After a few words with Donnie we went off to see the General Kendrick and I began the ordeal of trying to convince him I wasn't useless to the defenses. He and his group had taken over the ground level of the bunker, which apparently had more than a few basement levels, and turned it into their own base of operations.

"Name, level, real world combat experience, and any combat upgrades you got through your class?" He ordered. One of the others sat nearby, ready to write everything down. Off to the side the others in his group watched on with varying levels of interest and professionalism. Getting a closer look at the group revealed that only a third of them moved with military immediacy. The second third seemed to be experts of various kinds, professional but not conditioned to jump first and look later, while the rest looked like they only had enough training to not get in the way and were just along for the ride. It was hard to tell before this, though, because the common outfits made them all blend together.

Well, I might as well get this over with. "My name is Johnny Max Riker and I'm level 1. And before you ask, I don't know how that happened either. From what I understand about level scaling, it shouldn't be possible. As for fighting know-how: I have real world experience with various high level combat simulators at a professional level, both in training and demonstrations of skill. As for in here: my class didn't give me anything, but I have a gun." I patted the holstered weapon at my side to draw attention to it.

He raised an eyebrow at my level and looked consideringly at me when I recounted my job experience in as diplomatic a way as possible. Then one of the others nearby spoke up. He was sitting at a nearby laptop, though he remained unobtrusive otherwise. "I found him. He has a career with video games, decently long too, but nothing designed for military or paramilitary use. No license to carry or archived weapon background checks in the states that hold that type of information. Nothing indicating martial arts or other combat training. He doesn't even have a history of violence on record." Well this was certainly the first time I got looked down on for not trying to murder people for petty offenses.

He waved me away and turned toward my friend, leaving me with one last order. "Go talk to Brown. I have no use for you."

I headed off to the side and was directed to the aforementioned Brown. He looked around with a manic glint in his eye that was barely concealed, and at first I thought it was directed at me. It was a disturbing thought. Then I realized that this was just how he looked and his mania wasn't so finely aimed that I would be anything other than collateral damage. That was even more disturbing a thought. At the very least he came across as much more personable than the other guy did. "I'm Brown, or 'Caps' if you want my callsign. I'm in charge of the rear of the 'formation'. Between you and me, I think the 'good general' just wants me as far from him as possible, but I've still got enough pull with the non-grunts to be second in command. You don't look too bad, what's your deal."

I relaxed, mirroring his posture and letting out a very real groan of annoyance. "I got screwed over by the system and only given one level, so I don't have any fancy toys to play with. It shouldn't even be possible, but whatever. I also never tried to murder someone outside this Game, or really had a reason to try, so they labeled me as 'combat incapable' and sent me to you. I do have video gaming experience though, professional level, so at least I have the right mindset and know what not to do with a gun."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Shooter?" he asked, then continued when I nodded. "Right. I would be more impressed if you had something bigger than a 9mil pop-gun. It's good for practice, and you really should do that before you get into real combat, but not much else. We are going up against some sort of alien monsters here. The robot by the door said it was a 'light scout unit', but what is light for an alien army inside The Game is probably heavy infantry level to us."

I growled in frustration. "Look, you've all got all sorts of weapons, I saw one person with half a dozen of them laid out in a row. Can't you let a guy borrow one to help keep all of us alive?"

He smiled appreciatively, the glint not leaving his eye. "Heh, Trigger is a hoot. Don't let him know you want to take one of his babies. He gets real possessive about that sort of thing." Then his smile was gone. "But, as for your idea..."

Suddenly, and very much without warning, Caps reached in his trench coat and tossed a pineapple grenade straight at my chest. I nearly fumbled the grab but held onto it despite being completely caught by surprise. My surprise only grew when, before I could say anything about his action, the explosive seemed to fade into nothing. He then reached back into his jacket and pulled out another grenade, presumably the same one as before. I wasn't exactly mad, he hadn't pulled the pin and I had noticed that detail right away, but it still shook me up a bit. "Yeah, we tried it. That happens with everything. It made Trigger happy, not having to share and all, but Spooks was right pissed. It also left some of the VIPs in our group without too many options."

"Yeah, I noticed them," I said, deciding to broach the subject. "Some of the people look less combat capable than I do. And I'm level 1 without your imposing trench coats or anything."

His eyes honed in on me. "What can I say. The gig pays well. I get my own pod, one better than what the military uses for their grunts, and all I have to do is try to keep some pansies alive through at least a round or two of the Tutorial. What did you have to do to get in, sell your left kidney?"

"Naw, I just was friends with someone who already got in. I have to pay him back for the pod, but I'll have better options for cash after getting in anyway." I waved away his question.

He responded with a dismissive wave. "Let me introduce you to craps sometime, if he ever makes it in. You gamblers should stick together. I've heard about those loan sharks, their money comes with... conditions..." His words didn't give me feelings of comfort, but it was his eyes that really worried me. The mania completely drained as he spoke and he got still as a post. It was as though every fiber of his being was saying that, crazy he may be, but not that crazy.

"Yeah," I answered without a lot of force behind my words, "I looked over things and nothing he wanted seemed too bad. But, you know..." I stopped at that. This was an issue I would have to deal with later, even if the fear of it seemed to keep growing.

He nodded, accepting my change of subject for what it was. "Look, I'll level with you: You're dead weight. But," he interjected before I could say anything, "you aren't as bad as the VIPs or the people who brought freaking adolescents into a firefight. And that isn't even mentioning the old people or the pre-teens. At least you have a good head on your shoulders, enough for me to trust you won't do any dumb shit."

"So what? I'm dead weight but not as bad as everyone else?" I wasn't sure if I should be offended at the insult or appreciative that it wasn't worse.

"See what you don't get is that dead weight is useful too. Every one of us is, to some degree: Dead weight and useful. Dead weight makes walls, and my job is to wall off the back of our formation so that the big shots can kill everything at the front. Half your group of weebs I expect to run out and try to get themselves killed for glory, and the rest to piss yourselves when the first person falls; but even broken stones can be thrown at the enemy till their formation cracks and glory hounds die so the rest of us don't have to." His manic smile was back in all its glory as he held out his hand in an invitation. "So how do you feel about being dead weight?" he asked.

I grasped his arm in acceptance. "It's better than being dead."