WebNovels

Chapter 1 - Chapter One

It smelled different

That was the first thing that Chris realized as his body started fading back into awareness. He flexed his toes; the fabric around him felt strangely light. Chris wrinkled his nose, trying to place the difference, but it was unlike anything he had ever smelled in his life. It was just a little sharper, like the atmosphere possessed extra sharpness; energy filled the air, escaping his grasp yet flowing into his lungs.

What if he were unlucky and the odor was something terrible, like his phone on fire and he was smelling its burnt remains? Could he be that unlucky? Oh… Yeah, who was he kidding? Briefly, he thought back to the constant work and never-ending orders he delivered for less than the minimum wage of his country. Was that not peak unlucky? Getting born into such a world? With that in mind, he forced his eyes open, hoping the sight of his only form of income on fire in front of him wouldn't greet him.

The surrounding area was unfamiliar, as was the screen set into the wall. It blended so seamlessly with the tiling that it looked like part of the structure itself. Three of the tiles held screens; the rest of the walls were a dull, purplish-dark grey. He was actually fond of that color. The problem was how tight everything felt. There were no windows, the enclosed space pressing in on him—a stark contrast to his cramped apartment back on Earth, with its massive window that let in too much light and proved impossible to cover with any blackout curtain he could buy.

He pushed himself upright, trying to make sense of what was happening. A thin black blanket slid from his chest and bunched at his hips. This body felt different—lighter, sharper in its movements. He lifted a hand toward his face, fighting to swallow down the rising panic. But how could he not panic? The hand staring at him was the wrong color. The… Wrong… Color. Instead of his normal paper-white skin, it was a heavy, even tan, free of the patchy damage he associated with a pale person trying to catch the sun.

Chris forced his brain to think, his thoughts disjointed and out of place. His thoughts felt like powdered sugar being sifted through a strainer—scattered and light and spread.

"Ashanti! Your sister needs help with her homework!"

The voice was faintly familiar as it was almost slurring the words, and his body jerked to that familiar someone said your name type of awareness, although Ashanti was not, in fact, his name. Immediately followed by a surge of bitterness, of the type that Chris had only ever felt toward the loathsome politicians that let people like him down at every opportunity they could.

"Ashanti!" Again came the slurred, demanding words.

Jumping up by pure reflex, he blurted out, "One minute!"

"Hurry! The sooner she completes the homework, the better her chances are!"

What did that even mean… her chances? He shook his head of the thought.

Chris wanted to scratch his throat at the weirdness of it all. That wasn't his voice. It wasn't. It sounded wrong, though he sensed within this borrowed body something true, too. It possessed a strange, welcome correctness; a thinner waist, fingers more slender than Chris recalled having. The new fingers reminded him of how a pianist's fingers would look, or someone who spent far too long at the computer, fingers slim almost as though being a typing warrior worked like finger exercise, keeping them shapely.

He took a deep breath trying to calm himself.

Chris could feel his hand tremble a bit.

Then memories stirred, forming tangible bits: shattered glimpses, people Chris lacked, a distinct existence. A Father, mother, and sister, with all the emotions involved sticking to the memories, similar to glue.

What did he even do? Where did he go from here? How did he get home?

Home.

Earth.

Chris, though struggling, prized his small apartment bought through immense labor. Something he worked for. Something he struggled for. He loved it. The idea of losing it, of somehow not being there, burned within him.

Earth.

Little apartment…

Chris slumped back against the bed, breathe struck in his throat as he tried to calm down, tried to stop what felt like an oncoming panic attack. It didn't want to stop. It bubbled up like a sickness in his stomach. One hand pushed into his hair, wrapping around. The weird and unfamiliar texture of wavy hair felt with fingers that lacked any sort of calluses sent another jolt of sickness into his stomach.

What kind of anime-type bullshit was this?

Chris didn't have any experience to understand this - or any - type of trope. He spent most of his life memorizing roads in ways that would get him to his destinations faster. He lacked the chance to read or watch TV shows, having discovered these tropes in passing when he attended school, but that had more to do with a level-up system in real life. Less to do with randomly waking in a strange yet similar world.

All these random ponderings were conjoined with a one-way trip to world-tilting revelations about one's earthly existence. Immediately, he pushed those memories to the side. He needed to deal with them later; dealing with them now would…. Not be pleasant. Chris tried to keep his mind away from the crashing revelation that he knew from his memories but he didn't want to touch. If he did, if he even speculated about it…

"Ashanti!"

It had only been thirty seconds. Ashanti's father was the impatient type, that was for sure.

"Coming!" he answered at once, without budging from the bed.

Somehow, he forced himself back up onto his feet. There wasn't physical strain. If anything, it was easier in this body than his original. Ashanti appeared more in shape than Chris was… odd, because from what Chris could remember, Ashanti was not as physically active as Chris had been, but this planet worked differently in its expectations, especially regarding base physicality.

SHRIEEEEEEK

Chris flinched, surprised when his body shifted into something resembling a fighting stance. A moment's thought told him it wasn't danger—it was an alarm. He glanced at the display, spotted a small icon, and raised his hand. A quick fist-clench silenced it instantly. Apparently, that was how alarm clocks worked here - A simple fist gesture to silence, and to snooze the alarm, you raised two fingers.

With that handled, what now? All of his family had been gone long before he'd reached true adult awareness, and the people he'd stayed with afterward had never got close. So what was the play—getting dressed before heading toward his father, or just wandering around in this wife-beater-style shirt and shorts? At least he wasn't naked. As Chris. he always slept naked. Finding out Ashanti didn't share that habit was an unexpected blessing—one less awkward surprise to deal with. Waking up in someone else's body was already weird enough without doing it bare-assed.

Briefly, he sorted through some thoughts, trying not to let his mind stray into—Earth, home, apartment—and kept focus just on what Ashanti would wear when leaving his room. Memories confirmed that not getting wholly dressed was fine, so he opened the door before his, no, Ashanti's, father could yell again.

Plat

Plat

Plat

Bare feet on the tiled floor rang in his ears like echoing plunks. Chris opened the door leading from his room into the main apartment. Blinding light shone through, hurting his eyes as they struggled to adjust. A literal bright contrast to how Ashanti kept his room. He blinked stunned tears out of his eyes to study his surroundings. The walls still featured panels, and some panels had screens, but they displayed white instead of the black and dark grey that Ashanti preferred.

Chris clenched his fist again, trying to stabilize himself, to push himself into action. One foot in front of the other.

Deep breath.

He stepped into the main living space of their small, modest apartment. At some point, his father had handed over the bedrooms for the kids' use, choosing instead to sleep on the sofa. Chris kept his expression neutral as his eyes fell on the man—leaned back against the cushions, a glass of water in hand, a grimace twisting his face. It looked like someone had wrenched and locked his spine ten painful inches off center, causing his posture to slant. His skin was lighter than Ashanti's, likely from rarely stepping outside to stand under their blazing star. He didn't look away from the TV. Chris wondered what sort of show managed to catch his interest. His father's eyes glowed faintly neon green, ten thin lines radiating from each pupil—a visible mark of his Breakthroughs. Yet those failed him. He was disabled. Painfully and depressingly disabled.

Ashanti's father had suffered that disability for about three years now.

"There you are," the man smiled. The genuine positive emotion stilled Chris. It was like just the sight of his son brightened this father's world. The voice's demanding tone was gone; instead, his father seemed contented, although just moments ago, when he thought no one was looking, something marred his face with what seemed to be extreme pain. Ashanti had noticed this before, but didn't know what to do about it.

"Papa," Chris acknowledged, his lips moving almost without his permission to smile at the man.

"I see you got your lazy ass out of bed. Help your sister with her homework, okay? I'm sure she is very close to getting a breakthrough; I can feel it."

A Breakthrough… In this world, mastering a skill to a certain point unlocked something extraordinary. It was like a near-magical extension of that ability: practice running long enough, and your Breakthrough might let you move as fast as a car. Breakthroughs were the backbone of the society he'd landed in, shaping social status, entertainment, and almost everything else.

"Sure thing," Chris replied almost absentmindedly.

His father gazed at him, brow furrowed. "Even if she does breakthrough, you know that won't—"

"I know." Ashanti interrupted, desperate to change the subject, glanced at the TV and hoped to bring his father's attention back to that. He wanted to shun this world's truths, opting to ignore society's strange base and evolution in this world.

Impossible. Seeing this made the desire to shun the truth absolutely, irrevocably, impossible.

Rather, it should have been impossible. It almost couldn't be real. On-screen, a newscaster spoke about the creation of Earth: a simulated reality built by Kaelith Seko Islani, whose high-level coding Breakthrough granted him the ability to craft an entire universe from nothing. And then he monetized it—selling the world like it was a reality TV show. Reality, because it was real. Chris certainly viewed it that way. The newscaster spoke about the amazing success. It made an insane amount of money. The caster expressed how realistic the simulation was, how the societies and individuals within were the same as true, lifelike beings. She continued, debating how humans were willful, unpredictable, as though humans counted as lifeforms. She expressed it implied Earth was its own reality.

That made sense.

It had been reality.

It had to be.

He could not conceive of spending a quarter-century within virtual reality and then being awakened within some random person's body within some differing realm containing random powers… He refused to believe that it was possible.

It… It just couldn't be possible.

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