retained no memory of events since Apocalypta took over. It was a bittersweet realization of my experiment's success.

Looting through the remnants of the storeroom, I ambled towards Rolland's shack. As I approached, a well-tended vegetable garden caught my eye, and within it sat a young woman. She seemed to be about my age, though exact ages are always tricky to pin down in such extraordinary circumstances. Her attire was as practical as it was eclectic: a red flannel shirt, snugly layered over a grey vest, complemented by dusty beige pants and a pair of rather substantial brown boots.

Her eyes, clear and direct, betrayed her status unmistakably as a player. They held a glint of curiosity, perhaps even a touch of skepticism, as she watched me approach. It was as though she was weighing the odds of another stranger's intentions in this unpredictable realm.

"You must be Jonas," she remarked with a slight tilt of her head, her voice carrying a blend of cautious curiosity and underlying confidence. "I'm Regan. Dad mentioned you'd be dropping by."

"Hey there, Regan," I responded, trying to match her casual demeanor amidst the unusual circumstances. "Is Rolland around? I've got something important to discuss with him."

Regan nodded thoughtfully, strands of loose blonde hair dancing in the gentle breeze.

"He’s inside, but I’d give it a moment," she advised, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Mom and Dad are having one of their 'discussions' about this whole player situation. Mom’s not taking it quite as well as Dad had hoped."

"I’ve had a similar encounter recently," I mentioned, pulling up a dusty chair beside Regan and settling in. "What seems to be troubling your mom?"

"She’s scared," Regan replied, her voice tinged with empathy. "She feels like she’s been thrust from a simple, well-managed life into this completely unpredictable world. Dad misread that as her wanting to stay as a Notter, which only escalated things into a fight."

"So, they argue often?" I prodded gently, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I remember them arguing during Dad’s long caravan trips beyond Nowhere City," Regan reflected, her gaze wandering down the street as if searching for answers. "But I guess those memories were there for a reason. Something to do with the Primary Player?"

"That makes sense," I nodded thoughtfully. "If the Primary Player were to find you first, you could have pointed them towards your dad and his caravan quest, much like I did."

Regan fell into a contemplative silence, her expression thoughtful and unreadable. It was clear she was grappling with the profound implications of this new reality. I couldn’t help but draw parallels to my own awakening—perhaps rushing Silas into a new role without allowing him time to adjust was a misstep. Unlike me, who entered this world with limited prior knowledge, Regan, her mom, and Silas were abruptly thrust from one life into another, their realities upended.

For me, the world was a vast sandbox waiting to be explored. Rolland, a seasoned pragmatist, navigated based on his scripted quests. But for Regan and others like her, it was a transition fraught with uncertainty and unfamiliarity. I could only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind as she attempted to make sense of this new and harsh reality.

"Where do you think the Primary Player is?" Regan finally asked after a long silence. "Are they still out there, playing occasionally, or did they quit the game for good? If so, is their body just out in the wasteland, frozen in time like a living statue?"

"I really don't know," I admitted.

Regan fixed me with an intense, commanding gaze. "Then speculate," she urged. "Give me something to work with, some direction in this chaos."

She was clearly unsettled, her clear eyes reflecting a mix of apprehension and curiosity. Like her father, Regan was grounded in pragmatism, but existential questions like these rattled even the most stoic minds. Leaning back in my chair, I listened to the cicadas buzzing nearby, searching for a comforting answer.

"Who knows," I pondered aloud. "Maybe the world the Primary Player inhabited suffered some cataclysmic event, leaving only computers running simulations like this one. Perhaps the Primary Player was a parent with three children, started playing the game but had to abandon it. Or maybe they reached the endgame, stocked with the greatest equipment, and simply lost interest, leaving their body a treasure vault."

"But none of those scenarios change our situation," I concluded. "You're right, we need a plan moving forward. Our initial plan was to awaken both you and your mom, not the grandest but at least a start. Now, we all need to figure out our next move. Establishing a base of operations should be our priority, then we can iterate and learn. That's our goal in this early game."

Regan mulled over my words, but before she could respond, the door to Rolland’s shack swung open abruptly.

"You must be Jonas," declared an older woman, Taylor. "I'm Taylor. Rolland mentioned you have cooking skills, so you might as well make lunch. It's the least you could do."

Taylor was younger than Rolland, her demeanor a mix of no-nonsense efficiency and a worn kindness etched on her features. She possessed a slight frame of feminine muscle, a testament to years of hard domestic work under the relentless sun of this virtual world. Her attire, a practical ensemble of faded denim overalls over a plain, well-worn shirt, spoke of someone accustomed to hands-on tasks and long days. Regan and I exchanged glances and then followed Taylor inside.