Raymond's eyes glued to the floating holographic display.
Stuck between rock and stone in the middle of a desert he didn't recognize. Kidnapped from a transatlantic flight—somehow, impossibly—and transported by things that moved like machines but hit like tanks. And now this. Holographic displays that tracked his gaze and issued quests like he'd stepped inside some twisted video game.
A bit much for one day.
The screen flashed.
New text materialized, replacing the quest notification.
Raymond didn't move. Didn't speak.
The text dissolved. In its place, a catalogue unfolded—rows of items and descriptions scrolling into view, organized in neat columns that hovered in the air before him. As if it had read his intent directly from his mind, bypassing the need for voice or touch entirely.
A header appeared at the top:
< Reputation Store | Authorization Level: 1 | Current Points: 10 REP >
Below it, the list:
< Strength (STR) +2 | Cost: 5 REP >
< Endurance (END) +2 | Cost: 5 REP >
…
< Basic Firearm Handling Skill +1 | Cost: 10 REP >
< Basic Hand-to-Hand Combat Skill +1 | Cost: 10 REP >
The entries continued downward—twenty-five items in total. Anything priced above 10 REP appeared greyed out, faded and inaccessible.
This was even more incomprehensible to Raymond. Everything it displayed felt gamified.
Then he thought of something.
Way back in his high school days, one of his dorm mates used to read these novels where the protagonist would either be transported to a new world or—in some—aliens from higher dimensions invaded Earth using such methods as what he was seeing right now.
Chill swept through him, not just from the cooling desert wind after sunset but from the possibility that something like this might have happened to him.
Only then did he notice a detail he'd not observed previously.
His hands. His body. They felt young. Untrained.
Initially it had slipped his mind—he'd been entirely focused on escaping—but now, with what he'd just thought of, he started noticing the differences.
His hands, which should have borne calluses from years of training, were surprisingly tender. He turned them over, inspecting the palms. Smooth. No ridges along the trigger finger, no thickened skin at the base of his thumbs from countless hours gripping weapons.
He flexed his arm, feeling his bicep. Soft. Underdeveloped. Where there should have been hard, compact muscle from two decades of active service, there was barely anything. He squeezed his triceps. Same story. This felt like someone in their teens. Untrained.
Raymond reached up, running his hand along his jaw. Smooth skin. No stubble, no trace of the scruffy beard he'd worn for the past five years. His fingers continued upward, threading through hair that fell past his ears. Too long. He always kept it short—military regulation, even after leaving the SAS.
After checking all these details, a terrifying conjecture solidified in him.
He'd transmigrated into the body of a teenager.
"Fuck!"
The curse left his mouth barely audible, swallowed by the desert wind.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He cursed internally, the panic building.
He didn't have any memories from this body. Not even a name. Nothing about why this body's original owner had been in that container, or in this Serenity Desert, or why he'd been captured and sent to the so-called Cyber City. He had no information about what this new world was.
Panic settled in. His heartbeat started to climb, pulse hammering against his throat.
Then his training kicked in—the drilled response to stress, the automatic shift to controlled breathing and mental grounding. The panic ebbed. His heartbeat slowed.
He cursed again.
Damn these teenage hormones.
Raymond's mind turned sharply, analysing his current predicament.
Survival first. Then gathering intel on this world. Then the identity of this body.
He refocused his attention on the store page floating before his eyes.
He looked at the first item on the list.
I don't know what effect this will have.
As if sensing his confusion, a popup screen opened, describing what it was used for.
< Strength (STR):
Governs: Raw physical power, melee damage, and carrying capacity. Directly impacts a user's ability to lift, push, and break objects. Synergizes With: Handling heavy weaponry (e.g., plasma repeaters, railguns) by reducing or removing penalties; piloting physically demanding mechs or power armor; skills related to intimidation and brute-force entry >
Realization dawned on him, but he didn't know how much +2 in STR would affect him. He had no baseline—no idea what his current stats were.
But unlike last time, the interface didn't respond.
He tried mentally focusing on different callouts—status, character sheet, stats—attempting to bring up his own information. Nothing appeared. After several failed attempts, he gave up.
Instead, he focused on the other option.
< Basic Firearm Handling Skill
Description: You know which end the projectiles come out of, and more importantly, how to put them on target under pressure. The weapon feels like a tool in your hands, not an unwieldy piece of metal. Your movements are more efficient, your aim is steadier, and the chaos of a firefight is less likely to make you miss. This is the bedrock competence upon which true marksmanship is built >
Seeing this description almost made him laugh. He was a trained operative with years of experience handling firearms. This skill felt like it was teasing him.
But then again, the original owner of this body might not have handled a gun in his life.
He shook his head and decided on what to buy.
< Endurance (END)
Governs: A user's health pool (HP), stamina, and baseline physical resilience. Synergizes With: Resistance to environmental hazards (radiation, toxins) and damage-over-time effects (burns, shock); the capacity for cybernetic augmentation; the duration of sustained activities like sprinting or using a jetpack >
Buying two of these with the 10 REP he had would increase his chances of survival. As for other stats, he wasn't in a hurry to buy them outright.
He also didn't know what other conditions needed to be met to trigger another achievement, so going with END seemed the best option for his current situation.
After he made up his mind, the interface changed.
< 10 REP deducted | Current Points: 0 >
< Received [Endurance (END) +2] x 2 >
The text hung in the air for a moment before the interface receded out of view, dissolving like mist.
How do I use it?
Raymond stared at the empty space where the display had been. Almost immediately, as if answering his unspoken question, a new interface prompt materialized before him.
< Do you want to use [Endurance (END) +2] x 2? >
Raymond's pulse quickened. He focused on the prompt, affirming his intent.
The interface receded. Then something happened.
His body felt different. Robust. The dull ache that had settled into his muscles vanished. The fatigue that had weighed on him—the residual exhaustion from the concussive blast, the desperate sprint across the desert—all of it disappeared. In its place came a renewed sense of vitality, a surge of energy that felt like he'd received an adrenaline booster shot straight to the bloodstream.
Raymond flexed his fingers, testing the sensation. Real. Tangible.
A strange glint flashed in his eyes.
I have to figure out this system. Soon.
The thought crystallized as darkness settled over the desert, the surrounding landscape shrouded in a blanket of night.
Raymond's boots crunched against sand and stone as he made his way across the dark desert.
Three hours had passed since he'd left the rock crevice. The decision had been straightforward enough—staying put meant dying of thirst within two days, maybe three if he rationed his spit. The desert offered nothing: no vegetation, no water sources he could identify from his vantage point, no signs of civilization in any direction. Movement was the only option, and night travel made tactical sense. Cooler temperatures meant less water loss through sweat, and the darkness provided cover from whatever patrols might be searching for escaped prisoners.
The Endurance boost had sealed the choice. Where his teenage body should have been flagging after hours of walking, instead he felt steady. Alert. His breathing remained even, and the fatigue that should have accumulated simply wasn't there.
So he walked.
Raymond picked a direction based on the position of the stars and made his way eastward. He didn't know if there would be a settlement in that direction, nor whether they'd be hostile. Despite that, he chose to move because he was a man of action. Sitting still solved nothing.
After he crested a sand dune, he saw something flickering in the distance.
At first he thought it might be nothing—a trick of his eyes adjusting to the darkness.
But it appeared again. Slow. Something burning, then fading, then returning in irregular intervals.
Even after recognizing it could be human, Raymond didn't make for the source immediately.
Instead, he dropped to his belly on the sand, watching. Minutes passed. The light continued its pattern—a brief orange glow, darkness, another glow. No erratic movement. No sweeping beams. No mechanical rhythm.
Someone smoking.
The pattern matched. A cigarette being drawn on, the ember flaring bright, then dimming as the smoker exhaled.
He pushed himself up slowly, keeping low, and began moving towards it. His steps were deliberate, measured. Every few meters he paused, scanning for movement, listening for sounds that didn't belong.
Alert for anything unusual.
As he grew near, despite his careful approach, the man holding the cigarette seemed to have discovered him. The light source fell to the ground and Raymond heard a crisp voice, thick with accent, call out.
"Who goes there?"
Raymond stopped in his tracks. His body went full alert. He didn't respond immediately, waiting for the person who'd asked to come forward.
He didn't have to wait long. A sharp whistle blew and four silhouettes closed in on him from different angles.
The moonlight was shining but not enough for full visibility. When they neared, Raymond could make out more details.
All four wore coarse desert clothing, loose and practical. Two of them held weapons—semi-automatic rifles from the shape of them, barrels angled in his direction. The other two carried cold weapons. One gripped what looked like a short dagger. The other held something bulkier—a sword, maybe, with what appeared to be jagged edges along the blade, though the darkness made it hard to tell for certain.
The one who'd spoken previously called out again. He was the one who held the sword.
"You there! Speak if you are human."
Although puzzled as to why they'd ask such a question, Raymond decided to play along. They weren't close enough for him to disarm them anyway.
He held up his hands in a surrender pose, making sure his voice sounded pitiful.
"Hello there. I am human, don't shoot."
Then he switched to a tone that showed relief.
"I got lost in the desert and finally found someone. Thank God!"
The four men seemed to scrutinize his words and him, their postures tense. They exchanged glances Raymond couldn't quite read in the darkness.
Once they confirmed he was unarmed, they lowered their weapons but didn't put them away entirely. The barrels stayed angled towards the ground, fingers still near triggers.
The man from earlier spoke.
"We are from Desert Eagle Mercenary Group, guarding a caravan. If you mean no harm, please do not approach further."
His voice was curt but held no derision or malice. Professional.
"Where's the nearest town I can reach?"
"Three days' walk through the desert, south of here. Rocky Town."
Better if I can join this group for travel. At least for now.
He asked again, voice pitiful.
"I've been walking the entire day and haven't had anything to eat. Can you please make an exception for me to stay with your group and provide some food or water? Otherwise I won't last very long."
The four looked at each other. Then, as if making a decision, the one holding the dagger put it away.
"Stay here. I'll ask our employer."
Before he turned around, he added decisively, "If our employer doesn't agree, then there's nothing we can do."
Without waiting for Raymond's response, he walked back towards where the cigarette had fallen.
The sword-wielding man shifted his weight.
"What's your name? Where are you coming from?"
"Raymond."
He'd thought about what backstory to tell if someone asked what he was doing alone in the desert—had worked it out back on the dune when he'd first spotted the light.
"Me and a few of my friends were sightseeing. I got separated when hounds attacked our group."
Sadness edged his voice.
He kept his eyes on the mercenaries' expressions. Their eyes widened. One of them clicked his tongue in pity.
The lie worked.
After a few minutes, the man who'd walked away earlier came back. He looked at Raymond, then nodded.
"Alright, brother. Our employer agreed to your request. But we advise you not to try anything once we let you in. Just stay at the perimeter. One of us will deliver you food."
Raymond's voice filled with relief.
"Thank you. Thank you. May God bless you."
The man waved his hand dismissively.
"Alright, let's head back."
With that, two of them flanked Raymond on both sides as they brought him into the caravan perimeter. Standard setup—pitched tents on solid ground, carts lined up in rows, and camel-looking animals bound nearby, their long necks swaying gently as he walked past.
They brought him to a decent enough spot where a hay mattress had been placed. The leading man pointed at it.
"You can rest here for the night."
Raymond thanked him again, voice still carrying that relieved tone.
He sat down just as another guard approached with some meat jerky and a water canteen. The guard handed them over without a word, then walked away with the others.
Raymond watched their receding figures, then put the meat jerky in his mouth. The saltiness hit his tongue immediately—tough, dried, but edible.
He chewed slowly, thinking about what to do come morning.