You Are Eligible To Receive Foreign Aid.

Do You Accept It?

I Accept

I Decline

Sure, fuck, why not.

I tapped accept.

The spinning square came back. That’s good. I missed him.

Alas, as soon as he arrived he departed once more. In his place was a new message:

You Have Chosen To Receive Aid.

You Have Received A Relief Package!

It Has Been Placed In Your Inventory.

It might be a little late to ask, but what the fuck was I looking at?

Would You Like Help?

Yes

Close

Help would be great, thanks.

I tapped yes.

What proceeded wasn’t me being rescued from my predicament as I’d hoped, but instead a primer on how to use the strange device I’d found stuck to me.

It was mostly pretty familiar. I had access to a couple of screens, one of which was the aforementioned inventory.

The other was a bit more interesting. It appeared to be a stat screen composed of a triangular radar chart, a big bar labeled ATP, and a numerical display labeled CR, which I apparently had a single unit of.

A series of text windows overlayed themselves next to each element of the screen, and explained their purpose.

In essence, the CR counter tracked my “contribution”, which could be increased by eliminating “hostile forces”. Doing so would apparently be beneficial to me, but how exactly wasn’t specified.

ATP was the resource I expended to complete certain actions. Didn’t know what actions yet, but whatever.

The radar chart measured my rank in three different categories. Body, Technique, and Capacity. This too, was mostly left unexplained.

The next window explained how to dismiss the thing stuck to my hand, which was apparently just named “the display”. I did so by clenching my fist, which caused the display to crumble into black particulates.

I then promptly panicked.

It hadn’t told me how to bring it back! I feel like they should have told me how to bring it back before telling me how to get rid of it!

Did I do something wrong? Maybe the next message was going to be on how to bring it back, and I closed it just before it could tell me!

Oh God! Oh fuck! Holy sh-

Wait, why’s my hand glowing?

There was some sort of tattoo on the back of my hand, it looked like a rectangle with a cross in the center, and it pulsed from stark black to a warm daylight glow.

I also felt a pins and needles sensation on my palm, like when your hand falls asleep.

I clenched and unclenched my fist to get rid of it. As my hand opened, the display reformed in my grasp.

Oh, so that's how that worked.

I tried it a couple more times, and found out that it wouldn’t reopen every time my hand opened, I had to think about it. If I was focusing on something else, it wouldn’t appear.

Satisfied with that, I checked the display again. The reason for my new tattoo glowing was to alert me to a new notification.

This time I ignored it, and swiped over to the inventory. I wanted to open that relief package.

Mostly I was hoping there would be something there that offered some more immediate aid. I was still bleeding, and in a fair amount of pain. I was also pretty sure that continued blood loss would kill me.

Whether or not that would put an end to the whole zombie issue was another matter. I just didn’t want to die yet.

I tapped on the relief package, represented by a stylized cardboard box.

It disappeared, and in its place were three new items. Each was in a stack of three, judging by “x3” in the bottom right corner of each rectangular decal.

The first was a stack of what looked like canned food. Second was a stack of. . . Houses? Did I have three whole houses in this thing?

Didn’t really matter. I was more focused on the third stack. Those were unmistakably healing potions. Rounded glass bottles with a cork on the top and a + on the side.

I tapped on one and was prompted to select whether to use or cancel. I hit use.

The next moment, It felt Like there was fire in my insides, and terrible frostbite on my outsides, and immediately my lungs felt like I had been holding my breath for five hours.

I had just enough time to wonder whether this was going to be one of those scenarios where the pain makes time stretch out into infinity, before it stopped entirely.

Thank god! That was really unpleasant. I’d been left gasping, in fact.

But hey, it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore.

And my arm was good as new.

Wonderful.

My breath calmed after a while, and I checked myself from head to toe.

Literally, I found out that the crack in my heel that had been bothering me was gone too. I was almost more excited about that than the fact that my stab wound was gone.

I didn’t even have scars!

I turned my attention to the other Items in my inventory. I was pretty sure the cans were just food, but tapping on them gave me the same use prompt as the potions had, so I couldn’t just take them out of my inventory to examine them. Same went for the houses.

This meant that the only way I could figure out what they really did was by using them. Best not to when I was both not hungry, and not in need of any shelter. Those were both liable to change though, so I could check them then.

I swiped back to the status screen. There was still a little message window patiently waiting for me, bobbing up and down slowly on the display.

The message Asked me whether I wanted to “Finalize” the installation. Doing so would give me access to additional features, but I should apparently only do so in a safe place.

I debated it for a second. I mean on the one hand, I could use all the help I could get, but if I had to do so in a safe place, that meant that there was some element of danger to the proceedings right? Like maybe I’d be immobilized for some amount of time, perhaps. If that went on long enough, then maybe I’d be too late to help my friend in 215.

Also, what if zombie-me had access to whatever new features “finalizing” would give me? I mean that mongol cosplayer zombie knew how to use a keycard, but was also malevolent enough to decide to try and kill me. That implied that the undead in this case were both intelligent and hostile to the living.

Then again, if we were assuming that my moving cadaver could use my display thing, then it could probably just as easily decide to “finalize” then.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Ultimately, the deciding factor was my curiosity. I wanted to know what else this thing could do, and I wasn't sure I’d be around long enough to make it to 215 and then check.

I didn’t have any sort of convenient timer for my potential zombification, after all. And as much as I’d like to hope that the healing potion had cured me of that affliction along with the bite-wound itself, I couldn’t know for sure.

I pressed the button.

This time, instead of an intense burning sensation, I was treated to a splitting headache, and my vision swam. I saw strange patterns in multiple colors, and maybe even symbols of some sort.

I also saw blinding flashes of light, and a sound like firecrackers and base drums. I felt a hornet or something bite me in the shoulder. I started to black out, but I endured through the tunnel vision even as I fell to my knees. I think the only thing keeping me from passing out was that the flashing lights and loud noises were triggering my flight or flight response. My brain's desire to shut down entirely and the amount of sheer panic I was feeling were sort of canceling each other out.

It all went away after a while.

Things were quiet again.

My head still hurt though. Kind an eye strain headache, combined with a continuing pain and ringing in my ears.

Looking around I noticed that there were now scorch marks on my walls. I was also bleeding from my right shoulder. That didn’t seem right, I just checked my injuries a second ago and I’d been spotless.

Something had happened then. My sluggish gray matter had figured out that much. I looked around my room and saw more destruction than just some burns on the drywall.

In short, basically everything was wrecked. My computer monitor was straight up melted, and my PC had holes in it. My desk sported pockmarks and splinters on most of its surface.

The damage to my model mechs was worse. One poor guy had a hole clean through the center of his chest. Another had seemingly been blasted apart with explosives, bright red pieces of plastic scattered all through the room, and its head resting on the carpeted floor. Yet another model had its legs torn off.

The list went on. Plastic was melted and charred, acrylic shelving units and miniature robots alike sagged and bubbled.

Basically all of my models were destroyed. All except the one I had been working on, and three others. Those three were all crowded together on a shelf just to my right. I didn’t know what had spared them, but it felt like a pittance compared to the loss I had experienced.

I’d had some of those models for years. I spent a part of each day admiring them, Idly staring at them from my desk in between homework assignments. I woke up every morning looking at some of the ones near my bedside. I even had a habit of reposing every single one after completing a kit. The task was easy at first, but in recent months It had started taking me a full day or more just to rearrange them.

I was genuinely, emotionally, devastated. I was, in fact, crying again. Jesus Christ. Twice in a day was a little much, even for me.

I sniffed and suppressed the sobs working their way up my sternum with sheer fucking will. Now was not the time!

I wiped away at my exhausted tear ducts. The tattoo on my hand was glowing again. What did it want now? Couldn’t it see I was busy?

I also noticed that my tattoo had changed. The simple cross-shape in the center had disappeared, and was replaced by an image very familiar to me. It was the head of a recognizable mecha from a well known franchise. The familiar V-shaped ornamentation on its fore-head that called back to a samurai’s Datemono was replaced by a military chevron.

Was it mocking me!? In this time of distress! I just experienced the loss of my collection, and this is how I was treated!

I angrily sniffed and opened my palm to check the display. As promised, there were new features.

In short, there was a pink shop Icon above the ATP bar, a help icon in the top right, and a blank portion of the screen just to the left of the radar chart had been filled in.

I apparently had a role now. Probably a video game style class equivalent, given the way these things had been proceeding.

I was a “Model General”.

Did that imply the existence of a model specific? Or was that like a military rank, and there were also model lieutenants?

My display didn’t provide answers to these questions, but it did tell me at least what being a “Model General” did, sort of.

I had access to three abilities.

First was Animate. No Idea what that did.

Next was Resupply. That seemed self explanatory, but what was I Resupplying and how?

Third was Repair. Once again, how and what?

I also noticed that my one blank radar chart had filled in. I apparently was low in body and Capacity, but extremely high in technique.

I guess that implied my “role” was highly specialized. I didn’t really feel any different though, and I had no Idea how to use any of my abilities.

The help Icon seemed like the next best bet. Maybe there’d be another tutorial.

Once I tapped it though, I was prompted whether or not to use it. Apparently the help feature could only be used once per a day. I was completely lost on what to do, so I still went for it.

Hint: Undead can only be created by a necromancer.

I thought about that little nugget of wisdom for a hot second.

First, Necromancers were a thing. The whole glowing-blue-flame-for-eyes thing had implied this flavor of zombie was the supernatural kind, but I hadn’t wanted to make any assumptions.

Especially because magic wasn’t real.

Second: I wasn’t going to turn into a zombie. Thank god!

I was crying again, but I didn’t even mind at this point.

If Zombies could only be created by a necromancer, that heavily implied an undead couldn’t go around creating other undead! I didn’t have to worry about the bite! (Unless the dog was the necromancer. But that seemed pretty unlikely.)

Holy shit I was going to live! Assuming something else didn’t kill me! Which seemed more and more probable the more I thought about it. The brief glances of devastation I had seen seemed to suggest there were more terrible things running around than just a couple of walkers.

And I’d barely survived my first encounter, honestly. I needed to figure out my abilities. I couldn’t ask for help again though, I’d tried. As it had warned me, I needed to wait twenty four hours.

That meant it was time to experiment!

I decided to start from the top. Animate. I tapped on it.

In return I got a list. The list had three names on it.

I knew those names well. Very well, actually. Did that mean. . .?

I tapped one of the names on the list.

A model on my shelf was soon covered in a swarm of black particulates. Bands of light squirmed under the clinging darkness like glowing worms. In a couple breaths, the light ceased and the crawling soot sunk into the model’s inner frame, seeming to disappear entirely.

Then, just as casually as could be, the mini-mecha hopped down from the shelf and gave me a salute.

***

I stared, more than a little baffled. I don’t know why I found the sight of one of my favorite toys suddenly walking about more shocking than the whole Night of the living Dead scenario I found myself in, but I sure as hell did.

I completely shut down, in fact.

Head empty, no thoughts. It might have been one of those “straw that broke the camel’s back” sort of situations, come to think of it.

Regardless, After standing there in a highly confused staring contest for a while, I noticed that the diminutive soldier-bot seemed to be expecting something from me.

It was still standing nearly stock still in a perfect salute. The only thing that gave away its ambulatory qualia was its single cyclopean eye. The eye wavered slightly, seeming a little uncertain.

I stared a bit more, still not really getting what was going on.

It then finally occurred to me.

I was the general.

I was being saluted.

“Uh. . . At ease, I guess.”

The dainty murder-bot lowered its arm, and it stood at rest.

Huh.

Well a walking toy soldier was neat, I guess, but I didn’t really see it taking down a shambling corpse on its own. I looked at its tiny little hands. I guessed I could have it try and hold a paring knife or something similarly small. Maybe it could climb on a zombozo's face and stab it from there.

Although, could it really hold a knife? Most standard mecha models and figures had non articulating hands. Whenever you wanted to have the hands be different you would usually have to swap the hand parts out entirely. This mecha was no different.

This particular model was called the SAR-D1N-2, or the small fry, as it was affectionately known. All in all I found the small fry lineup to be kind of adorable, so I owned a good few of them. Or had, before they all melted.

Speaking of such things, what had caused that? I was assuming that had been part of the whole finalization procedure. I had been told to do so in a safe place, after all. I

Maybe. . .

I addressed the small fry unit in front of me.

“Can you use your gun?”

It nodded. Its gun was grasped in its right hand.

“Can you show me?”

It pointed its adorably minuscule firearm at my battered study desk. It looked at me, seemingly asking for permission.

“Go ahead.”

With a series of quiet snaps, three new pockmarks appeared in the leg of my discount flat pack desk. The Desk still stood tall, however. Upon closer examination, the markings didn’t go very deep at all, though the grouping was tight.

I guess that figured, the small fry was really tiny. The fact that its gun worked at all was impressive.

This particular small fry was of the chibi variety too, making it even smaller than many of its miniature brethren.

Still, the fact that my models could come to life with working weaponry basically told all that I needed to know. I knew why all my mechas were cooked.

I already mentioned that I like to repose my models pretty regularly, and I often did so with some sort of theme. For example, maybe I’d decide to have all of them doing calisthenic routines, posing them in different stretches.

This week I had them all posed for a firefight. I had painstakingly aligned the barrel of each and every model I owned, so that each Mecha had an enemy they were aimed at. I even used a laser pointer to make sure the guns were all aimed true.

You might ask why I went through the effort, but the reason was disappointingly simple. I just thought it looked cool.

And as a result, my mechas had all killed each other.

I was directly responsible for the deaths of all the models in my collection.

I collapsed to my knees.

I had murdered my precious children.

Needless to say, I was sobbing anew.