Chapter 2: Combat Tutorial
A rough hand clamped onto my arm through the jagged remains of the window, the grip surprisingly strong. "Frost! Stop being a lazy bastard and get your arse moving! Help us out here!" It was Omar's voice, strained but unmistakable.
As he hauled me, none too gently, towards the gaping hole where the windshield used to be, my eyes finally started to focus. Omar wasn't wearing his usual weekend range gear. He was kitted out in full multicam, a plate carrier snug against his chest, and his AR-15 slung across his back. It wasn't just him. As I was dragged further out of the wreck, I saw Lena kneeling behind a low concrete barrier, her carbine spitting fire. Boris was shouting commands, his large frame a reassuringly solid presence amidst the chaos. Even Anya, her face grim and determined, was returning fire from behind the partial cover of a damaged vehicle.
And then I looked down at myself. I was wearing it too. The same multicam uniform, the same heavy vest, the same unfamiliar weight of a rifle slung across my chest. It felt… wrong. Like a costume that had somehow become my skin.
The reality of the gunfight slammed into me, the sharp cracks and whines of passing rounds no longer abstract sounds from a distance. This was real. People were trying to kill us. My breath hitched, panic rising in my chest like a cold wave. My vision tunneled, the sounds of the firefight blurring into a deafening roar.
Then, the glowing window reappeared in front of my eyes.
Calm Under Fire LVL. 5
Suddenly, the edges of my vision sharpened. The roaring in my ears subsided, replaced by the distinct sounds of gunfire, shouted commands, and the impact of rounds on metal and concrete. The icy grip of panic began to recede, replaced by a strange sense of… clarity. My thoughts, which had been a swirling mess of fear and confusion, started to organize themselves.
"...Frost! Frost, can you hear me?" Boris's voice cut through the din, loud and urgent. He was looking directly at me, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright, you daft bugger?"
I managed a jerky nod at Boris, my throat still tight with a fear I couldn't quite shake, despite the sudden clarity. "Y-yeah," I stammered, the lie feeling thick and clumsy on my tongue. Definitely not alright. Not even close. But the immediate panic had receded, replaced by a bewildering sense of… something else. Awareness? Focus? It was like the volume on the chaos had been turned down, allowing me to actually process what was happening.
That's when I saw it. At the top left of my vision, two translucent bars shimmered into existence. One was a vibrant red, labeled HP, and almost full. The other, a lighter green, read Stamina and was also near its maximum. What in God's name…?
"Frost! Snap out of it!" Boris's voice was sharp, cutting through my internal confusion. "Get your arse back to the second vehicle! Make sure MP Bastille is alright! Now move!" He turned back, his rifle barking a short burst towards whatever was trying to turn us into Swiss cheese.
As Boris gave the order, the glowing window in my vision flickered again, and new text appeared:
Emergency Quest: Survive the ambush and rescue the MP
Below the text, a bright blue, almost cartoonish, orb appeared above a vehicle further back in the convoy, maybe fifteen meters behind our current overturned position. It pulsed gently, an incongruous beacon in this deadly reality.
MP Bastille? What the hell was going on? My mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments – the uniforms, the gunfire, the flipped military vehicle, and now… a quest marker? This couldn't be real. But the sting of the flying debris, the roar of the weapons, the sheer terror in Anya's voice… it all felt horribly, undeniably real.
With a surge of something akin to reluctant obedience, fueled by Boris's forceful command and the bizarre game-like directive in my vision, I scrambled out of the wreckage, the weight of the unfamiliar rifle digging into my shoulder. The blue orb pulsed in the distance, a surreal objective in this suddenly insane world. I had to move. I had to reach MP Bastille.
As I scrambled away from the flipped HUMVEE, adrenaline pumping through my veins despite the lingering shock, the glowing screen in my vision flickered back to life, overlaying the chaotic reality with a clinical, detached explanation:
Combat Tutorial Initiated
Ranged Weapon Damage: Damage output is calculated based on multiple factors, including weapon base damage, user skill level, distance to target, and environmental conditions.
Carbines: Accuracy is heavily influenced by user skill level. Current Skill Level: 11/25. Accuracy Modifier: 22%.
Rifles (Geissele Super Duty): This is a Super Rare item with the following base stats:
Base Damage: 22
Accuracy: 67
Rate of Fire (ROF): 700 rounds per minute
The information scrolled past my eyes in a steady stream of digital text, a bizarre counterpoint to the screams and gunfire around me. Super Rare item? Skill levels? What in God's name was going on? My mind struggled to reconcile the clinical data with the very real danger.
The blue orb above the distant vehicle pulsed insistently, drawing my gaze. MP Bastille. Survive. Rescue. The words echoed the primal need to move, to act, even as my brain tried to process the impossible.
I stumbled behind a shattered concrete barrier, momentarily out of the direct line of fire. Lena was still there, her face grim, expertly squeezing off controlled bursts. The tutorial screen remained stubbornly in my vision, a surreal overlay on the gritty reality. Base damage? Rate of fire? This wasn't a game. This was… this was life and death. But the screen, the calm clarity that had washed over me… it was undeniable.
With a deep breath, I gripped the unfamiliar rifle slung across my chest. Geissele Super Duty, the screen had said. Super Rare. Right now, it just felt heavy and foreign in my hands. But the tutorial, that detached, clinical explanation… it had done something. The panic was still there, a knot in my stomach, but it wasn't overwhelming me anymore. It was… manageable. Almost like the game had given me a cheat sheet for surviving hell.
Boris's shout snapped me back to the immediate danger. "Frost! Move your arse! Get to Bastille!"
The blue orb pulsed again. My objective. Whatever this insane reality was, I had a mission. And somehow, impossibly, I felt a sliver of something I hadn't felt since waking up in this nightmare: a flicker of grim determination.
Scrambling behind the cover of a wrecked civilian car, I kept the blue orb in my sights. It pulsed steadily above a blacked-out SUV, its windows spider-webbed with cracks. As I reached the vehicle, its door hanging open at a mangled angle, I peered inside.
A man in a surprisingly intact suit was slumped in the back seat, his head lolling to the side. He looked dazed, but alive. "MP Bastille?" I asked, my voice rough. He blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused. He didn't respond, but he was breathing. Good enough for now.
As I registered his presence, the glowing screen in my vision flickered again, the combat tutorial still stubbornly overlaid on reality.
Tutorial Update: Enemy Identification
During this tutorial phase, hostile entities will be highlighted with a red outline for ease of identification.
Please note: This visual aid is temporary and for training purposes only. For similar enemy highlighting capabilities outside of the tutorial, the Enemy Scan skill or equivalent visual augmentation systems will be required.
Suddenly, as if on cue, the figures I'd seen firing at us from behind cover down the street were now clearly outlined in a stark, pulsating red. They were still just shapes, but the red made them undeniably the enemy. It was surreal, like watching a particularly violent video game, except the bullets were real, and my friends were fighting for their lives.
Enemy Scan skill? Visual augmentation systems? This was insane. Utterly, terrifyingly insane. But the red outlines… they did make it easier to see who the targets were. My eyes flicked between the red-highlighted hostiles and the blue orb above Bastille's vehicle. Survive. Rescue. The objectives, stark and simple amidst the chaos.
Boris's voice boomed from our previous position. "Frost! Report! Is Bastille secure?"
I crouched beside the MP's vehicle, trying to assess his condition while keeping an eye on the red-tinged threats down the street. Secure? He was alive, anyway. "He's… alive, Boris. Dazed."
"Good enough! Stay with him and provide cover! We'll try to suppress those bastards!"
The red outlines shifted as the enemy combatants moved, taking cover behind overturned cars and makeshift barricades. The tutorial screen remained, a constant reminder that this nightmare had rules, however bizarre. And right now, the rules said those red figures were trying to kill us. And I had a "Super Rare" rifle. It was time to see if it lived up to the hype.
Gripping the Geissele, the weight now feeling a little less alien, I squinted through the LPVO. The red outlines made target acquisition almost… clinical. It was still jarring, the disconnect between the digital highlighting and the very real threat, but it was undeniably effective.
I settled the crosshairs on one of the red figures crouched behind an overturned car. Took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against my shoulder, the report loud in the chaos. Through the scope, I saw the red outline flicker, then disappear as the figure slumped to the ground.
A notification flashed in my vision: Enemy Killed 30 EXP
Experience points? What in thehell… I shoved the thought down, forcing myself to focus on the next red outline. Another target, firing wildly in our direction. A few rushed shots went wide, kicking up dust and chips of concrete. I adjusted my aim, compensating for the slight tremor in my hands, and fired again. This time, the red outline vanished.
Enemy Killed 30 EXP
I repeated the process, methodically engaging the remaining red figures. Two more down. Each kill brought the same surreal notification. It was like some twisted arcade game, but the stakes were terrifyingly real.
Then, a new notification: Level Up! Carbine Skill Level Increased!
Before I could even process what that meant, the sound of approaching vehicles, engines roaring, cut through the gunfire. Two armored personnel carriers screeched to a halt further down the street, and figures began to disembark.
My attention was immediately drawn to two women who emerged from the first APC. They were small, barely reaching my shoulder if I had been standing fully upright. Despite their size, they moved with a confident, almost aggressive air. One had long, flowing blond hair with black horns protruding from her head, and piercing red eyes. She wore a dark, tactical-looking outfit with red accents and carried what looked like an M4 rifle. The other woman had long, dark brown hair and equally intense red eyes, one of which held a striking orange hue while the other was a vibrant yellow. Her attire was a yellow and black tactical jacket over a white shirt, and she wielded a smaller, more compact submachine gun. They both scanned the scene with sharp, predatory gazes, their presence radiating an aura of deadly efficiency.
My breath hitched in my throat. Even with this bizarre calm washing over me, a jolt of pure disbelief shot through the confusion. Those two… even with the slightly altered looks, the live-action intensity… I knew them. M4 SOPMOD II. RO635. T-Dolls. Characters from the very game I'd been playing just hours ago. The blonde hair, the horns, the M4… the long brown hair, the mismatched eyes, the compact SMG… it was them. It couldn't be anyone else.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the still-raging gunfire. They were real. Standing right there. Talking to me.
The blonde one, SOPMOD, her red eyes sharp and assessing,but she had a smile on her face as if this was where she belonged, spoke first, her voice level amidst the chaos. "You the ones who popped the distress beacon?"
The one with heterochromia, RO, her gaze flicking efficiently between the remaining red outlines and our overturned vehicle, didn't wait for my response. She cut in, her voice crisp and commanding. "SOPMOD, handle the hostiles near the flipped vehicle. Looks like our people are still engaging." She glanced at me, then back at the street. "I'll take the ones further down."
SOPMOD nodded, her M4 already tracking towards the cover where Lena and Boris were still exchanging fire. RO moved with a fluid, almost unnatural grace, her SMG held ready. They were acting like… well, like the highly efficient combat androids they were supposed to be.
My mind reeled. T-Dolls. Here. Real. It took a monumental effort, even with this strange calmness the "game" had bestowed upon me, to stammer out a response to SOPMOD. "Y-yeah… I… we…" My voice cracked, the words catching in my throat. This couldn't be happening. This had to be some kind of insane hallucination. But the heat of the explosions, the smell of gunpowder, the very real presence of SOPMOD and RO… it was all too tangible.
They didn't seem to notice my utter bewilderment, or if they did, they didn't care. They were focused on the threat, their movements precise and deadly. This was really happening. I was in the middle of a goddamn firefight, and my backup had just arrived in the form of two characters from a mobile game. What in the name of all that is holy was going on?
As SOPMOD took off like a shot, her M4 held at the ready, RO called after her, a hint of exasperation in her voice, "SOPMOD! No grenades in the city!"
A cheerful "Okay!" echoed back, followed by SOPMOD's excited battle cry as she charged towards the red outlines, a wide grin plastered on her face.
RO just shook her head, a small sigh escaping her lips. "That girl, sometimes..." She then turned her attention back to me, her mismatched eyes sharp. "You. Ensure the VIP is secure. We'll handle the rest of this." And with that, she moved with a swift, purposeful stride towards the ongoing firefight, where SOPMOD was already tearing through the enemy positions with surprising speed and accuracy.
Suddenly, a burst of triumphant fanfare filled my vision, the jarring sound strangely out of place amidst the lingering gunshots. The glowing screen reappeared:
Quest Complete: Survive the ambush and rescue the MP
Rewards:
Skill Acquired: Analyse - Allows the user to analyze the attributes of most entities.
Function Acquired: Minimap - A tactical minimap is now available in your HUD.
New Quest: Join Griffin - Join the Private Military Contractor Griffin & Kryuger within 15 days.
Success: 10,000 EXP, Title: T-Doll Commander
Failure: Death, Loss of your friends.
Bonus Mission: Convince your friends to join and help them be successfully recruited.
Rewards: ? Level Up, 3 Skill Level Tokens, 10% Health and Stamina.
Griffin & Kryuger? T-Doll Commander? Death if I fail? This wasn't just a game anymore. It was a ultimatum. And my friends… their lives were apparently tied to my choices in this insane new reality. The bonus mission hung there, a daunting task. Convince Boris, Lena, Anya, Omar, and… Jian. Where was Jian? The thought hit me like a punch to the gut amidst the surreal game notifications. I hadn't seen him since the crash. A cold dread washed over the initial shock. This wasn't just about me and some game anymore. My friends were caught in this too.
A heavy lump formed in my chest as I made my way back to our mangled HUMVEE. The fighting had died down, the only sounds now the distant crackle of gunfire as SOPMOD and RO mopped up any remaining resistance. My friends were huddled together near the wreckage, their faces grim. The vibrant blue orb above Bastille's vehicle seemed garish in the face of their despair.
Lena was kneeling beside a still form, her shoulders shaking. Boris stood behind her, his large frame radiating a helpless fury. Anya was sitting on a piece of twisted metal, her gaze fixed on the ground. Omar stood slightly apart, his usual easy going demeanor completely gone, his face etched with a raw grief I'd never seen before.
And then I saw them. Two figures lying still on the blood-stained asphalt. Marcus. And Jian.
The breath hitched in my throat. The game notifications, the sudden calm, the bizarre arrival of SOPMOD and RO… it all faded into insignificance in the face of this stark reality. Marcus, who'd been belting out Bon Jovi just hours ago, lay still and broken. Jian, whose infectious laughter could always lift our spirits, was silent forever.
Lena let out a choked sob, her hand reaching out to touch Marcus's face. Boris placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, his own jaw tight. Anya finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with a pain that mirrored my own. Omar simply stared, his face a mask of disbelief.
The T-Dolls, SOPMOD and RO, moved with cold efficiency, their initial burst of speed now replaced with a methodical clearing of the area. They seemed almost oblivious to the raw grief that hung heavy in the air around us. They were focused on the objective, their movements precise and detached.
As SOPMOD finished off the last visible enemy, she turned back towards us, her expression unreadable. RO followed suit, her mismatched eyes scanning our group. The contrast between their almost clinical efficiency and the raw, visceral grief of my friends was stark and unsettling.
The game had given me skills, quests, and a bizarre new reality. But it hadn't prepared me for this. It hadn't told me what to say, how to comfort my friends, how to process the brutal finality of death. All I could do was stand there, the weight of the unfamiliar rifle heavy in my hands, and stare at the still forms of Marcus and Jian, the joy of our shooting trip now a shattered memory.