"Beep, beep."
"Who's texting this early? Can't even let a person sleep! I should've just put the phone on silent." Jamie muttered, voice groggy as he stretched an arm out of the warm blankets and grabbed the phone charging by his pillow.
[Speedy Delivery] Please pick up your package with waybill number 2210 at the Sunshine Garden station using pickup code 3-2-2022.
The moment he read the message, Jamie's drowsiness vanished. He instantly sat upright, eyes wide.
The used game console I bought has arrived!
He forgot all about the cold morning air. Throwing off the covers, Jamie scrambled for the clothes he had tossed on the bed the night before and hurriedly pulled them on.
Without even washing his face, he snatched his jacket from the hook by the door and bolted outside.
By the time the sound of the door slamming shut echoed through the apartment, Jamie was already halfway down the stairs, heart pounding with excitement.
When he finally reached the community station, breathing heavy, he tried to steady himself before speaking.
"Package pickup, code 3-2-2022," Jamie said, voice quick but polite.
The station administrator checked the number, then disappeared into the back. A moment later, he returned with a cardboard box and handed it over.
"Thanks a lot!" Jamie grinned, clutching the box with barely contained excitement as he hurried back home.
At the door, he dug through the shoe cabinet drawer until he found a utility knife. His hands trembled as he sliced open the tape and pulled out the console—an older model, sure, but one that looked surprisingly well-kept.
"Phew… a little dated, but the condition's solid. Let's see if it still runs." Jamie inspected it carefully, then hooked it up to the old TV he'd bought years ago.
He muttered to himself as he worked, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Sigh… everyone else is either a rich second gen or at least has some kind of backing. Me? I'm not even a poor second gen. At least they've got parents. Mine bought this place, a tiny one-bedroom, then passed away just days later. Left me with nothing. No inheritance, no support. Just me, struggling in this messed-up world." His voice cracked, eyes watering as he spoke.
Sniffling, Jamie wiped his nose with his sleeve and forced a laugh. "Still, can't complain too much. This seller tried to overcharge, but thanks to my 530,000 IQ, I got her to sneak me 'Red Dead Redemption 2.' Her boyfriend had just finished it. If not for that, I really would've lost out."
He picked up the disc, admiring its nearly brand-new condition. A smug grin spread across his face.
"Heh, not only did I not lose out, I actually came out ahead."
Plugging in the console, Jamie flipped on the TV and pressed the power button.
The machine whirred to life. Lights flickered, the hardware inside humming faintly.
Switching the TV to the right channel, Jamie pumped his fist when the startup screen appeared.
"Nice. Normal boot."
He leaned closer. "Wait… what's this? Her boyfriend's account's still logged in? Damn, look at all these games! Guess I won't be running out of things to play anytime soon."
Scrolling through the library, his brow furrowed. "Hold on… didn't she say this thing hadn't been touched in ages? Then how's the brand-new 'Red Dead Redemption 2' sitting right here?" Curiosity got the better of him, and he clicked into the game menu.
"What the—no disc required? Did he buy the digital version too? Hah, even better for me. I'll sell the physical copy later and get half my money back. This deal just keeps getting sweeter."
Jamie gripped the controller tightly, eyes fixed on the screen. But instead of loading the game, the console made a series of odd clicking sounds.
"No way… don't tell me I'm about to get scammed by this hunk of junk. Right after I thought I scored big!" Jamie pushed himself up from the couch and leaned over the console.
The clicking grew louder, faster. He crouched, pressing his ear closer to the machine.
"What the hell…"
Then—
BANG.
A flash of black light burst from the console. Jamie, caught too close, staggered back, vision swallowed by darkness. His stomach lurched as if the ground had disappeared beneath him.
When light returned, he blinked rapidly, heart pounding. Gone was his small apartment. Instead, he stood inside a room made entirely of tents.
"Holy shit! Where is this? Why are there so many people? Wasn't I just at home? How did I end up here in the blink of an eye?" The environment shifted in an instant. Stunned, Jamie tried to make sense of the scene before him.
Judging from the wooden stakes at each corner and the fabric walls swaying faintly, he realized he was standing under a large traveling show tent.
Down below, rows of townsfolk sat packed together on crude benches, all their eyes fixed forward. A strange contraption at the back projected moving pictures onto a white sheet. Jamie blinked in disbelief.
"Moving pictures…? Like slides? What the hell is going on?" he muttered under his breath.
"Hey! Why ain't you talkin'? We paid good money to get in here! We ain't here just to stare at these flickerin' pictures. Where's the story? Without sound, how are we supposed to know what the hell we're lookin' at?" a burly man with a thick beard and dusty work clothes barked. He sat near the front, puffing on a pipe, then twisted around and shouted right at Jamie, who stood beside the projector.
Jamie stiffened, pointing to himself in confusion. "Me? You're talkin' to me?"
"'Course I am! Who else would I be talkin' to? Goddamn it, why am I always so unlucky? Came to Valentine to see somethin' new at this traveling show, and what do I get? Some halfwit who forgot his lines! Manager! Where's the show manager? I want my money back!" The man's voice thundered through the tent, setting the rest of the crowd buzzing with complaints.
The noise drew out the circus manager, a sharp-dressed fellow with a curled mustache and a bowler hat. He rushed in, sweat on his brow. "Jamie, what in blazes is happenin' here?" he demanded, eyes locked on the young man frozen beside the machine.
"I… I…" Jamie stammered, utterly lost. He had no idea why anyone was calling his name, let alone expecting him to explain moving pictures.
"You're the manager?" the bearded man spat, stomping toward the back. He jabbed a finger toward Jamie on the platform. "This here kid started explainin' the first picture, then went dead quiet! What kinda sham show are you runnin'? Valentine's had its share of circuses, but this is the sorriest one yet!"
He shoved past the manager, growling, "Mark my words—you're finished here. Not a soul in this town will pay to see this hogwash again!"
The manager stumbled from the force, nearly losing his footing. Murmurs spread through the tent, then the audience began rising in waves, following the angry man out. Some muttered curses, others simply stormed off in silence, but soon the tent was empty.
The manager tried in vain to calm them, reaching out to stop a few, only to be brushed aside each time. By the end, only Jamie and the furious showman remained.
The manager collapsed onto the nearest bench, dragging his hands down his face before slamming a fist against the wooden armrest. His voice shook the empty tent. "Jamie, goddamn it! What the hell just happened out there?"
Jamie swallowed hard, cheeks burning. He hesitated, then whispered, almost to himself: "I… I forgot my lines."
"What?" the manager yelled after hearing Jamie's answer. "Didn't I tell you to memorize your lines? Huh? Damn it! Our show's reputation in Valentine is ruined, and this is only our first day performing here! The first day!"
Jamie knew it was because of his inexplicable transmigration that he'd wrecked his boss's business. Faced with the manager's fury, he found himself at a loss for words.
Only while helping the other performers fold the tent and pack the trunks did Jamie learn, piece by piece, who he'd become and where he was.
He'd taken over the life of a circus narrator named Jamie Custer, a newcomer who'd joined the troupe barely two weeks ago.
This was his first time narrating their little show, which explained why everyone hadn't suspected anything when he'd blanked out on stage.
As for the place — the circus folk looked at him with puzzled faces as they explained.
This was out West, in the Heartlands of New Hanover, in a livestock town called Valentine.
Valentine... New Hanover... Wait — isn't that a town from Red Dead Redemption 2? Am I actually inside the game?
Jamie stared at the wooden storefronts, at the mud left by a recent rain, and breathed the sour mix of horse sweat and manure in the air.
For a moment he felt like crying without tears.
Why didn't I end up in the shoes of a main character or some big shot? Even if I couldn't play the story's lead, being someone important or at least having a secure place in a city would be better.
But fate had thrown him into the role of a nobody — a small, forgettable performer who got picked on the moment he showed up.
How pathetic could life be?
Back in his real life he'd had a run-down property — nothing to rent out, no flashy car, no savings, not particularly handsome. Not exactly the sort of life that'll get a person noticed.
In other transmigration tales he'd read, protagonists arrived with noble blood, mountains of cash, or absurdly broken powers. Here he was: plain, ordinary, and stuck in a world where a bullet or a simple decision like looting a cabin in the woods could end up with you being mauled by a fucking bear...
Maybe other MCs got special abilities upon arriving — does that happen to me?
With that hope, Jamie closed his eyes and solemnly accepted that he's totally fucked...
He was still searching when a hard smack landed on the back of his head.
He spun around and found the show's manager standing with hands on his hips, glaring like a storm.
Seeing Jamie stare, the manager barked, "Jamie! You flubbed tonight and you don't even show up prepared. Don't you want to work here?"
"I'm telling you — even if you don't want the job, you owe the troupe for today's losses, no, for the last few days' losses, before you leave."
"Right now, take what pathetic wages you've got and walk over to the saloon. Buy me a bottle of beer, or I'll kick you out of the tent and out of town!"
"Fine, I'll go. What's with hitting people?" Jamie muttered, digging through his pockets and scraping together seventy-three cents.
He threaded his way across the muddy road toward the nearest saloon — the Smithfield Saloon, the closest watering hole to the lot where the circus had pitched its tent.
Pushing through the saloon's batwing doors, Jamie immediately noticed a sheep's skull and antlers nailed to the pillars that held up the second-floor walkway.
"Well, fancy," he thought, and walked up to the bar as the room buzzed with the usual saloon noise — laughter, cards, and the scrape of boots.
"What'll it be?" the big-bearded bartender in a stained apron asked, pausing from his rag.
"Uh... a bottle of beer," Jamie said.
The bartender reached down into a crate and handed him a brown bottle, setting it on the counter. "Twenty cents."
Jamie counted out the coins — twenty cents slid across the bar and the rest were tucked back in his pocket.
As he lifted the beer, the doors pushed open and a man in a gambler's hat stepped in: brown beard, pale vest over a blue shirt, black trousers, worn boots, and a revolver riding in a holster on his right hip.
Jamie blinked. He hadn't seen a proper gunslinger up close since he'd arrived, so he gave the man another look.
He barely pulled his gaze away when someone at a table called, "Hey, Arthur, over here."
Arthur? Arthur Morgan? The name hit Jamie like a punch.
He froze halfway to the batwings.
He'd transmigrated and run straight into the protagonist.
Was this why he'd come — to save Arthur Morgan, or to cross paths with members of the Van der Linde Gang whose fates were so often told with tragedy?
Thoughts crowded his head.
"Creak..." The batwing doors swung wider and a lanky fellow in a checked shirt and brown hat shouldered past Jamie, bumping into him and sending him back a step.
Jamie snapped out of his reverie, about to scold the stranger for not watching where he was going when the man grabbed his collar.
"Watch where you're going, kid," the man growled, the fingers digging into the fabric of Jamie's coat.
Jamie sized up the difference in weight and shrugged; it wasn't a fight he could win.
"Okay, okay. Sorry."
The man snorted, let go, and stalked over to Arthur's group.
Jamie, still shaken, decided not to leave. He moved to a nearby table, dragged out a chair, and sat down.
If these were members of the Van der Linde Gang, getting into a scrap with one of them would make joining them — or at least keeping his head down around them — a lot harder.
He watched as one of Arthur's companions was called Bill, etching the name and the man's likeness into memory.
Jamie didn't know much about the game beyond Arthur Morgan and Dutch van der Linde; the rest was fuzzy. Even if he knew their names, marching up and greeting them would be madness — they looked like men with bounties on their heads.
Footsteps thumped from above. A bald, thickset man came down the stairs on the second floor, chest puffed, scanning the room.
"Who said my little kittens were old and ugly and not worth much?" he barked, eyes sweeping until they landed on Arthur and his band.
"Who are you calling hillbillies?" a man near Arthur answered, dressed in a blue coat and a light-brown bowler.
The bald man spread his hands and jeered. "Some folks just flap their mouths and think the world listens. Ain't that right?"
A ripple of laughter escaped from the Van der Linde table and a few other patrons.
"Kid, you're asking for it! Teach these damned hillbillies a lesson!" the bald man ordered, stepping down from the stairwell and striding toward the man in the blue coat.