Power Stone Goals from now on: I always post a minimum of 5 chapters. Henceforth the following are the goals:
Every 150 powerstones, I upload an extra chapter.
If we hit top 30 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we hit top 10 in the 30-90 days power stone rankings, thats 1 more chapter
If we are top 5...well lets get to that first. Happy readings!
Chapter 5: Identity
The moment Allison shut her car door and pulled away, the surroundings shifted with an almost seamless blur. One second I was standing near the clinic entrance, watching her drive off with a smile still resting on her face, and the next, everything had returned to the familiar interior of Scott McCall's house. The walls, the lighting, the atmosphere—everything had changed again, just like before.
But this time, something felt slightly different. The reset wasn't disorienting, just brisk. It was clear.
As I came out of character, I noticed the casting director standing not far off, her expression giving away a rare moment of unfiltered reaction. She looked genuinely surprised.
"Why did you change the script?" she asked, folding her arms, not accusingly but curiously. "Scott's supposed to be nervous. He's just been bitten. He's not this confident. That's not how the character was originally meant to act."
I paused for a second, trying to assess how much of what I did had veered from the expected portrayal. Then I answered with a calm tone, not defensive, but steady.
"From my understanding," I began, "Scott just experienced something supernatural. He's been bitten by a werewolf. That kind of physical transformation could affect more than just his body. I figured that maybe the surge in confidence came from his physiology changing—hormones, adrenaline, that kind of thing. It made sense to me that he might start feeling different, more assertive, even if he doesn't fully understand why yet."
It wasn't a perfect explanation, but it was the most rational answer I could come up with at the moment. I couldn't say, "Well, I played it that way because a supernatural acting system guided me into the most resonant version of the role."
So I leaned on something that felt logical from within the show's framework.
The casting director gave a slow nod, her posture easing slightly.
"I can agree with that," she said. "That version of Scott is still believable, just a little different. But it works."
I turned slightly and noticed Crystal Reed standing nearby, watching the exchange. Her expression was polite but unmistakably warm.
There was a hint of admiration in the way she looked at me, which felt strange given everything I knew about who she was and who I had just been.
"Nice to meet you," she said, stepping closer and offering a handshake. "I'm Crystal. Though you probably already know that."
"Jace," I replied, shaking her hand lightly. "Sorry I didn't say anything earlier."
It was a normal introduction. A basic professional gesture. But in my mind, it wasn't that simple.
The system's perfect-level acting had affected me in ways I hadn't expected. During the scene, I wasn't acting like Scott.
I was Scott.
The emotions, the instincts, the thoughts—they weren't filtered through performance. They simply were. Which meant that when I looked at Crystal, I wasn't just recognizing her as an actress I once watched from afar.
I was seeing Allison Argent, the person Scott had feelings for, the person who had just smiled at him in the rain and said yes to going to a party.
And even now, out of the scene, that part of my brain hadn't fully shut off.
It occurred to me then just how immersive this system truly was. Not immersive like a role or a memory.
Immersive in the sense that it blurred the line between fiction and lived experience. My thoughts weren't just informed by character notes or script prompts—they were active responses based on who I had become at that moment.
Which led to something else. Something subtle but important.
If I stayed in this system long enough, playing roles with the same depth and detail, what part of me would still be just me?
Would I always be able to tell the difference?
Would I always return, fully, to Jace?
For now, it hasn't caused a problem. But this experience had shown me that perfect-level acting wasn't a skill enhancement.
It was something akin to a transformation.
One that might be harder to turn off than I had originally thought.
After a brief moment of silence, the casting director stepped forward again and, with a calm and professional tone, introduced herself as Wendy O'Brien. She offered a polite, composed smile and extended a small business card toward me.
"We'll be in touch," she said, her tone remaining even. "I'll be honest—I was genuinely impressed. I plan to call you back for a second live audition. It will be in front of a few more members of the team, and we'll schedule it soon. Thank you very much for your time."
She then turned to Crystal and spoke with the same composed clarity.
"Crystal, I need to run through a few more lines with you. Would you follow me, please?"
Crystal gave me a brief glance and a small, polite smile as she nodded, then turned to walk alongside Wendy without any further comment.
I looked down at the card in my hand and turned it between my fingers, noting how something so small could still represent a turning point.
It was simply something tangible, something that marked a clear next step.
For a few seconds, I stood still, letting the quiet of the room settle. I wasn't unsure of how the audition had gone. If anything, I felt quietly confident. I knew what I had delivered. I had stepped into the character the way I believed he should be portrayed, and I had followed the natural flow of his choices. It hadn't felt forced, and it hadn't felt out of place. If anything, it had felt appropriate.
There was still a process ahead, of course. Auditions weren't final decisions. They were the beginning of several conversations. But I felt like I had done my part.
After one last glance at the business card, I tucked it into my pocket. From the memories that had become part of me, I recalled the location of my current residence.
It was a small apartment, quiet, nothing extravagant, but enough for now. I had just enough money left for a bus ride, and that would have to be enough.
At the bus stop, I boarded without much thought and chose a seat near the back, one of those that rattled a bit with every bump in the road.
As the city passed by through the window beside me, I leaned against the cool glass, letting my thoughts move without urgency.
Today had been a reminder of how layered my experience had become. I was no longer living a single timeline. There was the version of me that came from a different place, a different life altogether.
There was the version of me living in this body, navigating the world as Jace. And then, layered over both, was the experience of having fully embodied Scott McCall, even for a short while.
None of it felt overwhelming at the moment, but I could tell it might become difficult to manage if I didn't take the time to stay grounded. The performance hadn't been just a demonstration of skill. It involved a full absorption of someone else's thoughts and emotions. And the more often I found myself taking on roles like that, the more important it would become to remember where those performances ended and where I began.
The system had made it possible.
That much was clear.
If I wasn't careful, I might lose track of where the character ended and I began.
The bus continued on, its rhythm steady, and I allowed myself a moment to sit quietly, collecting my thoughts, and reminding myself of who I was—who I had always been—before the roles and auditions began.
When I finally arrived at the apartment that, according to this life's memories, I was supposed to call home, the first thing that struck me was how small it really was.
After years spent surrounded by the polished glass, structured lighting, and curated minimalism of my old flat—the one I had lived in back when I worked as a lawyer—this place felt especially cramped.
The ceiling was low, the kitchen barely a nook, and the furniture had clearly seen better days.
As I stepped inside and dropped my bag on the wobbly side table, I reached into my pocket and realized something I had somehow ignored all day: my phone had been with me the entire time. Pulling it out, I stared at the device in disbelief.
An iPhone 3GS. It was thick and heavy and its screen looked dim and muted compared to the glass-paneled smart surface I was used to.
"Right," I muttered to myself. "I forgot how primitive this thing is."
Where I came from, people had moved on to what was essentially a seamless pane of glass—no ports, no bezels, just interactive tech that responded instantly.
Apple, in typical fashion, had skipped more than a few model numbers over the years. Ignoring iPhone 9 was just the beginning.
Eventually they started jumping by tens and then hundreds, marketing gimmicks that mirrored the kind of exponential change in design and capability.
And now, here I was, holding a phone that felt more like a relic than a tool. The battery barely lasted, the operating system was sluggish, and the lack of modern apps made even basic communication feel like an effort.
The laptop wasn't much better. Sitting on a small desk pushed against the wall was an Acer Aspire One netbook.
I remembered these things being barely functional even when they were new. Turning it on felt like waiting for a kettle to boil.
The fan was loud, the screen had poor contrast, and I had to resist the urge to touch the screen because, of course, it wasn't touch-enabled.
Still, with a bit of patience, I was able to use the outdated browser to poke around the internet. I had assumed this world was identical to the one I had left behind, maybe just offset by time. But that assumption quickly broke down.
It didn't take long to discover that entertainment history here had shifted in strange, subtle ways. For instance, the Harry Potter film franchise was still ongoing—not as a nostalgic reference, but as a current, unfolding event.
According to a production blog and a few dated press articles, they were just finishing up filming for "Goblet of Fire." That was five years behind schedule, at least compared to the timeline I remembered.
The fourth movie hadn't even premiered yet, though it would soon.
And Harry Potter was just one example. There were popular songs I distinctly remembered from my youth that, according to this world's music charts, didn't exist. Artists whose albums shaped entire summers for me hadn't released anything yet—some hadn't even emerged in the public eye. There were no mentions of certain novels or writers. Books that had won awards in my past weren't on shelves here. In some cases, they didn't seem to have been written at all.
The more I read, the more it became clear that this version of the world, while familiar in most day-to-day ways, was running on a slower creative timeline. Projects I had expected to already exist were either still in progress or not conceived yet. It felt like someone had pressed pause on culture and then forgotten to hit play again for several years.
That discovery left me with a mix of emotions. On the one hand, it was disorienting. On the other, it hinted at opportunity. If the world hadn't moved as quickly as I remembered, maybe I could. Maybe there was space to contribute something meaningful, something new, before others caught up.
But first, I needed to adjust to the technology, the pace, and the version of life I now found myself living. Because everything—from the heavy phone in my hand to the unfinished movies online—was reminding me that I was very much starting from a different place.
(AN: What do you guys think of the Fic so far.)
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Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator