[System Boot Sequence Initiated]
Location: Drop Ship DS-2187
Status: Pre-Jump
Time Since First Death: 37 seconds
Memory Upload: Complete
“Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana.”
The Sanskrit words from the Bhagavad Gita echo in my mind as our drop ship punches through the upper atmosphere.
My mother’s voice was sweet and melodious as she recited the Sanskrit shloka by memory.
The sound of monsoon rain drumming on our tin roof formed a backdrop to her words.
We were both seated cross legged on the stone floor of our kholi in Dharavi.
I remember asking Aai what they meant.
[Ancient Knowledge Detected]
Source: Bhagavad Gita, ancient Indian treatise on war
Wisdom Path: Unlocking
Special Effect: Mental Fortitude +2
Hidden Requirement: Understanding through loss
“It means ‘Do your duty with no concern for the fruits of your actions,’” she said as she stirred our thin dinner.
As I remember her words, the smell of kerosene smoke fills my nose, as real now as it was then.
“These are Krishna’s words to the warrior Arjuna before the great battle of Kurukshetra. Arjuna doesn’t want to fight because he sees his own family members, his teachers, people he loves on the other side. But Krishna tells him that a warrior’s duty is to fight—not for victory, not for glory, not even for survival, but because it is his dharma to fight.”
"But Aai," I protest, "we're not warriors. We’re not even Hindus. We're just..." I can't finish. Just outcastes. Untouchables. Just street sweepers. Just surviving.
She cups my face in her work-roughened hands, and I can feel their warmth, smell the harsh cleaning chemicals that never quite wash away. "You don’t have to be a Hindu to appreciate wisdom, beta. Just as you don't have to wear a soldier’s uniform to be a warrior. The Gita is a treatise on the art of war. Our very survival is a war. Every day is a battle, and our countrymen, the very people who should be our brothers and sisters, seek only to keep us down and trample us into the dirt. Our very existence offends them, forcing us to fight for even the most basic rights every day of our lives. That makes you a warrior. Survival itself is your dharma."
She touches the wooden charm that now hangs against my chest. "Never forget it."
I haven't forgotten, Aai. I'm about to prove it.
[Player Status Update]
Name: Vish Naman
Title: SlumDog
Role: Draft Immigrant/Marked One
Level: 0
Class: Unassigned
Special Status: System Recognized
Current Goal: Survive the Drop
The drop ship’s interior reminds me of a metal coffin designed by committee. Harsh blue strips of light pulse along the ceiling, matching the rhythm of the ship’s quantum drive.
The light makes everyone look sick, highlighting the fear in their eyes, the sweat on their faces.
We’re arranged in four rows of spring-loaded jump seats, each one a self-contained launch pod for when the floor drops away.
[Environmental Analysis]
Drop Ship Class: DS-2187 “Coffin Carrier”
Crew: 30 recruits
Survival Probability: 0.06%
The battle suit pinches everywhere, especially around my ribs.
It’s a Mark IV Prometheus model, designed for peak human performance.
I am not peak human.
I’m about as far from it as the suit’s designers could have imagined.
[Equipment Status]
Item: Mark IV Prometheus Battle Suit
Compatibility: 23%
Power Output: Reduced
Special Note: Underqualified user
Warning: Performance limited by physical stats
[Current Stats]
Strength: 12/100
Agility: 8/100
Endurance: 7/100
Note: Malnutrition penalties active
When I was processed at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, and had to strip down for my physical, the doctor examining me said that he had never seen a sorrier case of malnutrition.
He spoke to the sergeant handling my intake and I heard him say that if they sent me out in the field, I wouldn’t last more than a few seconds contact with the enemy.
The sergeant told him to stamp my intake form and mind his own beeswax.
I open my eyes and look around, reorienting myself to the interior of the drop ship and the other members of the squad to which I was reassigned only minutes before deployment.
[Squad Analysis Initiated]
Processing: BOOT421 Members
Compatibility Check: Running
Warning: Social integration unlikely
Around me, Platoon BOOT421 deals with pre-drop stress in different ways:
Ajax “Tank” Rourke [Level 3 Berserker]
- Strength: 75/100
- Defense: 82/100
- Special Ability: Rage Amplification
Current Action: Cracking knuckles, stress response
Mira “Havoc” Santori [Level 2 Precision Hunter]
- Accuracy: 91/100
- Stealth: 88/100
- Special Ability: Perfect Shot
Current Action: Muttering combat mantras
Renji “Ghost” Nakamura [Level 2 Technomancer]
- Tech: 94/100
- Hacking: 87/100
- Special Ability: Digital Wraith
Current Action: System shock, vomiting in helmet
Kara “Wraith” Solheim [Level 2 Velocity Striker]
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
- Speed: 89/100
- Reflexes: 92/100
- Special Ability: Time Perception
Current Action: Checking suit seals compulsively
Dmitri “Iron” Petrov [Level 3 Combat Medic]
- Healing: 85/100
- Resilience: 90/100
- Special Ability: Crisis Time
Current Action: Praying in Russian
Gabriel “Prophet” Khan [Level 4 Battle Seer]
- Prediction: 93/100
- Strategy: 95/100
- Special Ability: Future Sight
Current Action: Watching with knowing eyes
[Your Status Among Squad]
Integration: Minimal
Trust Level: 0
Combat Value: Perceived as Negative
Hidden Potential: [REDACTED]
The nanofabric keeps trying to adjust, sending little ripples of discomfort across my skin.
Each time it shifts, the suit’s internal display flashes new warnings about my suboptimal physical condition.
Malnutrition. Muscle density insufficient. Bone density below acceptable parameters.
The statistics of poverty appear in glowing red text across my vision.
I touch the wooden charm against my chest, the last memento I have of my former life.
One of my former lives, if you count the times I died at that mela five years ago.
I don’t know how many times the Mega-AI had to scan through all the parallel worlds to find the alpha world on which I didn’t die, but it must have run into six or seven digits for sure.
Sometimes, I dream of those alternate timelines, the many lives in which I perished along with my entire family, and when I do, I feel the pain and trauma of those many deaths.
The burn scar beneath the wooden charm throbs with phantom pain—a perfect memory of orange flame and melting flesh.
Of Baba dissolving into light.
Of Aai trying to shield me with her body.
Of Arun’s final scream.
Of Asha’s hand reaching for mine as we both burned.
[Memory Core: Active]
First Death: Perfectly Preserved
Purpose: Crystallizing
Evolution Path: Opening
System Note: Pain becomes power
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Ghost announces from the back row.
Before anyone can react, he triggers his helmet seal and vomits inside it. The suit’s recycling systems kick in with a whir.
“Better in than out, grunt!”
That’s Tank, our heavy assault specialist, grinning as if this is just another day at the office.
[Social Dynamics Analysis]
Squad Cohesion: Low
Stress Levels: Critical
Your Integration Chance: 3%
Hidden Factor: Your true purpose
“Anyone else find it funny?” drawls Havoc, her voice dry. “How we’re about to drop onto a planet full of people who agreed to die just so we could practice killing them?”
She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Like, what kind of messed up cosmic joke is that?”
[Reality Check: Initiated]
Predator Planet Status: Training Ground
Population: Voluntary Sacrifices
Purpose: Perfect your killing
Note: Every death is a teachable moment
Through the viewport, I watch stars blur past.
Somewhere out there is Predator Planet, waiting for us.
Somewhere out there, the System is watching.
And somewhere beyond that, in the vast network of dragon-minds I glimpsed during my first death, something ancient and cold is aware and observing.
Waiting.
[ForeverGame Status: LIVE]
Tutorial: Complete
Real Training: Beginning
Deaths Remaining: Infinite
[Biometric Alert]
Core Temperature: 39.2°C
Infection Status: Chronic
Historical Data: Recurring Malaria
Warning: Subject compromised
The suit’s metal joints bite into my skin like ice, a sharp contrast to the fever I can feel building behind my eyes.
That last bout of malaria never really went away—we couldn’t afford the full course of treatment, just enough pills to keep me functional.
I can feel it lurking in my blood, waiting for moments of weakness.
[Medical Scan Initiated]
Detecting:
- Plasmodium vivax (dormant)
- Chronic malnutrition
- Respiratory inflammation
- Immune system: Compromised
“Hey Gandhi,” Tank calls out, his perfect white teeth flashing. “You sure that suit’s not gonna fall right off those chicken bones of yours?”
A few nervous laughs ripple through the hold. They’re all scared, trying to hide it with bravado.
“My name is Vish Naman,” I say through clenched teeth. “How about you call me Vish?”
“Yeah?” Tank laughs. “You look like Gandhi to me, so why don’t I just stick to calling you Gandhi!”
I glare at him. “How would you like it if I call you Abraham Lincoln?”
After a surprised pause, the entire squad breaks out in laughter.
Even the pilot and co-pilot up front in the cockpit, on the same com band as the squad for now, glance back over their shoulders at me with grins.
“Kid’s got a point, Tank,” Havoc says. “Even Dmitri here was offended, and he’s the Russian version of an incel proud boy, ain’t that right, Iron?”
“Fuck you, Santori,” Iron replies.
“Anytime, anywhere,” Havoc replies. “Hope you like it in the ass though, that’s how I roll.”
“Beggin’ for a peggin’!” Wraith sings out.
“You ladies about done?” Iron says. “In fact, I was about to agree with Havoc. Tank, don’t dish it if you can’t take it!”
“Ok, wiseass,” Tank grumbles. “Fuck y’all if you can’t take a joke.”
[Equipment Compensation]
Suit Status: Adjusting
Temperature Delta: -3.2°C
Oxygen Mix: Enhanced
Warning: Performance degrading
The suit’s temperature regulators whir, fighting against my rising fever.
My breath feels hot enough to scald, fogging the helmet’s interior despite the environmental controls.
The metal collar chafes against an old scar—a reminder of the time I fell into a sewage drain while helping Baba with his work.
We couldn’t afford antibiotics then either.
“Vish?” Ghost leans forward in his harness. “What’s that stand for? Wishy washy? Or did your folks just hate you too much to give you a normal American name?”
“Will you guys just let him be already,” snaps Havoc. “Kid’s just filling in for some rich senator’s kid. A draft-for-cash deal. He’s probably just here to bail out his family from debt. Right, kid?”
I don’t bother to answer though it’s true.
[Warning: Recruit social cohesion suboptimal. Team dynamics: Critical]
The Gnats swarm closer, sensing drama. A holohost materializes, its algorithms detecting the perfect moment for viewer engagement across the alphaverse.
“Speaking of draft-for-cash deals,” our assigned holohost’s perfect features arrange themselves into practiced curiosity, “Recruit Vish Naman, our viewers are quite interested in the Draft Immigration Act that brought you here. Would you care to comment on the controversy surrounding wealthy Americans securing exemptions by recruiting foreign replacements?”
[Active Interview Request: Response required within 30 seconds or Recruit will incur -50 CAP penalty. Current Balance: 100 CAP ($743.21 USD)]
I think of Senator Harrison’s son, who I replaced. How he looked at me with relief and disgust when I signed the papers.
Just over thirty million rupees for young Ron Harrison to avoid service. More money than my family would have seen in a lifetime.
But to him, or to any American for that matter, it’s less than $25,000, the equivalent of less than a year’s pay for a janitor, which is what our caste would be called in his country.
That money was a lifesaver for my mother and sister, who were all I had left in the world.
It came with US citizenship and a guarantee: an additional thirty million rupees ($25,000) wired to my family if I died serving my new country. Senator Harrison’s lawyer had shown me the money, already secure in an escrow account, before I signed the contract.
I could explain all that, explain how the Necromancer’s War, besides causing widespread death and destruction, had devastated the world economy, with the developing countries hit the hardest, and produced record levels of inflation in India, making subsistence on labor-class wages impossible.
It was only thanks to the US economy coming out stronger and the US dollar value increasing manifold due to its leadership position in the UAPA–the United Alpha Planetary Alliance–that the sum of $25,000 still had value.
And that my contract included the best available medical attention for my mother for the duration of my service, or, in the event of my death while on duty, for the rest of her natural life.
Or that she and my sister now occupied the modest house that was part of the deal: modest by US standards, but an unimaginable level of security that we could never have dreamed of acquiring back in Mumbai.
I could explain how, without that contract, my mother would probably have been dead in a few weeks. My sister and I would have been homeless, not merely slumdogs but reduced to the lowest level possible. Street rats reduced to homeless starvation, sleeping on filthy pavements, easy prey to the countless predators and gangs, as well as venal policemen.
How the United States in the form of Senator Harrison had quite literally saved our asses and given us the possibility of a better life. If I died on this drop, as was more than likely, at least I would die knowing I had secured Aai’s and Asha’s future, and I would die honoring Baba’s and Arun’s sacrifices and serving my new country.
The Great American Dream? Not quite. The Great American Immigrant Dream? Yeah, maybe.
But I say none of these things.
Not to the holohost and his potentially countless viewers.
Not to my squad members, whom I sense are watching and listening. I don’t think they give a damn about me or my life story, but for better or worse, we’re comrades in arms about to go into battle and they’d like to know who is this skinny guy in the suit and is he going to be an asset or liability under fire.
I’m not going to tell my story to anyone because it’s so pathetic, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I think it over.
I’m no sad sack.
I’m not going to end my brief military career telling my tragic life saga to strangers.
Fuck that.