Consciousness returned to me like a blow to a face. I blinked, then coughed up a mouthful of dusty air. For a second, I lay there dazed, before mercenary instincts kicked in and I leaped off the ground in a flash. Dim light flickered from a cracked lamp in the ceiling. The scent of bitter mold twitching my nose. Four boxy walls and a low ceiling. Was I still back in the interrogation room?
No, this place was even less well lit, not to mention the lack of blood.
Blood.
Right, blood. That’s what comes out of me when I’m…shot…in the—oh god.
My hands shot up to my head. They claws past my neck and scrabbled at the skin at my nape. Nothing. Not even a scar. The bullet hole wasn’t just gone, it was like I had never been shot at all. Smooth skin, an outline of the bone beneath and little else. Beneath it, all the way down to my chest, a heart pulsed. Its beat picked up as the great realisation settled upon me like a falling anvil.
It was real. Me dying, seeing that freakish computer screen in the void, then I’m here. I’m back to life. It really, really worked.
I clenched my fist, torn between shouting for joy and laughing like a psychopath. A second later, I stopped. Where had my strength gone?
Assigning the default age of 18…
Oh, that’s right. That ‘interface’ had made me younger. My elation vanished as I processed the implications. All the time and effort I had dedicated to honing my physical prowess had been wiped in an instant. In its place was the body of a scrawny teen who lacked the gumption to exercise on a regular basis. A grimace grew as I pinched a wad of puppy fat on my chest. My arms were skinner, the legs shorter. I flexed and groaned at the lack of available muscle. Unarmed combat was out of the question, no doubt.
At least my throat didn’t sting like a bare ass on sandpaper. No clue how many cigarettes I smoked last life, but I was going to stop.
What else had that ‘interface’ done to me? A mission about ‘impure entities’? What even were those?Before I could ponder further, a voice rang out behind me.
“Oh my, this isn’t something you see every day.”
Young, feminine and cheery. I spun around and saw a schoolgirl sitting cross-legged on the floor. She had long auburn hair that trailed off into fluffy curls around her shoulders. Split ends were among them—a sign of rough handling. A pair of curious blue eyes flitted up and down at my visage. Her uniform was a private academy’s deal—mauve blazer, pleat skirt and a pair of long white leggings. A red bow with a golden buckle lay on the synth-silk covering the lower neck.
Our eyes met. She gave me an airy smile. She lifted both hands, palms out, and I saw her wrists were bound with plastic ties. I stepped closer and recognised the technique immediately. The plastic ties were tight enough to restrict her movements, but not enough to bruise her wrists. Whoever caught her wanted her clean.
“In case I’m not hallucinating…” The girl said, sounding unconcerned. “Did you just appear out of thin air?”
Good question, kid. I shrugged and settled on a simple, “Hell if I know. Is that what happened?”
"Yep. I was having a nice time staring at the wall, contemplating my imprisonment, when pop! You were there, mumbling to yourself.” The girl scooted closer. “How did you do it? Are you a magician?”
No, I was professional with over ten years of experience in military operations, close-quarters combat, infiltration and extortion. How rich is your family? If I extract you, will I get paid well?
“Just some guy.” I said.
“Some guy.” The girl repeated. She shrugged. “If you say so, mister.”
“Look, I’m just as confused as you are. Take it up with, I don’t know, God or whatever.” I retorted. I glanced around. A locked door stood at the adjacent wall. “Where are we, anyway?”
"In the refuge of a gang of ruffians." The girl said. She scooted closer, her white leggings grinding across the floor. There was a lack of accessories or makeup on her face.
Great. She was one of those types. Why couldn’t upper-class folk use regular language?
“Could you be more specific?” I asked.
The girl huffed and launched into explanation.
“I was walking down the middle of the street to my dormitory late at night, having spent some time at a gathering with my friends. When, suddenly, those ruffians burst from the shadows and surrounded me. They threatened me for my money and possessions.” She made exaggerated movements with her unbound fingers as she spoke. “I refused obviously, so they hit me over the skull and dragged me here!”
“And what did those ‘ruffians’ look like?” I asked.
The girl gazed off into the distance. “It was dark, so I couldn’t really tell. I think some of them had tattoos.”
“Any suits?”
“Goodness, no! They were no gentlemen.”
“Right, gotcha.” The pieces fell into place with a loud and satisfying clack. We were dealing with gangers. Groups of disenfranchised young men, resorting to petty crime and mob violence in order to carve a place in the world. Ironically, they were only dissolving their own identity, speeding down the tracks to a fate of being crushed beneath the heels of authority. I knew from experience.
The specifics were murky. Experience told me this was either a medium-sized or a branch of a formidable one. They likely didn’t carry guns. Civilians tend to recall whenever guns were forced upon them.
"Those ruffians then threw me into this dingy hole and threatened to ship me overseas, or harvest my organs. Their language was horrid! Smelled awful, too!” The girl continued, now frowning. The smell was either drug abuse or plain bad hygiene. Maybe both.
“They also took my flag, too!”
I stared at the girl. “Your what?”
“My flag. It’s my pride and joy, constructed out of the finest wood and cloth. I worked on it for half a year, spending all of my pocket money and now it’s in their filthy hands. Those ruffians probably don’t even know how to care for it properly. They’ve probably torn a hole in the fabric already! ” The girl seethed, all traces of levity gone. She began pulling at her binds and stamped on the ground with a free foot. A very unlady-like snarl escaped her lips. “I swear, had my friends been there, we would give those ruffians a piece of our minds!”
“Right…”
The thing about upper-class civilians, especially kids like her, is they overestimate their level of competence. Those friends of her? They’d scatter at the first sign of trouble, perhaps shrieking for the police. Why this girl cared so much about a self-made antique over her own safety, I had no idea.
She could deal with that once we got out of here. This was my second life and I was not losing it at the hands of gangers.
“Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Kyle.” I said. “What’s your name, miss?”
The girl opened her mouth and said something.
“Pardon?”
The girl said that something again. ‘Something’ was the only way I could describe it. What she said certainly didn’t sound a word—more like a jumble of quick, scratchy noises, jumbled into a verbal structure that was irritatingly out of reach of familiarity. Asian? Eastern? African?
“That…sounds foreign. How do you pronounce that?” I said, trying not to grimace.
"That might be too hard for you." The girl said. "Hmmm...call me Lisa. It's the closest name to mine in my motherland's tongue.”
Must a weird-ass motherland. “Lisa it is.” I said.
“Nice to meet you, mister Kyle.” Lisa said. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m in a bit of a bind.” She giggled.
Now, my presence here was outside of the gangers' plans. The problem was a lack of anything resembling a weapon. My younger self had somehow deigned to not bring anything with hi. Something then caught my attention in the corner of my eyes.
Right, almost forgot about you.
Welcome back to INTERFACE-OS, user Kyle Licht!
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
This interactive experience will consist of you utilizing resources to complete objectives. INTERFACE-OS is at your beck and call to assist you in that. Let’s get started with the basic UI.
A silvery-blue menu appeared in front of me.
[MAIN MENU]
>STATUS
>INVENTORY
>OBJECTIVES
>ASSISTANT [LOCKED]
>GACHA [LOCKED]
>ALLIES [LOCKED]
>RECORDS [LOCKED]
>SHOP [LOCKED]
>SETTINGS [LOCKED]
>EXIT
I suppressed a sigh and turned to Lisa. “Are you seeing this?” I asked.
She glanced at where I was staring. "My uniform? I look great in it, yes, but I don't understand why you're admiring it now.” She showed me the emblem on her blazer pocket. It was a fancy sigil consisting of lions and wreaths. Unrecognisable.
“Never mind.” Alright, so I was still the only person who could see this thing. Assuming audio or mental commands still worked…
“Status.” I enunciated.
A larger text box appeared to the left. Behind its semi-transparent sheen, Lisa’s mouth curled up in a bemused grin. I ignored her.
----------------------------------------
[BASIC INFORMATION]
NAME: Kyle Harris Licht LEVEL: 1 EXP: 0/50 HEALTH: 100/100 ENERGY: 50/50
[STATS]
STRENGTH 6 PERCEPTION 10 DEXTERITY 8 ENDURANCE 7 AGILITY 7 CHARISMA 10 WILLPOWER 14 INSIGHT 5
SKILLS: N/A
PERKS: N/A
STATUS EFFECTS: N/A
----------------------------------------
Time to admit something. I never was a huge video game fan. Yeah, I had indulged into a few during my youth, but those fell out of favor for exercise, training and addiction as I delved into my career. When you fight your fellow man day in day out, you tend to stay away from the virtual equivalent.
I did, however, once run with a teammate who was addicted to VR games. He was a black-hat hacker with bad acne and an irritating lisp, though damn good at what he did. What I failed to comprehend was why he spent half his paychecks on cosmetics and resources in those big budget VR sims. His jabbering about those ‘RPG’ games had annoyed the entire crew back then, but I thanked him now, because the stat table was exactly the type of interface presented in those games.
It was indeed a summation of my current aspects. Weak in body, but sharp in mind. I had pushed through enough firefights to know how to keep a cool head. Fixer meetings had drilled me how to negotiate for a better paycheck, or when to cut my losses for my safety’s sake.
No clue what the Insight stat was, or why I didn’t possess any those ‘Skills’ or ‘Perks’.
More information regarding the Insight stat shall be provided at future date. Skills measure your innate proficiencies, whereas Perks are permanent bonuses you can acquire from levelling up. Your performance in the following tutorial missions will be analyzed for appropriate Skills and Perks.
How am I supposed to increase my stats? I asked.
To increase your stats, you must level up and acquire Upgrade Points. To level up, you must acquire Experience Points (EXP) from (but not limited to) defeating enemies, unlocking secrets and completing objectives.
To see your current objectives, access the OBJECTIVES function.
“Objectives.” I muttered under my breath. A pinboard appeared to the left side of my vision. There was only one entry under ‘Current’, but I noticed several greyed out sections labelled as ‘Daily, ‘Monthly’, ‘Lifetime’ and ‘Special’.
New Mission Acquired:
Escape your confinement and head outside! Use whatever means necessary. Your performance shall be evaluated to determine future perks, skills and objectives.
Rewards: 200 $NF, 500 Alexandrite, 5x Item Draw Tickets
And just what are those items?
$NF: A widely accepted currency in the world. Its existence is relatively young, due to being electrically generated, but nonetheless holds great financial weight. Use it to buy a variety of goods in multiple countries.
Alexandrite: An extraordinarily rare gemstone that appears emerald green/peacock blue in daylight, but ruby red to purple under incandescent light. Consuming it will throw hope to the wind, whereas receiving it may bestow despair unto you. Use it to acquire rare resources.
Item Draw Tickets: Provides a random R to SSR item from the Item Gacha.
None of the three were familiar to me. Especially the $NF—how come I had never heard of such currency, much less handled it?
“Mister, are you alright?” Lisa spoke up. “You’ve been staring at the wall for a while now.”
“Maybe because I want to.” I said absentmindedly. This was all useful information, but it wasn’t helping us to bust out of the gangers’ hideout. My knowledge of video games was limited, but I knew they wouldn’t instantly kill the player during the opening sequence.
What’s in my inventory? I thought. A small grid popped up, followed by more tutorial messages.
You will encounter numerous helpful Items over the course of the game. Each one possesses a name, rarity and description. They are stored within the INVENTORY—a metaphysical space accessible only to you. No other entity will be able to access it without your explicit permission. Its space is limited but can be upgraded through completing certain objectives.
Currently, you have 2 Inventory Slots. Only Items that you can physically hold with ease can be stored within Inventory Slots. We have decided to provide you with a freebie to get you started. Check it out!
True enough, one of the grid spaces was filled with the icon of a combat knife. One of them was filled with the icon of a knife.
To insert or retrieve items from the INVENTORY, simply ask for them.
What, like please give me the knife…huh?
And the knife was now in my hands. It didn’t fall out of the grid, or pop out of the air, it simply…appeared. I nearly dropped the weapon out of disbelief. A black hard-plastic handle, accompanied by solid steel with a serrated edge. Simple, basic and effective. Wielding it was like a firm handshake with a solid friend.
Out of instinct, I gave it a swing. Off-balance, as expected. I’d need to adjust for reduced dexterity.
Combat Knife (R): A short blade used by soldiers in warfare. This one seems more than a little familiar, however. Scales with STRENGTH and DEXTERITY.
"You made a knife appear out of thin air!" Lisa squealed. Her eyes were sparkling. "You must be a magician!”
“I’m not, alright?” I said, right as I tested willing the knife back into the inventory.
I gave the Inventory a few more tests. The retrieval/deposit speed was instantaneous, as far as I could tell. My judgment: hot damn, was this tool useful! It invalidated half the security measures in the old world. Imagining smuggling explosives into an enemy base, or bypassing a bodily check by stashing critical intel into one of the slots. My old fixer acquaintances would sell their own kids for a tool as good as this.
What else do you have for me, INTERFACE-OS? Anything?
No dice. The other menu options were locked.
Fine, be that way.
Now that the weapon problem was sorted, it was time to enact.
“Hey Lisa.”
“Yes?”
“Want to bust out of here?”
“Escape?” Lisa said. She nodded. “Yes, that does sound nice, but I’m afraid we’re stuck in a building full of those nasty ganger fellows.”
“Yeah, well…” I gave the knife another experimental shove into thin air. “They don’t know I’m here, or my little stage trick.”
“So you do admit to being a magician?” She said.
“No, I—never mind. Think what you want.” I said. “Those gangers are going to come back down here for you, right?”
“To chop me up on a table, I presume.”
“Yeah.” I walked over and sliced through Lisa’s binds with a single stroke. “We’re gonna use that to our advantage. Here’s what we’re gonna do…"