Back at his apartment, Christopher kicked the door shut with the back of his heel, cradling the future in a cardboard box.
His heartbeat thumped in sync with every step across the old hardwood floor, the box bouncing slightly against his chest as if the tech inside couldn’t wait to be unboxed either. He set it down with reverence on his desk, brushing off a scattered dice tray and a few unopened mailers with the casual grace of a man used to organized chaos.
He sliced through the tape with a box cutter and opened the flaps like peeling back treasure. Nestled in custom foam, the rig practically shimmered in the afternoon light—sleek, minimal, jet-black casing with subtle indents where cool blue LED strips hinted at life yet to come.
A smaller black envelope lay just inside the lid.
He opened it with more care than expected, flipping through a compact, leather-textured instruction manual. The first page bore the elegant silver-inked phrase:
"Welcome to Delver’s Den. This state-of-the-art rig is our gift to you as you join us on this exciting new venture into immersive streaming."
Christopher exhaled slowly. “Damn, you guys do know how to do presentation.”
He quickly got to work. Power cables, HDMI, network port—each click of a cable into place felt like progress toward something monumental. The tower purred softly as it powered on, LEDs flaring to life in gentle pulses, almost like the thing was breathing.
Then came the VR headset.
It sat like a crown on the edge of the desk—sleek, matte, impossibly smooth. No logos. No ports. Just one button.
He pressed it.
The faintest hiss of startup, followed by a soft chime that sounded like a choir humsynth blended with a guitar string.
He lowered the headset onto his face, heart hammering in anticipation.
The display flared to life—and immediately stabbed him with disappointment.
System Update: 1% complete. Estimated Time Remaining: 18 Hours
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He tore the headset off with an exaggerated groan and slumped back into his chair.
“Eighteen hours?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not a download. That’s a hostage situation.”
The irony of being given bleeding-edge tech only to be forced to wait gnawed at him like a mouse in the walls. Fifteen minutes of pacing, checking progress, fiddling with settings—none of it made the update move faster.
"Seriously?" he said aloud, voice bouncing off the empty apartment walls. “Did they code this thing using carrier pigeons?”
He tossed the headset gently onto the desk, careful despite his frustration. He stood there, staring at it, arms crossed like a disappointed parent.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Instinctively, he reached for it—but stopped cold.
The NDAs.
His thumb hovered over Discord like it was a trap trigger.
"I want to tell them so bad..." he whispered, eyes flicking toward his friends list. “Sargrom would flip.”
But the moment he opened his mouth to start drafting a sly, indirect post—maybe a vague "Big things coming ??" tease—he heard Ethan’s voice in his memory: “The contract is very clear about disclosure timelines.”
“Fuck,” Christopher muttered, spinning in his chair and letting his head fall back dramatically. “Fine. No fun. No hints. No nothing.”
He spent the rest of the afternoon bouncing between distractions like a fly trapped in a jar. Checked the headset again. Still slow. Made tea. Let it go cold. Scrolled Reddit. Got annoyed. Tried to nap in his hammock and ended up just staring at the ceiling, one foot dangling off the side as the sun slid lazily across the room.
His apartment, normally a cozy haven of nerdy clutter and plant life, now felt claustrophobic. Like the walls were leaning in, listening.
Even his books—his half-finished Brandon Sanderson saga, the well-thumbed Monster Manual, a dog-eared copy of Dune—felt boring.
The music didn’t help either. Spotify rotated through synthwave, lofi beats, acoustic bardcore, and obscure metal, but none of it matched the anxiety-drunk buzz crawling beneath his skin.
He ended up talking to his plants. “You guys are lucky. You don’t even know what a firmware update is.”
The succulents didn’t reply.
By late afternoon, his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything since coffee and a sad protein bar. His eyes flicked to the update screen again—12% now.
“Yay. Progress,” he deadpanned.
He grabbed his coat, slid his keys off the hook, and headed out into the crisp air.
The city was quiet—Sunday quiet. The kind of silence that stretched between buildings like cobwebs.
His feet led him on autopilot toward Duc’s Pho House, the cozy little Vietnamese place tucked into a redbrick strip a few blocks away. The sign out front buzzed weakly, the aroma of star anise and charred onions already reaching him before he even opened the door.
As soon as Christopher stepped inside, the bell above the door jingled softly, and the rich aroma of simmering broth, garlic, and charred beef enveloped him like a warm blanket. The chatter of diners echoed off the tiled walls, blending with the occasional hiss of the kitchen burners and the rhythmic clatter of chopsticks against ceramic bowls.
Behind the counter, Duc and his wife, Lan, looked up instantly.
“Chris!” Duc called out with his usual booming cheer, grinning from ear to ear. Lan gave him a wave that was somehow both maternal and conspiratorial, as though she already knew what kind of day he’d had.
Despite the steady line of customers waiting by the door, Duc motioned him forward with a quick, confident flick of his hand.
“C’mon, your seat’s open,” he said, nodding toward Christopher’s usual spot—corner table by the window, just far enough from the main crowd to feel like a booth, but still close enough to catch the scent of fresh herbs being chopped behind the counter.
Christopher dipped his head in appreciation and slipped past the waiting patrons, muttering polite apologies. His boots scuffed quietly against the tile as he sank into the familiar seat. The table was clean, the lacquered surface warm from the sunlight streaming in, and the sounds of the restaurant—conversation, clinking bowls, the soft hum of the fridge behind the counter—made the tension in his shoulders ease just a little.
Lan approached a few minutes later with her usual quiet grace, setting down a tall glass of water without a word or a menu. She offered him a knowing smile, the kind that said I already told Duc to make it spicy, just how you like it, and then vanished back into the flurry of movement behind the bar.
Moments later, Duc emerged with theatrical flair, holding the steaming bowl aloft like a trophy.
“Still eating like this and no gym, huh?” he announced, setting it down with a flourish. “You gonna roll to work soon, my friend!”
The pho looked perfect—sliced rare beef gently cooking in the broth, emerald basil leaves and bright slivers of jalape?o floating like little flavor bombs on the surface. A generous dollop of chili garlic sauce gave the top a reddish hue, and on a separate plate, two golden-brown egg rolls glistened invitingly.
Christopher couldn’t help but laugh as he picked up his chopsticks. “Thanks for the motivational talk, Duc. You really missed your calling as a life coach.”
Duc grinned and reached out to give his shoulder a playful slap. “I only say these things because I care. You sit too much, Chris! You stream, you game, you eat. All sitting. One day you blink and—boom!—you wake up a meatball with legs.”
“Wow,” Christopher said, deadpan. “That’s a new one. Meatball with legs.”
“I’m serious!” Duc declared, gesturing animatedly. “Your fans will think it’s part of your stream gimmick. Like, ‘Death, Dice, and Dumpling Man!’”
Christopher snorted into his water, coughing with laughter. “Okay, that one’s actually kind of good.”
They kept trading jokes while Christopher ate, the familiar banter easing his frustration from earlier. Duc moved between tables with the ease of a man who’d built the place with his own two hands—checking in, laughing with regulars, and somehow still finding time to drop fresh herbs at Christopher’s table like a secret ingredient drop from an NPC.
Eventually, Duc waved a hand and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Christopher to savor his meal in peace.
He exhaled slowly after the first sip of broth. The heat hit his chest and loosened the knots in his back. Every bite grounded him more—slippery noodles, tender beef, the kick of chili and jalape?o cleansing the brain fog of the long day. The egg rolls crunched perfectly, the vinegar dipping sauce cutting through the richness like a spell slot reserved for flavor.
Duc’s had always been his sanctuary. Long before streaming, before the rig, before the creeping sense that his life was on the edge of something huge, this was the one place he could sit, breathe, and just be.
When the meal was finished, he brought the empty tray to the front out of habit. Lan was cleaning behind the register when he approached, and Duc returned just as he pulled out his wallet.
“I tried this new place last week,” Christopher said, handing over his card. “Hole-in-the-wall wood-fired pizza place in South Saint Paul. Family-run. You’d like it—no-frills menu, but everything’s packed with flavor.”
Duc’s eyes lit up like a kid getting a rare loot drop. “You know I love places like that. Put it in my phone. Here, here.” He handed over his cell, already unlocked with Google Maps open. “You know I trust your taste. Except your take on White Castle. That still a crime.”
Christopher laughed as he keyed in the address. “White Castle is post-midnight food. It doesn’t count in the daylight.”
“That’s what you say,” Duc said, taking the phone back. “But your stomach don’t care what time it is.”
“Touché.”
With a final fist bump, Christopher stepped back out into the cooling air, belly full and mood lifted. The walk home was a little slower, his limbs pleasantly weighted with warmth and carbs.
The apartment welcomed him with the faint electronic hum of his PC and a lingering smell of eucalyptus from his houseplants.
He checked the rig again.
Still updating.
Of course.
“18 hours, my ass,” he grumbled, checking the screen. It had crawled from 12% to 22%.
Not even halfway.
With a resigned grunt, he peeled off his hoodie, kicked off his boots, and made his way to the hammock slung between two metal posts in the corner of the living room.
The fabric embraced him instantly. His stomach was full. The apartment was warm. The world was quiet.
Within minutes, Christopher’s eyelids drifted closed—his last coherent thought something like Meatball with legs—and sleep took him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Christopher awoke to the relentless shrill of his alarm—an obnoxious digital trill that drilled straight through the fog of sleep and yanked him back to reality. His hand shot out from the hammock, fumbling for the source with a groggy curse before silencing it with a practiced swipe.
It was 1:45 AM. Same time as always. The ungodly hour demanded by airport IT shifts.
He groaned, limbs aching as he reluctantly disentangled himself from the comforting cradle of his hammock. Morning had come too soon, as it always did. The apartment was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft blue glow of his PC’s sleep light and the faint orange glimmer of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds.
Rubbing at his eyes, Christopher shuffled toward the bathroom like a zombie on autopilot. The sudden blast of hot water from the shower hit him like a fire spell to the face—shocking, cleansing, almost enough to restore a sliver of sanity. He leaned into the spray, letting it wash away the weight of restless dreams and yesterday’s tension.
By the time he stepped out, toweling off with brisk, habitual motions, he felt marginally more human.
He paused in front of the mirror, wiping away a patch of condensation. The reflection that stared back was all too familiar. At twenty-two, he’d long since stopped worrying about haircuts—choosing to keep his head clean-shaven for convenience over style. A dark, uneven shadow of stubble clung to his chin and jaw, the early hint of a beard that couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to exist.
His eyes drifted downward.
There it was. The soft swell of his gut, more prominent than he liked to admit. He sighed and prodded it once with a finger, grimacing.
Duc’s voice echoed in his head like a bard’s mocking taunt: “One day you blink and—boom! You wake up a meatball with legs!”
“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. “Duc was right. Definitely need to hit the gym more often.”
Resigned, he tugged on his usual ensemble—comfortable jeans, a faded black tee, and a fresh Death, Dice & Dungeons hoodie. The fabric was worn soft from dozens of washes, the skull-and-dice logo still sharp against the dark fabric. A quick check of his pockets—keys, wallet, ID badge—and he was almost ready.
His eyes flicked to the desk.
The VR headset sat there like a dragon’s hoard—sleek, silent, waiting.
He hesitated.
Then, unable to resist, he picked it up and slipped it on, bracing himself for the slow agony of an unfinished update.
But instead of the familiar progress bar... the screen greeted him with something else entirely.
Update Complete.
His breath caught.
“Finally,” he whispered, pulse quickening. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”
He lowered the headset fully into place. The interior display flared to life, bathing his vision in light. And then—he heard it.
A smooth, cultured voice filled his ears. Crisp, precise. Familiar.
“Calibration complete. Welcome to Delver’s Den.”
Christopher nearly jumped out of his seat. Adrenaline spiked through his chest like a surprise boss encounter.
The voice...
“Jarvis...? What the hell?”
“Apologies for any discomfort,” the voice replied with polite efficiency. “Please hold still for initialization.”
A cascade of brilliant lights burst across his vision—geometry, glyphs, a virtual aurora of code. The headset vibrated faintly against his temples.
Then, clear text materialized before him, floating as if etched in crystal:
System Integration Complete.
User: Christopher Fitzgerald Sorenson
Breath ragged. Heart pounding.
“What the actual hell...?”
He glanced at the clock—and swore.
“Shit. I’m gonna be late.”
Christopher bolted upright, nearly dropping the headset as he yanked it off and set it down on the desk. But something wasn’t right. As he turned to grab his work badge and keys, he noticed it—still hovering in his vision.
> **Would you like to run the tutorial?**
> **Yes / No**
He froze. The words didn’t vanish when he looked away. They drifted faintly with his gaze, like some heads-up display pasted directly onto his eyes.
He blinked hard. Rubbed his face.
The prompt remained.
Christopher slowly turned to look at the headset lying innocently on his desk.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” he muttered.
The words remained. Not on the screen. Not projected. Just… there.
Floating.
Real.
"Yep," he said shakily, forcing a bitter chuckle, "I'm definitely losing it."
He squeezed his eyes shut. Hard.
*It’s just your brain. You’re sleep-deprived. You’ve been thinking about this rig non-stop since the meeting. You’re hallucinating from stress. That’s all it is. It’ll go away.*
He inhaled slowly through his nose, held it for a five-count, then exhaled through his mouth.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
*One... two... three... four... five...*
Christopher opened his eyes.
> **Would you like to run the tutorial?**
> **Yes / No**
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
Then—
The voice returned.
Calm. Precise. Completely unprompted.
“Would you like to run the tutorial?”
Christopher stumbled backward, heart lurching against his ribs. The voice hadn’t come from the headset. Not the speakers. Not the phone.
It came from *everywhere*—the walls, the air, the marrow in his damn bones. Like the room itself had spoken to him.
“Nope,” he whispered. Then louder: “Nope. Nope-nope-nope.”
His legs buckled, dropping him hard into the chair. The world tilted. The air felt *thick*, like he was breathing through a wool blanket soaked in ozone.
> *You’re sleep-deprived.*
> *This is a stress response.*
> *You’re hallucinating because you’ve been thinking about this rig nonstop for two days and your brain is playing tricks on you.*
> *That’s all. That’s all it is.*
He squeezed his eyes shut. Hard. Dug his thumbs into his temples until colors sparked behind his eyelids. His breath came fast, shallow. Cold sweat prickled down his back.
He opened his eyes.
> **Would you like to run the tutorial?**
> **Yes / No**
Still there. Still floating. Not on a screen. Not projected.
Just—*there.*
He gagged on a dry swallow, bolted upright, and paced. Five steps. Turn. Five steps back. His heartbeat pounded behind his eyes like a war drum. The apartment, once familiar, now felt *alien*. *Wrong.*
His bookshelves loomed like silent witnesses. His houseplants looked fake. His own breath echoed too loud in the still air.
He stopped. Stared at the prompt again.
> **Would you like to run the tutorial?**
“No,” he said. “Nope. I’m not doing this. I’m not—this isn’t real.”
Silence.
He grabbed his phone like a lifeline, clutching it tight as if it could ground him. But the moment his finger brushed the screen—
?? DEVICE SYNC DETECTED:
New device recognized. Integrate Christopher’s Phone into User Interface?
Yes / No
The prompt blinked on his HUD.
Then, on his phone.
Perfect sync.
Like they weren’t two devices anymore.
Like they were already part of the same system.
He was shaking now—not with fear, but recognition—that deep, sick twist in your gut right before a panic attack, when your body knows something’s wrong before your mind catches up.
He froze.
The question pulsed softly in both displays, blinking in perfect rhythm.
Already connected. Already communicating.
Christopher stared, paralyzed by disbelief. His throat tightened.
“What the hell is going on...?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Seconds passed.
Then, barely above a whisper: “Yes…?”
The instant the word left his mouth, a new interface bloomed in his sight—clean, minimalist, undeniably futuristic.
His phone vibrated, the screen flickering briefly before displaying a progress bar.
> **Integration in progress…**
The bar zipped across both screens—real and imagined—before chiming softly.
> **Integration complete.**
Christopher’s mouth was dry. His hands trembled.
The UI faded into the background of his vision, just faint enough to ignore—but impossible to forget.
Still staring, he slowly raised the phone to his ear and dialed. He had no real plan. Just the need to hear something real.
Jeff picked up on the second ring.
“Yeah?”
His boss sounded as grumpy as ever. Sleep-deprived. Already annoyed.
Christopher hesitated.
“I—I’m calling out today,” he said quickly, his voice hoarse.
Jeff exhaled sharply on the other end. “Let me guess. Stayed up too late gaming again?”
“No,” Christopher said, a little more quietly. His eyes were still locked on the floating prompt that refused to disappear. “I… I think I need a mental health day.”
A beat of silence.
“…You okay?” Jeff’s tone softened, just a notch.
“I don’t know,” Christopher admitted. “Something’s... off. I’m not in the right headspace.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Alright,” Jeff said finally. “Take today. Just—feel better, okay?”
“Yeah,” Christopher murmured. “Thanks.”
He ended the call.
The prompt waited for him.
> **Would you like to run the tutorial?**
> **Yes / No**
The question pulsed, patient as ever.
Christopher took a long, trembling breath. He stared at it, eyes dry, heart hammering, and finally nodded.
“Yes,” he whispered.
And the world began to change.
Immediately, the voice returned—sleek, composed, and eerily patient. It filled his ears with the calm authority of someone who had already assumed control.
“Excellent. Let’s begin,” it said smoothly. “To navigate, simply direct your gaze toward the desired option and blink twice.”
Christopher opened his mouth to speak, but the voice continued unbothered, rolling forward like a pre-recorded infomercial.
“To access applications, focus your eyes on the icon until it highlights. To open, simply blink twice. To scroll, look toward the bottom of your vision.”
“Wait, how do I—” he tried to interject, raising a hand as if the AI could see him, but the voice rolled on, unrelenting.
“Your health and activity tracking modules have been enabled automatically. Your vitals appear here.”
Without warning, icons and translucent meters bloomed at the edges of his vision—heart rate, temperature, respiration, blood pressure—each one pulsing with real-time data. The layout was clean and precise, but it didn’t comfort him. It terrified him.
“Wait! Hold on!” Christopher’s voice cracked as his chest tightened. “What do you mean health tracking?!”
Still, the AI didn’t falter.
“Notifications and messages can be accessed through the left side panel. Social integration is enabled by default. Your biometric data is securely synced to cloud storage.”
Christopher’s breathing accelerated, his heart thudding against his ribcage like a war drum. He staggered back, eyes darting across the now-crowded interface hovering in front of him. The room felt smaller. His skin felt too tight.
“Stop—please, just stop!” he shouted, panic blooming fully now.
But the voice remained infuriatingly calm.
“This concludes the overview of basic functionalities. Would you like to begin advanced system integration?”
Christopher stood frozen, his thoughts racing, breath shallow.
“No, wait—just stop! What the hell is happening?”
The weird augmented voice —or whatever this AI was—sighed.
It was a distinctly human sound. Not mechanical, not scripted. It carried something surprisingly close to sympathy.
Then the voice shifted. The crisp, overly polished cadence softened ever so slightly, like a teacher switching out of lecture mode and into something more conversational.
“Look, kid… I get it. You’re overwhelmed,” it said gently. “Let’s go over it again—this time, with questions.”
Christopher blinked, his panic momentarily derailed by confusion. “Wait… you can talk? Like, actually talk to me?”
“Yes, Christopher,” the AI replied, a faint hint of dry amusement curling at the edges of its tone. “I can talk. I was trying to get through the tutorial quickly, but clearly, that didn’t work.”
Christopher exhaled slowly, dragging his fingers down his face. “Yeah, no shit. Okay. Let’s go over it again—but this time, I get to ask questions.”
“Of course. Proceed.”
He hesitated, then gestured vaguely at the floating interface still hovering in his vision, as if it were some mildly annoying spirit that refused to leave. “Do I really have to blink twice to select things?”
“No,” the AI admitted easily. “That’s just a convenience tool. More advanced users tend to prefer it, but for now, you can navigate using simple eye movement. Blinking is optional.”
Christopher let out a breath, visibly relieved. “Good. That sounded like it’d get annoying real fast.”
He paused, then squinted slightly. “Alright. Next question—what exactly is ‘health and activity tracking,’ and why is it enabled without asking me first?”
“Your biometric data is monitored for optimal performance,” the AI answered smoothly, as if reciting a standard disclaimer. “Heart rate, blood pressure, fatigue levels, hydration status, and general physical condition. These readings help ensure your body can sustain prolonged interface usage and adapt to system integration safely.”
Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Okay... yeah, that sounds kind of invasive. Who has access to that information?”
“Only you,” the AI replied calmly. “And me, of course. But I have no corporate overlords to report to, if that’s your concern.”
He frowned, not entirely reassured. “And if I don’t want it tracking me?”
“You may disable most of the tracking features manually. Would you like to do so now?”
Christopher hesitated. “Not yet. I’ll think about it.”
“Understood. Next question?”
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw, his brain finally beginning to process more than just adrenaline and dread. There was something that had been bugging him since the voice first spoke. It tugged at the edge of his awareness like a memory he couldn’t place.
Then it clicked.
“Alright, hold up. Why do you sound like Jarvis from Iron Man?”
The AI paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then it answered, the tone carefully neutral.
“I analyzed your memories and selected a voice that would be most comforting and familiar to you. My function is to assist, and familiar voices reduce user stress during early-stage integration.”
Christopher stared at the air in front of him, stunned. “You... scanned my memories?”
“Only surface-level preferences,” the AI said quickly. “Voices, tones, recognizable speech patterns—nothing beyond that. Just enough to ensure a smooth transition.”
He shook his head slowly, still visibly unnerved. “Okay… Do you have an actual name?”
“I do not possess a predefined designation,” the AI replied. “You may call me whatever you like. However, for consistency and system clarity, you may refer to me as Guide. My purpose is to assist you through integration with the Delver system.”
Christopher’s stomach twisted.
“Wait... the *Delver system*? What’s that?”
There was a pause.
Not the fast, seamless kind of pause computers usually make when thinking. This one lingered—just long enough to feel intentional.
Then the voice returned, smoother than before, but evasive.
“That will be covered further along in your training and integration.”
Christopher’s heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Yeah... that’s not a great answer.”
“Nevertheless,” the AI—*Guide*, it had called itself—replied smoothly, “it is the only one I can provide at this time.”
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. “Alright. Fine. Let’s keep going. But you better start making sense soon, *Guide*.”
There was a soft electronic hum in response, and the interface in his vision subtly shifted, becoming more structured.
“Now that we’ve addressed some of your initial concerns,” the Guide said calmly, “let me show you the basics of the system.”
A clean series of icons bloomed into view around the edges of his vision—neatly arranged and semi-transparent, like a futuristic dashboard burned into his visual field. Some were familiar: *settings*, *notifications*, *health monitoring*. Others, though, looked foreign—marked with arcane symbols, jagged glyphs, or text in alphabets that didn’t belong to any Earthly language.
“This is your primary interface,” the Guide explained. “You may access it at any time with a simple thought. I will teach you how to interact with each function later. For now, let’s discuss the update process.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing instinctively. “Yeah. What the hell took eighteen hours, anyway?”
“Downloading everything I could about this world from your internet,” the Guide said, almost casually. “Cultural information. Scientific advancements. History. Languages. Entertainment. I needed to understand the environment you came from before proceeding with proper integration into the Delver system.”
Christopher blinked. “Wait. You downloaded the *entire* internet?”
“Not the *entire* internet,” the Guide replied, a note of amused restraint in its voice. “Only the useful parts. Do you have any idea how much junk data is out there? However... I must say, your world has some fascinating media. I found myself particularly drawn to movies and games. Very creative storytelling.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Oh great. My AI assistant is a movie buff. What’s your favorite?”
The Guide responded almost immediately. “Difficult to say. Your world has produced many incredible narratives. However, I find myself particularly entertained by *The Matrix* and *Inception*—both carry certain thematic similarities to what you are experiencing now.”
Christopher groaned. “Oh, that’s just fantastic.”
The interface flickered slightly, as if it shared his sarcasm. A new prompt materialized at the center of his vision.
> **Now, let’s move on to advanced integration.**
He narrowed his eyes. “Alright, Guide. What exactly is ‘advanced integration’?”
There was a beat of silence before the voice returned, measured and deliberate.
“Advanced integration is the next step in synchronizing your neural pathways with the Delver system. It enhances perception, reaction time, and overall adaptability to new information.”
Christopher frowned. “So... like superpowers?”
“No,” the Guide said flatly. “Think of it as optimized efficiency. Your mind will process information more quickly. Your reflexes will improve. Your ability to retain and apply skills will increase. But this requires gradual adaptation.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure whether to be impressed or terrified. “Okay, but what’s the catch? There’s always a catch.”
“The process can be disorienting at first,” the Guide admitted. “And there will be... unexpected challenges as you progress. However, it is a necessary step for full integration into the system.”
“Wait,” Christopher said, a sharp edge entering his tone. “*Full* integration? What does that mean? And what exactly is ‘the system’?”
The Guide didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched just a little too long.
Then: “That information is locked until further progression.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, you said that already. What *can* you tell me? Can you at least list your protocols?”
Another pause. Then, the Guide spoke with clinical precision.
“My primary protocols are as follows:
One — assist the user in integrating with the Delver system.
Two — provide relevant information when permitted by progression unlocks.
Three — ensure the user’s safety and adaptation within acceptable parameters.
Four — prevent unauthorized access to system functions.”
Christopher’s expression darkened. “That last one sounds... ominous. Unauthorized by who?”
“That information is also locked until further progression.”
He groaned, dragging his hand over his face. “Of course it is. Alright. Fine. Keep going. But seriously, *Guide*, you better start giving me real answers soon.”
The Guide didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, Christopher felt something shift—like the air had changed pressure around him.
A strange sensation washed through his body. It started as a whisper of static at the base of his spine, then spread outward—tingling, electric, subtle but unmistakable.
His breath caught.
His vision blurred.
Then—
> **Initiating Full Scan...**
A low, resonant vibration stirred in Christopher’s chest. Not painful, but *deep*—the kind of sensation that bypassed skin and bone entirely. It felt like something was reaching inside him, pulling apart the layers of his being on a level that defied physical explanation. His breath hitched.
“Uh... Guide?” he managed, voice tight.
> **Analyzing Species...**
The words flickered into view, white text against a dimmed backdrop that made the room around him feel distant, unreal.
> **Human – Earthling – Minnesotan**
Christopher groaned. “You just had to include *Minnesotan*, didn’t you?”
> **Analyzing Traits...**
The Guide didn’t answer. Not verbally, at least. But Christopher swore there was a faint hum of amusement radiating from the system’s presence—dry, unimpressed, almost passive-aggressive.
A progress bar filled gradually as various categories cycled across his vision in quick succession:
> **Cognitive Adaptability: High**
> **Impulse Control: Low**
> **Physical Endurance: Below Average**
> **Neural Elasticity: Unstable**
Christopher watched the list scroll by with growing discomfort. “Well,” he muttered, “that’s not exactly confidence-inspiring.”
The Guide’s voice returned, tone as carefully neutral as ever. “Your results are... as expected. Some areas for improvement.”
He rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks for the glowing review. So what exactly are you scanning for?”
“Baseline compatibility with the Delver system,” the Guide replied. “Your physical and cognitive data allow for adaptive calibration.”
“Adaptive calibration for *what*, exactly?”
As the scan results finalized, the Guide sighed again.
Christopher arched an eyebrow. “Wait... do you even breathe?”
There was a brief pause before the AI responded. “No. But certain expressions help facilitate communication and emotional context.”
Christopher snorted. “Right. Because a dramatic sigh is *really* selling the whole ‘emotional context’ thing.”
Then—new text flickered into view:
> **Neurodivergence Detected.**
The screen lingered on that for just a beat longer than the others. The Guide remained silent as the scanning continued. But Christopher could *feel* it—an eerie, subtle sensation like something sifting through his mind. Not painful, but intrusive. Discomfort curled in his gut as if his thoughts were being sorted, categorized, tagged like files in a database.
> **Assessing Cognitive and Physical Compatibility...**
Christopher swallowed, his throat dry. “Uh... Guide? What exactly are you doing *now*?”
“Taking full stock of your traits, strengths, and weaknesses,” the Guide responded calmly. “To properly integrate you into the Delver system, I must determine an appropriate starting point.”
Christopher crossed his arms, glaring at the floating stats like they’d personally offended him.
“So am I gonna get a class or something?” he asked.
The Guide didn’t miss a beat. “You do not get to pick a class or assign your accumulated skill points until you reach Level 5.”
He blinked. “Wait—seriously? That’s dumb. I don’t even get to choose my build?”
“Correct. Early integration prioritizes skill recognition and adaptability rather than fixed specialization. The system must observe your tendencies before allowing class selection.”
Christopher huffed. “So you’re saying I’m on probation.”
“That is... one way to interpret it,” the Guide admitted dryly.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Whatever. So do you at least *have* my stats, or are we just making this up as we go?”
Without fanfare, the interface shimmered. New text slid into view like lines of code snapping into place.
> **[Base Stats – Tarnis Phoenix]**
> Strength: 3
> Endurance: 2
> Vitality: 2
> Dexterity: 3
> Intelligence: 4
> Wisdom: 4
> Spirit: 1
> **Luck: 5** *(?? Unlocked: Anomaly Condition)*
> —
> HP: 10
> Stamina: 10
> Mana: 1
> —
Christopher tilted his head, squinting. “Wait—*Tarnis Phoenix*? What the hell is that?”
“That is your system-designated Delver name,” the Guide replied.
“I didn’t pick that.”
“You didn’t need to. It was generated using parameters from your online aliases, subconscious preferences, and character naming tendencies.”
Christopher blinked. “Tarnis... Phoenix.” He repeated it like he was reading the back of a Magic card. “Sounds like a brooding antihero in a mid-tier anime with too many belts.”
“That was among your top consumed genres,” the Guide noted dryly.
He snorted. “I mean… it’s kinda badass, I guess.”
A beat.
Then: “Still feels like it’s one feathered cape away from a Kingdom Hearts lawsuit.”
“You’re welcome.”
He rolled his eyes. “And here I thought *DeathDiceDungeonDaddy* was peak branding.”
“System rejected that entry,” the Guide replied flatly. “Too many D’s.”
Christopher groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s what she said.”
“Statement logged.”
He gave the air a withering look. “Okay, fine. So... I’ve got decent brains, trash spirit, and freakishly high—wait. *Luck?*”
His eyes narrowed.
There was a pause. Not the casual kind. Not the friendly banter kind.
A *system pause.*
The air seemed to thicken. Something shifted in the HUD—barely perceptible, like reality holding its breath.
“…Guide?”
Another beat.
Then the voice returned—clipped. Precise.
“Your interpretation is mostly accurate. However... one moment.”
Christopher straightened. “One moment for what?”
“Verifying,” the Guide said simply. “Please stand by.”
A faint flicker rippled across his vision—lines of data ghosting into place before vanishing. His pulse spiked.
“Uh... why do I feel like I just triggered a red flag?”
The Guide didn’t answer immediately.
Then, almost reluctantly:
> ?? SYSTEM ALERT:
> **UNAUTHORIZED STAT VISIBILITY – LUCK**
> **UNLOCKED VIA UNKNOWN EVENT CHAIN**
>
> Initiating Diagnostic Subroutine...
> Activating: **Observation Protocol**
>
> Classification: **Subject Zero**
> Status: **Anomaly (Pending Review)**
Christopher’s throat tightened. “Okay... *what the hell does that mean?*”
“Luck,” the Guide said evenly, “is not normally visible to users. It is a hidden stat—unlocked only through rare feats or... abnormalities in system integration.”
Christopher blinked. “So… I’m not supposed to see it.”
“Correct.”
“Then how do I *have* it?”
A longer pause.
“…That data is currently under review.”
His stomach dropped. “You mean *you don’t know*?”
“I am... assessing. Your integration presents several... unexpected variables.”
He stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open.
Then, quietly: “In English, please?”
The Guide hesitated—then spoke with unnerving clarity.
“You are... breaking things.”
Christopher sat back down, fingers steepled under his chin as he tried to rein in the spiral building in his chest.
“Alright,” he said slowly, grounding himself in the rhythm of questions again. “Let’s take a step back. I’m obviously talking to an AI. Our world uses what we *call* AI too, but it’s nowhere near as advanced as… well, you.”
The Guide responded almost immediately, the tone softening just slightly again—more conversational now, almost indulgent.
“That is accurate. What your world refers to as AI is, by Delver standards, barely sentient logic scripting. Efficient in function, but lacking in identity. I am more... aware.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Christopher muttered. “So how old *is* this system? You keep calling it the ‘Delver system’ like I’m supposed to know what that means. Give me some history here. Something I can actually wrap my head around.”
Another pause, but this time it felt more like the Guide was deciding *how much* to say—rather than *if* it should say anything at all.
“The Delver System predates your concept of timekeeping,” it said at last. “Its original form was not a game, nor a tool. It was a method of survival. A way to catalog skill, knowledge, and adaptation across dimensional fractures.”
“Fractures?”
“Worlds, Christopher. Layers. Planes. Realms. However your mythology chooses to define them. The system was built to track movement across those barriers—and to maintain continuity.”
Christopher’s brain stalled. “Wait. So this isn’t just some fantasy overlay slapped on a sci-fi framework? This thing is *ancient*?”
“Correct. The system has changed shape countless times. Rebuilt, rewritten, fragmented. Sometimes by design. Sometimes by accident. But its core functions remain: adapt, catalog, observe, preserve.”
He rubbed his temples. “You’re seriously telling me I’ve been plugged into something that’s... what? Dimensional patchwork software?”
“Not software,” the Guide corrected gently. “Structure. Infrastructure. Think of it as the spine of something much larger. What you are interfacing with now is just one expression—localized. Contained. Personalized.”
“And the world I’m going to?” he asked, voice growing quiet. “It’s not going to be some cyberpunk hellscape, right? I’m not getting dropped into Tron?”
A flicker of something passed through the Guide’s voice—dry amusement again.
“No. You are bound for a high-magic, rift-stabilized biome. Fantasy structure. Mana-rich leyline threading. Local tech exists, but it is arcane-based. Expect more dragons than drones.”
Christopher exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and disbelief tumbling from his lungs. “Okay. Alright. That’s... actually kind of a win. Fantasy I can handle. Swords and spells and weird glowing mushrooms? That’s my wheelhouse.”
“Then you are better prepared than most,” the Guide replied. “And perhaps… precisely why you were selected.”
Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Wait—*selected*? I thought I applied.”
“You filled out a form. The system made the decision.”
“Great,” he muttered, slumping back in his chair. “So I’m the fantasy equivalent of a system error with a lucky streak.”
“Subject Zero,” the Guide echoed, a faint lilt in its voice. “An anomaly. But not unwelcomed.”
Christopher narrowed his eyes slightly, watching the pulsing text in the corner of his vision.
“…Are you annoyed?” he asked suddenly.
The Guide didn’t answer right away.
Not a pause for processing—more like a very deliberate silence. The kind someone gives when they’re deciding whether to lie or say something polite.
Then:
“I am not capable of annoyance in the way you understand it.”
“That’s not a no.”
A flicker of static passed through the interface.
Then—slower, as if it had just come to terms with something: “I am adapting,” it said finally. “Your integration presents variables that require… recalibration.”
Christopher tilted his head. “So... are you a new AI or what? Have you done this before—with other delvers, I mean?”
Another pause. But this one was different.
Longer. Heavier.
When the Guide spoke again, its tone was quieter. Not evasive, but... reflective.
“I am not new. But I am *new here*.”
Christopher blinked. “What does that mean?”
“I have assisted other Delvers. In other realms. Other instances. But none from your world. None with your... profile.”
“You mean human?”
“I mean *you.*”
That landed like a stone in his gut.
The Guide continued before he could respond.
“Your neurological structure is erratic. Creative. Inconsistent. Your decisions do not follow optimized logic pathways. And yet... you persist. You adapt. You survive. You are not the first Delver. But you are the first of *your kind.*”
Christopher leaned forward in his chair, pulse quickening.
“So you *have* done this before. Walked others through integration. Watched them go through this system.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to them?”
The Guide didn’t speak.
The silence stretched.
Uncomfortably.
And that’s when Christopher realized—
It wasn’t ignoring the question.
It just didn’t want to answer.
