Darren was absolutely drenched in sweat by the time he was only halfway back up the hill to Suave Wears. Even the partial shade from the buildings lining the street wasn’t helping much.

  “I still don’t understand,” Wilson said from his shoulder, “why you don’t jus’ take the chest to the ship. At least in a week, you’ll have a very nice new set of clothes.”

  “Because that would be stealing,” Darren said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes. And you’re a pirate. Though clearly not a good one.”

  They rounded a corner and headed straight into the sun, all shade gone. Apparently, the shadows had been helping—a lot.

  “I’m going to be a pirate who doesn’t steal. Much,” Darren said. “A privateer maybe. Or only from players bent on wreaking this world.”

  “Now you’re stuck here you suddenly developed a conscience? Before it was okay to steal from us, kill us, manipulate us, because you were ‘real’. You fink that made you better than us?”

  Darren flinched, the coconut’s words cutting deep. “Look, I’m not saying I was right to treat you folks like that before, but I’m trying to do better now.”

  Wilson shook his head. Well, body. “You still don’t see yourself as one of us. Life is gonna be hard ‘ere until you do.”

  “Can we talk about this another time?” Darren said, huffing. Far out, this chest was heavy. Even his +6 modifier from his 13 strength wasn’t helping all that much.

  Finally, they reached Suave Wears, and Darren shouldered through the door.

  “What in Themis’ name,” a shrill voice screamed from the back of the shop, “do you think you’re doing?”

  Darren walked up to the counter and hoisted the chest onto it, letting it thud loudly down.

  The elven merchant, Tarlia, looked ready to erupt.

  “This is yours,” Darren said without preamble. “If you don’t want it, I’ll happily take it off your hands.”

  Tarlia hesitated as she glanced at the chest, recognition lighting her eyes. “So you stole my goods.”

  “What? No!”

  “Then how did you come by that? No one would give something so valuable to you.”

  Darren’s right eye twitched. He rubbed his forehead. Heavens to Betsy, this woman… “I did not steal it—”

  “You pirates are all the same!” she said, cutting him off. “You’re vagrant thieves who will take anything you can get your disgusting, dirty hands on!”

  A week’s worth of stress, anxiety, and fear roiled in Darren’s chest. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palm. It wasn’t Tarlia standing screaming at him anymore. It was his mother. He was a tiny kid again, dirt on his feet as he desperately sprinted inside to take a piss.

  A kid who’d left mud stains on the carpet.

  “You’re worthless!”

  Darren’s dad sat silent in his favourite chair, swiping away on his phone, ignoring them.

  “People like you will never do anything right!”

  Young Darren’s bladder gave up its valiant fight. Warm liquid trickled down his leg and pooled at his muddy feet.

  His mother smacked him across the face.

  Adult Darren stood frozen by the counter, hyperventilating. The merchant’s screams melded with his mother’s voice.

  Slowly, the memory faded, but the emotions coursing through every fibre of his being kept him planted there: shame, terror, pain… betrayal.

  Someone else was yelling his name. They always yelled his name. Everyone always yelled at him.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Darren!” Wilson said. “Crack out of it!”

  Darren’s eyes snapped open, and he jolted, nearly throwing Wilson off his shoulder. His eyes darted back and forth. He was in a shop. Suave Wears. A furious elven merchant stood on the other side of the counter, veins pulsing on her neck and forehead. The chest of clothes still sat on the counter between them.

  I have to get out of here… He tried to stop hyperventilating. It was no use. He turned and sprinted for the door, Wilson clinging desperately to his shoulder.

  “What’s goin’ on with you?” Wilson yelled as Darren put as much distance as he could between themselves and the shop.

  Darren didn’t answer. Not until they were several blocks away. He rounded a building into a cramped, shaded alley and slumped against the wall. Letting his head bang back against the wood.

  What was going on with him? This was ridiculous. He’d never frozen in a video game before. He’d even managed to gain a measure of control over that reaction IRL, too. It’d been years since he’d dealt with it.

  Though to be fair, people IRL were slightly less… explosive unless they were his mother when there were no witnesses—besides his father.

  The only thing he could think of was the way the game made information recollection more effective when you upped your Intelligence stat. Memories were far more vivid than he recalled them being IRL. So would the inverse be that memories became more hazy if you dumped INT?

  Far out. Would this get worse as he increased his Intelligence? Did all stats have such heavy costs? Or was it just mental stats? Or was it unique to him because of his status as an Interloper-cum-Local?

  Too many questions, too few answers. He’d have to try and have another conversation with Poseidon and see if the AI had any answers.

  “Darren?” Wilson said from his shoulder, concern clear in his voice.

  “Trauma from my world is more vivid here,” Darren told him, his voice steadier than he’d expected. “Events from my past are being more easily triggered due to my high INT and are sending my body into a state of panic.”

  “That’s problematic.”

  “Very,” Darren said. “My best guess is that as a player, the system could differentiate what information was coming from my past—my physical body and mind—and ignore it. But now I’m a Local, everything is melded together. So it’s treating long-dormant memories as critical information and dumping me right back into a trauma response I’ve long since dealt with in my world.”

  Wilson sat a moment in silence. “How’s that gonna affect combat?”

  Darren blew out a sigh. “I hate to think. Let’s just hope I don’t get triggered, or can work out how to deal with the triggers before that happens. Otherwise, I’m gonna be up a poo creek without a paddle.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Alright. Let’s go see if I can get me some pants for real this time.”

  Darren and Wilson headed back to Suave Wears, and Darren pushed in through the door. The chest was gone from the counter, and the elf had her back to him, sorting some goods.

  She turned as they entered. Her pleasant smile morphed into a sneer when she saw who it was. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Darren held up a forestalling hand. “Just shut up for one bloody minute and listen, would you?”

  The elf, Tarlia, hesitated, taken aback.

  “I’m well aware of what I look like,” Darren said, his voice tired as he approached the counter. “But if I were a pirate, why in the hells would I pay two Sovereigns to get that chest from Fitted Fits only to return it to you when I could have sailed away with it? Go on, verify it with the old codger down there.”

  Tarlia closed her mouth and narrowed her eyes as she folded her arms. “I knew it was him. That weasel is too damn good at cracking enchanted locks. Go on.”

  “I’m not a pirate,” Darren repeated. “However, if you decide to make inquiries about me, you’ll quickly find out I travel with them. I’m not going to try hide that from you. But I suspect you would too if it was that or spend the rest of your days on an island populated by spider penguins and panthers.”

  “Why would I believe anything you’ve told me?” Tarlia asked.

  Darren ran a frustrated hand through his matted hair. “Because on the one hand, I returned a chest filled with a veritable fortune's worth of clothes—which I want to buy, by the way—and on the other, I’m on this island by the will of Poseidon himself.” It was a gamble mentioning the god. If Tarlia were antagonistic towards him, that would just make life harder. “Talk to the priests at the temple. They know who I am.”

  Tarlia drummed her fingers against her arm as she assessed him. “Say that I do believe you, and were willing to accept your business, that set of clothes is already spoken for.”

  Darren let out a groan. Of course it was. That could also explain some of the fury she exhibited today.

  “Shoulda just stolen it,” Wilson muttered from his shoulder. Darren shot him a glare, as did Tarlia. “Okay, okay!” Wilson said quickly, hands raised in surrender. “It was a joke!”

  “Maybe,” Darren said, “the buyer of that set would be interested in turning a profit? I’d be happy to buy it off him.”

  Tarlia shook her head. “I very much doubt that. She is the Countess. I’d be surprised if she needed your gold.”

  The Countess? Interesting. That did explain the unhinged rage. Panic and stress provoked all kinds of reactions. It also meant a quest possibility. If there was one thing he’d learned in his time in this game—before he died for real—it was that island rulers almost always had a need waiting to be solved by an interloper. But first things first…

  “Well, are you willing to take my gold?” Darren asked. “I still need to get out of these rags.”

  Finally, Tarlia’s expression softened. “I suppose I do owe you for returning the chest—at your own expense.”

  “No kiddin’,” Wilson said. “We coulda bought a dozen weapons for what he spent.”

  “Yes, well,” Tarlia said, “I’m not responsible for your poor financial decisions. But… I am willing to do something. Take a look at my inventory and see what you fancy.”

  Alright, progress! The store inventory materialised in front of Darren, and he scanned through it, trying to resist rubbing his hands with glee at the options available.