The rain in Sector 4 didn't clean anything - just soaked the grime. Wetness spread, but filth stayed put.
It had been raining lightly, the kind of damp chill that sneaks past layers. Pulling the hood over didn't help much - his coat barely held together. Ripped in places, thin where threads gave way. Standing there, stuck halfway into a pile reeking of dead electronics and something sour. No name for this place except maybe home base. Where he worked, grabbed food when lucky, moved around just to stay warm.
Tom made his living picking through scraps. Compared to everyone else, he hardly ranked higher than the rodents gnawing at cables nearby - truth is, those critters likely had more to eat.
Come on, Tom mumbled, shoving a broken car door out of his way. Just hand over whatever. Seriously, anything at all
He wasn't after gold - gold never showed up in the slums. Instead, he hunted for copper, usable bits of tech, or a battery with just enough juice left. The day before, he'd pulled out a toaster that barely puffed smoke. That moment stood out most in his seven days. He traded it for five coins - just enough to grab a bread roll that felt like eating paper.
Right now, he wanted something stronger instead of just cardboard.
He sifted further through the heap of broken gadgets. With bandaged fingers - grimy from scrapes - he worked fast, used to the mess. Not every chunk was junk; some held worth beneath the grime. A quick feel told him what mattered.
Footsteps away, fingers grazed a slick surface.
It didn't have rough edges like broken steel. Not soft or mushy like that unknown goop buried deep in the heap. Instead, it felt solid, rounded, yet weighty.
Tom's heart skipped a beat. Then he snatched the thing, yanking it fiercely. Out it came from the muck with a wet plop.
He rubbed off the dirt using his arm's fabric. Beneath the dull gunk, dark plastic showed up - turned out to be a head cover. Yet not an ordinary one.
No way," Tom said quietly. His eyes darted left and right - any sign of someone nearby? Out here, stumbling on luck could get you killed. Spot it, and the crews might slit you open before lunch.
It was one of those dive setups.
It was a Neuro-Link Visor, fourth version. Yeah, outdated. Folks up top - rich ones - likely had number ten already. Yet way down here? Spotting one felt like pulling treasure from a sewer drain.
Dive Rigs opened the door - without them, getting to Aetheria was impossible. One couldn't reach it any other way.
People had heard of Aetheria. Not your average game. More like another life. Magic worked there. You could soar through the air. Earning cash happened by taking down creatures. The news looped footage nonstop on towering screens above the poor neighborhoods. Big names became famous faces. Those folks stayed in huge homes. They had fresh meat for meals. Instead of hunting bins in downpours, they skipped the struggle.
Tom stared hard at the helmet. Yet his thrill started to drop.
It was wrecked.
A sharp split ran down the left panel. The face shield? Completely smashed. Worst bit - back connector's warped, scorched. That thing jabbed a wire into your nerves so you could plug online. Looks like whoever used it tore it off mid-use.
"It's garbage," Tom said, his shoulders slumping. "That's why it's here."
He nearly tossed it away. Yet something made him pause.
He stared at the crooked plug. Then his eyes moved to the loose cables dangling out - kinda like noodles left in a pot.
Tom spent his life mending stuff. When winter killed the heater, he'd get it running again. The radio? Same thing - just so he could hear that crackling noise. Sure, he didn't have a degree, yet he never gave up easily.
I can patch you up, Tom told the helmet. It felt weird chatting to plastic - still, being alone messes with your head. You with me? We're heading way high
He tucked the helmet beneath his coat, gripping it close to his chest - just like cradling a newborn. After that, off he went sprinting.
Tom lived in a metal box - sitting high above two others. When gusts hit, it rocked sideways, turning bedtime into something unpredictable.
He locked the door right after stepping in. Inside, space was tight. There's just a mattress lying on the ground, a pail holding water, also a table piled with gear he'd either taken or picked up somewhere.
He set the helmet down on the bench where a shaky light glowed above it.
"Okay, let's see how bad the damage is," Tom said.
He picked up a screwdriver, then cracked the case wide. Right away, a sharp burnt scent hit the air. Inside the helmet looked like chaos took over. Burnt streaks ran across the main board. Dust bunnies packed the fan so tight they might've started a tiny kingdom by now.
"This is going to take all night," he groaned.
He lacked extra pieces - just junk instead.
He pulled the vibrating part from a broken shaver he picked up days ago - this one's gonna act like the touch-feedback engine instead.
He pulled the copper wiring out of a busted lamp. This'll fix the damaged circuits.
He lacked a proper tool, yet grabbed a butter knife instead. The blade's end he held above the candle till it turned red-hot - then applied it to soften the solder. This fix? Rough. Messy. Exactly what'd make any actual engineer panic.
Yet Tom's hands didn't shake.
He put in hour after hour. Rain beat down on the tin roof above him. A rumble in his gut said he needed food, yet he kept going. More crucial than eating right now. Could be his shot.
The toughest piece? The neural needle. That thing was risky. When the needle wasn't set correctly, you didn't just get hooked into the system - your mind might get fried instead. Folks who ran pirated setups sometimes wound up like empty shells.
A bit more left," Tom muttered, droplets sliding off his nose. Yet he held tweezers, fixing the bent needle slowly.
It wasn't flawless. But it leaned a bit to one side.
"Fine by Uncle Sam's standards," he said with a grin, talking to no one.
He stuck the shell shut using silver duct tape. The headgear appeared rough. Scratches ran across it, tape kept it from falling apart, yet it reeked of melted plastic. It resembled a homemade horror show wearing armor.
Tom leaned back, swiping his oily hands across his jeans.
It was done.
He checked the clock hanging on the wall - three in the morning. The system stayed live every night. No downtime ever.
Tom got to his feet, moving slow across the cramped space. With everything finished, worry crept in instead.
"This is stupid," he said. "This is really, really stupid."
If he wore it and it sparked, he'd be finished. Worse yet, stuck babbling in a room forever.
Still, what else could there be?
He stared through the dirty, tiny window. Beyond it lay the rundown streets. Piles of garbage caught his eye. A dull existence stretched ahead - same thing each morning, every afternoon, one day blending into the next. Scavenging would keep him moving till age or illness took over, then he'd simply fade away.
"I'd rather fry my brain than live another day in this dump," Tom decided.
He plopped onto the bed. Then grabbed the helmet - kinda weighed a lot.
He stuck the cable into the outlet. Right away, the helmet started buzzing - sharp, fierce, like a wasp caught indoors. A red signal flashed fast at first, hesitated, then shifted to a dull green glow that just stayed on.
"Green means go," Tom said. "Or it means 'run away.' I guess I'll find out."
He lay down. Then he tugged the helmet on.
It felt snug. Since the foam had thinned, the rigid plastic pressed against his ears. Ozone hit harder, filling his nostrils sharply.
"Start it up," Tom said.
For a moment, everything stayed still.
A sharp ringing began in his head - suddenly it grew stronger, then kept building. One second quiet, the next nearly overwhelming.
ZAP.
Ah!" Tom yelled when the neural needle kicked in - sharp sting at the nape. This wasn't meant to feel so brutal. Like a wasp jammed its venom straight into his backbone.
[ WARNING: HARDWARE DAMAGE DETECTED ]
A bright red message popped up right in his view.
[ BYPASSING SAFETY PROTOCOLS... ]
"Wait, bypassing safety protocols?" Tom panicked. "No, don't do that! Keep the safety protocols!"
Signal weak. Sync forced now
His head began to pound. As if a balloon were expanding in his brain. Everything turned bright, no shapes, just light. The figure on the mattress twitched suddenly.
Log out!" Tom meant to shout - yet his lips stayed frozen. By then, the program was running every part of him.
[ Oops. Uh-oh. Can't find your ID. ]
The words looked broken. Sometimes the characters appeared flipped or rotated.
[ LOOKING FOR MATCHING CLASS... DIDN'T WORK. ]
[ Looking for matching species... didn't work. ]
Tom thought he was dropping. Colors spun out from the bright glow. Nausea hit him hard. One second burning up, next freezing, right back to sweating. That's what they called Neural Feedback - the thing folks said would wreck you. Signals flooded his mind way too quick, messed-up links frying his thoughts.
I'm done for, he figured. Inside a metal box, stuck - toast maker balanced above my ears.
[ CRITICAL FAILURE IMMINENT. ]
[ REROUTING TO EMERGENCY PROTOCOL: EXTRACTION. ]
The pain hit its worst. Like a flash of lightning striking straight through him. Tom yelled inside his head - no sound came out, just noise bouncing around in the empty network.
And then, silence.
The pain vanished.
The noise stopped.
Tom woke up. Well, sort of - his electronic vision flickered on instead.
He'd left his room behind. Not even the slumps held him now.
He stood in a flat stretch of ash-colored powder. Above, the heavens looked sore - dark violet. Breathing felt sharp, metallic on the tongue.
A blue glow hung in midair near his eyes. But it twitched now and then, warped with jagged glitches - just like ancient screens back when signals dropped.
[ WELCOME TO AETHERIA ]
Tom sucked in air, staring at his palms - same ones, just spotless now. His clothes? Just torn cloth, what you get when starting fresh.
"I'm alive," he said, patting his chest. "I made it. I'm actually in."
He chuckled - nervous, almost trembling. Because he'd slipped past danger. Not only that, but he took junk… turned it into a door leading somewhere unknown. All of it real.
Yet when he stared at the startup page, the words shifted. Not like the usual displays he'd spotted on outdoor ads. This one flashed red, rough, broken up.
[ SYSTEM ERROR: CLASS NOT ASSIGNED ]
[ ASSIGNING UNIQUE TRAIT... ]
[ CONGRATULATIONS! ]
[ YOU HAVE UNLOCKED: ULTIMATE INFINITE EXTRACTION SYSTEM ]
Tom blinked. "Ultimate Infinite what now?"
He'd come across Warriors, Mages, Thieves - also those who mend wounds. Rumors mentioned uncommon ones too, say, a holy knight or someone raising the dead.
Yet he'd never come across the term "Extractor
He glanced sideways. All by himself, out there amid heaps of rusted junk and old skeletons. Felt oddly familiar - kinda like the poor district he'd escaped lately, except now creatures roamed around.
Well," Tom muttered, grabbing an old metal pipe off the dirt. The weight of it sat solid in his grip. So fine, luck's what you get when you've got nothing else
He held the pipe tight. Not sure about this "Extraction System," yet one thing was clear.
He felt empty inside. Yet right then, that ache in his gut pushed him forward.
Tom moved ahead into the Rustlands. Now, the game started.