image [https://cdn.midjourney.com/e585aaca-ea57-49d2-9d27-2185b10c713a/0_1.png]

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Following the System's instructions, Peter used an emery board to scrap a few flakes from one of the monster cores looted the previous night into a cup of coffee. It accentuated the bitterness and tasted horrible, but if he believed the AI, it ensured Peter could skip most of a night's sleep without any noticeable side effects. However, the young man got a notification about getting an upgrade in Poison Resistance and began feeling dizzy.

"Stupid me for listening to you," Peter grumbled, letting himself fall on the bad, eyes closed to stop the ceiling from spinning.

"Sarcasm again?"

"Yeah, you're right. I don't."

"And beyond this point?"

"I know, they're called the Uncultivated. The sect deems it a waste of resources to train them. Whatever they do, they won't be able to go past stage one, ever."

"When did I agree I'll join the Resistance? Sorry to break it to you, but I don't see myself going guerilla."

"A peaceful Resistance movement? C'mon!"

"How will we pay for the stuff?" Peter asked. "I have like three hundred bucks left."

"OK," Peter growled. "But I don't promise anything."

Inspecting his spatial storage, Peter made a short mental list of the loot. He had seventy-two claws, sixteen canines, and four pelts. Those from the Elite were marked accordingly. Ten minutes later, wearing a hoodie, and riding his bicycle, he exited the Campus and made his way first toward the town's outskirts, then to Lebanon, the next town southeast. The road passed close to the infested forest the wargs came from, and Peter's heartbeats accelerated.

Half an hour later, he stopped in front of a bikers' bar. The sign read: The Black Market.

Awkwardly parking his bike among the huge cruisers painted with skulls—and dutifully chaining it to a fence— Peter attracted a roar of laughs from the bikers who drank their beers outside.

"Hey, kid, you're lost? They don't serve lemonade here," one shouted after Peter.

"Let the kid be, he must be a new hire," a lady with more tattoos than a parlor said.

The kitchen has seen better days. It was filthy and stank of rancid oil that had been changed less often than a truck's. "I… err… my butler spoke with you," Peter said the password. "I'm here f-for the delivery job."

Stupid AI, he cursed.

Taking a gigantic cleaver, the cook used it to push the food he prepared on the stainless steel table aside. "Show me."

The man in front of him was short but broad-shouldered, and the cleaver gave Peter the shivers. As instructed by the System, he extracted the warg pelts and the claws and put everything on the table. The cook's eyes shone when he saw how much the dimensional bag carried. A glint so intense Peter feared he'd be mugged, but the System insisted on displaying the backpack's magic on purpose.

"Three grand for the claws, five hundred for the fangs, seven grand for the pelts," the cook said, extinguishing his cigarette butt into a pile of meatballs meat on a side of the table.

The System began to talk into Peter's ears, a lot of tactical information about how to negotiate, but that made the youngster confused, and he shook his head instead of replying.

"Fine, fifteen grand for everything," the cook sneered. "But you'll do the first delivery for free. Come."

Following the cook into the cold room, Peter discovered it was not cold at all. There was some meat lying around, sickly greenish, but on most of the shelves were guns and all sorts of gear that didn't belong in a restaurant, for sure.

"Mutated boar, level ten Elite," the cook said, shoving a leather biker's jacket, pants, and gloves into Peter's arms. "Ballistic helmet, cartel issue," he followed with something that looked like a bike helmet but obviously, was not. "A surveillance drone. Chinese, but works. And the piece de resistance. Custom-made forty-five caliber, fifteen silver coated bullets. Never been used before. No safety and hair trigger, don't touch it if you don't mean business."

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Err…" Peter hesitated for a moment.

"Keys for the bike," the cook continued, throwing the item on top of the pile. "It's the one with no paint jobs. Yamaha sport. Powerful, but discreet. That and the delivery make us even. See yourself out, I have food to prepare."

Leaving an aghast Peter behind, the cook returned to his business. The young man left the kitchen in a hurry. Following the System's instruction in a dreamlike state, he put on the helmet and the jacket, after fixing the gun's holster under his left armpit. His casual appearance had now changed into a disconcerting one. A vibe telling people: stay away from me.

The bikers had entered the premises and Peter put his bicycle in the dimensional storage, taking the only black Yamaha sitting around. Not a new one, but sturdy. The problem was he had next to no experience with motorcycles. Nevertheless, he swallowed his curses and rode it as best as he could. It meant going at about fifteen miles per hour.

the System said.

"Mountain bikes!"

"Are you crazy?" Peter screamed, almost crashing into a bush before stopping. "I won't deliver drugs."

Puffing like the big bad wolf in the stories, Peter got down from the bike and opened the trunk, tearing the wrapped package open.

In front of Peter's eyes were rows of bags containing qi-pills. Not antibiotics, but not heavy drugs either. Strictly restricted, though. He had flirted with the idea of discreetly making and selling some because there was a constant demand from the Uncultivated who didn't accept they'd be stuck forever at the first stage.

Half relieved, Peter restarted the motorcycle, after putting the parcel in a free slot of his storage. Slowly, they re-entered Hanover, stopping in front of a pizzeria.

The sign on the door said 'Closed', but there were a few people inside and the lights were on. After he entered, keeping his helmet on, a Latin man in his thirties, probably the owner, closed the shutters and escorted Peter to a table. There were three more people there: a slim woman with a generic Venom superhero costume, a policeman in his forties, with steel eyes, and to Peter's amazement, the campus guard from the previous day.

"Something to eat, or drink?" the owner asked.

"A lemonade? With a bent straw, please," Peter said, lowering his voice to sound rough and older.

Returning a minute later, the man put the drink in front of Peter. Rising his helmet just half an inch, the young man awkwardly started to sip the liquid. It was lukewarm but good.

"I'm Garcia, the owner. I also organize protests," the man said, offering a handshake.

"Impulse," Peter said, accepting it. "Stage name, of course."

"Kostel," the Campus guard said. "I spy around the University, taking photos of Cultivating manuals and sneaking them outside, to benefit the Uncultivated."

Not bad, Peter thought.

"I roll as Shadow," the masked girl said. Her voice sounded a little unnatural, like she modified it somehow. "I have an underground monster shelter, saving innocent lives and offering them for adoption after we train them to be harmless."

See, I'm not the only one with a monster Pet, Peter gloated.

They look decent, though. I like this kind of Resistance. What's the harm in socializing a bit?

"I'm from Albany but was appointed to take over the Hanover police office," the officer said. "I'm into the third stage, Body cultivation. I spy from the inside and pass the info to a larger network of ex-military Resistance… Oh, sorry, office message… I have to babysit them," the man sighed, writing a text on his phone.

the System said.

A few photos rolled in front of Peter's eyes. The officer appeared next to dead bodies like a hunter posing next to his trophies. Adults, but also kids of all sorts: toddlers with their brains blown up, young girls' undressed bodies set in indecent positions. And the SMS the man just sent said: 'Everybody's here, I'll wrap it up and move on to the next assignment. Tell the police to send the forensics. Four body bags." Peter barely managed to keep the content of his stomach where it belonged.

And the rest?

"So, what do you do for the cause, comrade Impulse?" the policeman asked.

"I smuggle custom untraceable weapons," Peter said, attempting to appear calm and keep his hands steady as he unholstered his new gun. He offered it with the grip toward the officer, but at the last second, turned it, and fired.

Impulse: Kinetic activated.

The man's head exploded, the loud bang deafening everyone. The recoil made the pistol jump from Peter's hand and fall in a crack between two couches.

"Whoa!" Garcia pushed his chair away with his feet, raising his hands.

Kostel, on the other hand, began to fumble with his revolver trying to point it at Peter, who rolled duck over the couch. The weapon clicked empty several times. "Fuck… I forgot to reload…"

"Stand down, he was going to kill us!" Peter yelled. "My butler hacked his phone. Just look at it."

Half a minute later, first the guard, then Garcia, vomited. Peter rose on his feet, gently shaking the girl, because she had frozen in place, whizzing. He was on the point of taking off her mask when she grabbed his hand, stopping him. "I'm OK."

"Then scram," Peter said. "Kostel, you too." She nodded and ran out, followed by the guard. That allowed Peter to move the couch and get back the gun.

"Please don't kill me!" Garcia started to knead his fingers.

"Listen to me!" Peter yelled, slapping the man, his brain trying to find solutions meanwhile. "A forensic team will come here in minutes. Call the police before that. Don't tell them you're Resistance, say you did an extra gig for people who wished to be... anonymous. You never asked questions. Three thugs, big, tattoed, masked, and the prick. One yells: 'This is for my brother, bitch,' and shoots him. The bikers ran together, taking the body."

"B-but they'll close my restaurant," Garcia mumbled.

Ignoring the owner, Peter pulled the body inside his spatial storage and took the dead man's phone. There was a visible hole in the wall behind the table, so he picked a knife from a table and pulled the silver bullet out. Finally, he rushed out and drove away. In the distance, police sirens approached.

"I barely control this damn thing!" Peter sneered.

"Movies, idiot!... Sorry, I'm not myself," Peter raised a shaking hand in front of his eyes.

"You think I'm crying over a serial killer? I don't give a shit," Peter screamed, still trembling. "It was self-defense. Where can I dump the body?" he mumbled.

That's sick!

"Yeah, because I had no other choice."

The discussion stopped because they were now near the monsters' forest. Peter looted the body and threw it down the slope, taking care to stay behind the like of totems going on the margin of the road. The fake policeman rolled a few times and stopped in a thicket. A second later, a bear's paw appeared from the shadows and snatched it. Shivering, Peter turned the Yamaha and went back to town. He changed into his old clothes, and stored the motorcycle into the storage, getting out the bike.

"This is crazy," a voice said. "Why would an assassin bother to come here?"

"And he pretended to be you, sir."

"Tattoed bikers means gang or cartel war," a third voice said. "I heard about the bastard. He was both CIA and FBI, then went rogue. The aliens reactivated him, and since then, he has murdered over a hundred people. A sicko."

"What do we do about Garcia?" the second voice asked.

"It's my daughter's favorite pizza… So, nothing..."

The first text was very brief.

Do you want to keep the System? Y/N

"Yes," Peter said after a short hesitation.

"I'm in."

"I thought College bullying or destroying democracy was the worst Cultivators did… But if killing children for fun is how they work, I want them gone. I'll do whatever it takes."

<…Very well… I suggest you invest your points before going to sleep. And another thing. Until level twenty, I won't be able to create more stat points for you. Call it a time of reflection and self-discovery.>