Some people rushed to leave the fort. Some gathered up and took a more measured approach, spending some time inside, but ultimately were at the vanguard of the exodus. Example of that: her father. She saw him and his team leave the fort, pausing for a short time right outside before they continued. There were also those who had absolutely no clue what was going on, what they should do, or how to go about things. Plenty, in fact, which didn't surprise Reed.

  People were used to their routines and the way their days went by, and though often boring, such patterns were safe and predictable. She guessed that people liked that. She tried to sympathize, she really did, but she just couldn't wrap her head around the appeal. You're taken from your soul-crushing commute, your overpriced rent, your car loans, your endless scroll through other people's fake-happy lives, and dropped into a world where you can throw fireballs and punch things until they give you gold. And this was supposed to be the tragedy?

  Sure, there was the whole "separated from loved ones, thrust into mortal danger, forced to murder creatures for survival" thing, but honestly, have these people never worked retail?

  It wasn't a wrong approach, per se. It was just so not her that it made her shiver.

  That said, she wasn't about to go charging out the gates like some adrenaline-junkie with a death wish either. There was a difference between embracing adventure and being stupid about it. She planned to postpone the whole "venturing into the deadly unknown" experience by quite a lot, even if she acknowledged its inevitability. She just wanted to milk all the opportunities inside for all they were worth before stepping outside. With her Constitution of 4, Strength of 2, and no direct combat abilities, the prospect of fights just wasn't so appealing. Not when you could load up on gold and achievements in the safety of the walls. Well, she hadn't quite gotten her hands on gold yet, but the presence of bronze and silver coins merrily jingling in her purse promised that golden coins were somewhere out there, just waiting for her.

  Despite being a relatively small place, the fort actually offered plenty for her to do. She had met and spoken with a lot of people, players and NPCs alike, exchanging ideas and even recruiting Grace to her Hydra organization. She'd also laid groundwork for a few other potential members. Trading and bartering became her bread and butter—she'd already struck deals with soldiers, caravan staff, and other players, always walking away with more than she'd brought to the table, whether in actual goods or future potential.

  Some trades were straightforward. Others less so. A scared-shitless mage needed healing potions? She knew a guy. That guy owed her a favor now, and she made sure her Organization Management Panel tracked every single one. You tell me what you know about Marcus Brennan and his group's plans, and I'll tell you where the best gear vendors are. Deal? Good. Information for information, fair and square. Of course, she already knew where all the best vendors were because she'd been watching the fort like a hawk since minute one, while this poor sap had to trade for it. That asymmetry wasn't her problem. The "Favors Owed" section of her panel was growing nicely through other, less balanced arrangements.

  She'd also discovered that people got real stupid when they were broke and panicking. A few well-placed loans here and there—nothing predatory, just... entrepreneurial—and suddenly she had leverage over a dozen players who'd need to pay her back. With interest, naturally. The system didn't track debt, but another section of her panel did, and anyway, Reed had an excellent memory for who owed what. Some would even say, supernatural. Which, funny enough, wasn't entirely wrong. But that was something relatively new she'd learned about herself and she hadn't quite come to terms with it yet. For now, she shoved it into the same mental box where she kept "Dad is thousands years old" and "Uncle Pierre drowns people,"and focused on what she'd discovered gave her an unexpected thrill: making money. Not spending it, not having it—the act of acquiring it. The hustle. The deal. The moment someone walked away thinking they'd come out ahead when they absolutely hadn't. Seventeen years of life hadn't prepared her for much, but apparently it had prepared her for this.

  And where a bargain couldn't be struck, her pickpocketing filled the gap—it had evolved into something of a side business. Wallets and cellphones were useless, but newly acquired weaponry left aside or poorly attached was fair game. A bow sitting there by the podium, almost ownerless? Sold it for twice what it was probably worth to a rogue who didn't ask questions. In return, she didn't ask where he got his money from. Professional courtesy among people who operated in gray areas. The trick was knowing what to keep, what to sell, and what to leverage.

  She'd also finally taken care of her own laughable gear situation. The brass knuckles were a joke here—with her Strength of 2—so she'd traded them to a soldier, along with a knife and a few coins, for a decent short sword and a belt. Not that she planned to use it much, but it looked more threatening on her hip than those glorified paperweights. With a heavy heart she also sold her choker and some other useless trinkets to replace her Earth clothes with proper leather armor. Nothing fancy, but functional and actually fit her frame. She tried not to think too hard about why this world had armor in her size. Were they fitting out kids for war here? Hobbits? Murderous garden gnomes? Whatever the answer, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. She was ecstatic when she found out that her vest fit over it. Initially slightly big for her—they didn't sell those in the kids' section—it was perfect now. The boots were the real prize though: steel-toed combat boots with enough buckles to be punk as hell and enough ankle support to let her actually run if things went sideways.

  She just hoped the soldiers would have something left to defend the caravan with after she was done with them. Having them run around butt naked, as amusing as that would look, could pose some problems—the swordless part especially.

  That image derailed her mind to a hot guy she'd noticed roaming solo earlier and had been trying not to think about. Black cloak doing that dramatic billow thing, dark hair artfully messy like he'd just rolled out of someone's bed, sharp features set in a permanent scowl, and lean frame that moved with predatory grace. Exactly the kind of sexy red flags that always got Reed into terrible relationships. Her eyes had tracked him for a minute or two before she caught herself. Nope. Not today. She had goals, plans, and a secret organization to build. She didn't need the distraction, and she definitely didn't need whatever complicated mess came with guys who looked like they collected emotional baggage as a hobby. Screwing around could wait until after world domination. Or at least until she was further into the game. So instead of making another bad life choice, she just picked his dagger off him as she passed by.

  Sexuality was something she knew she was weird about, and she blamed most of it on having a millennia-old Hydra as her only parental figure. Her father, instead of having talks with her about the birds and the bees, would do things like ask if she had prospects for a husband when she hit thirteen. She'd had to have a long conversation with him about modern women's upbringing, teaching him that marriage at fourteen wasn't something done in modern Western nations anymore. If that wasn't hard enough, she'd also had to have a tough conversation about his Hydra form, and that was one fuck of a traumatic experience for her. Not only was it absolutely embarrassing, but he wouldn't get any subtle hints and she hadn't been able to bring herself to be direct. In the end, she'd gone to Uncle Pierre with the issue, hoping he'd deal with his monster buddy—her father.

  The Drowner was another of those big influential presences in her life that made her who she was today. And by "who she was today," she meant a seventeen-year-old girl who knew how to pick a lock, lift a wallet, and slit a throat, but still needed a tutorial on how to flirt without making it weird. Thanks, family. Besides being a voice of reason and modern times—though an old-fashioned guy himself—Uncle Pierre strongly believed that a woman should know how to take care of herself in case she was in trouble. So he'd taught her how to get herself out of restraints, how to sneak around and be unnoticed, where and how to strike, and hand-to-hand combat. The last one never went so well due to her height and not-too-strong frame.

  OK, so having a monster family was just weird overall and definitely explained all the money spent on therapists—none of whom she could tell the actual problems to anyway. And then, if that wasn't enough, when she entered the peak of her rebellious years, she'd found out that she wasn't entirely human herself. That "supernatural memory" she'd been trying not to think about? Yeah. Turns out the apple didn't fall far from the monster tree. Because apparently Louisiana was a monster shelter or something. Paras in her state were like churches in Europe—you just couldn't take a few steps in any direction without running into one.

  Which made her wonder, as she put Uncle Pierre's training to use, how many of the people in this fort were hiding similar secrets. Well, she hoped to find out at least a few—secrets were like gold, better in her own pocket than someone else's.

  Information flowed through the fort like water, and Reed swam in it like a fish. She'd spent hours lurking, hiding her presence, using her Stealth and Drowner's teachings to make herself forgettable while listening in as she worked. Especially juicy targets were the nerdy people, and she was always on the lookout for those. The gamers-turned-tacticians assumed no one cared about their strategy sessions. Absolutely wrong. They may have been ignored back in the real world, but what they talked about now was precious material. If their conversations were in a government folder, they'd have a big, fat, juicy "TOP SECRET" stamped on them.

  The best part was that nobody suspected the short punk girl with the mohawk. Sure, they suspected her of plenty—but eavesdropping wasn't on the list. She'd used Minor Illusion to deepen the glazed look on her face, like she was deeply absorbed in her stat sheet while actually listening to everything. Sometimes she'd cast Illusion Weaving to pose as different people—a concerned mother asking about her family's safety, a nervous newbie seeking guidance, a jaded veteran offering cynical advice. Different personas got different information, and nobody connected them all back to Reed.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Feeling a subtle change come over her, she glanced at her stat sheet—for real this time. A pop-up window greeted her with an award.

  STORY GAINED: Crash Course

  Description: Most people need days to learn what you figured out in hours. Thrown into an alien game system in a fort full of confused players, you didn't freeze—you adapted. While others were still reading their stat sheets, you'd already identified the key players, mapped the power structures, and started building your network. Speed isn't just about movement; it's about processing, adapting, and executing before others even understand.

  Award:

  +1 to Learning

  +1 to Persuasiveness

  +1 to Stealth

  +1 to Memory

  Passive Trait: "Fast Learner" - 10% faster skill progression

  Effect: All skills gain experience 10% faster. When using skills, learning from mistakes, or practicing techniques, you internalize lessons more quickly than others.

  Description: Your brain processes patterns and adapts to new situations at an accelerated rate. What takes others hours of practice, you grasp in minutes of focused attention.

  Panel Enhancement: "Contact Database"

  Your Organization Management Panel now includes a searchable database that auto-populates with everyone you interact with, tracking basic info (name, race, class, debt status, favor status, potential value, threat level)

  Rarity: Uncommon

  She smirked. Pops didn't raise a sloucher. She didn't know how many other races there would be and what they would be, but she doubted they were ready for what was about to hit them. That's right, Earth2 was going to fuck them up like John Wick over a dog.

  Reed was just passing by the gate when a group of four walking opportunities decided to get back to the fort. In itself, it wasn't that uncommon—plenty of people went out just to run back with big eyes and wild tales—but what set those folks apart was their condition.

  To say that they'd been through some shit had to be a major understatement.

  "You ma'am are lookin' like you're in dire need of some shoes," she said, grinning. "And it so happens I got me a pair that'd fit you just wonderfully!"

  The group—two men and two women, moving with the easy familiarity of family—stopped in front of her, less frantic than most she'd seen. They exchanged tired looks. Reed took the moment to scan them more closely.

  "Oh Lawd, I think your whole team needs a lil' wardrobe refreshment. Now I don't think I got a leather apron, but I think I got everything else y'all might need," she said, putting down a large sack filled with things.

  She got a lot of stuff, and that was good, but if she ever wanted to leave the fort, she also had to get rid of some of them or her combat style would be pounding creatures with a sack full of shit.

  "We really appreciate the offer, kid," said the older man in front of her.

  Reed felt herself go on edge right away, despite knowing better. She took a breath and paved over the feeling—one of her life goals was decidedly not to play the part of a bull faced with a red muleta. If she had a vicious reaction to everyone who thought she was a child with her 4'11", she'd be an MMA fighter by now, probably with a belt or two. Or a really beaten-up face.

  "But we have no way of paying you." The man continued, unaware of her mental turmoil. "We don't even know what the currency is here."

  "Oh, no worry," Reed answered, trying her best to hold a smile. "Half the folks that passed through this place wasn't even aware there is such a thing as currency here. And in fact, there's several, but for our purposes it's mainly coins, and at this stage, we're talkin' about bronze for the most part. Either way, no worries—I got things y'all need and I'll bet I'll find somethin' you got that I might need, now or in the future." Reed pressed on, digging through her bag.

  "We actually might have something," a younger guy said. "Have you left the fort yet, by any chance?"

  "Oh?" Reed asked, glancing at him. "No, not yet. I was plannin' to pretty soon, but I still got a few things to do 'fore I go. What you got in mind?"

  "Perfect." The guy said, clasping his hands like a merchant would right before getting to lucrative business. "See, we were one of the first ones out, and the time you spend here trading and doing all sorts of stuff, we spent fighting and pushing forward."

  "Oh, I see where you're goin' with it," the girl next to him said.

  The older, blond woman looked at her two companions, sighed, and turned to Reed. "Do you, by chance, know any healing magic?" she asked. "Don't get me wrong, I would very much appreciate a solid pair of boots, but the biggest issue—and what brought us back to the fort—is that we need a healer. Venturing too far without one..." She trailed off, took a breath, and continued. "This so-called 'tutorial' is not to be underestimated. We probably don't need a dedicated healer—a bard or maybe a druid would suffice," she said, eyeing the green tips of Reed's mohawk.

  "No, not really," Reed said, but seeing the disappointment on everyone's faces, she quickly added, "But I got the next best thing—potions. Health potions, stamina potions, mana potions, the whole shebang. Also, I may not be a healer, but I know someone who is. You ain't alone—there's a general shortage of healers. Like, everyone got into this game and figured their years of watchin' serial killer shows meant they absolutely had to pick a murder class. Nobody was bingin' Dr. House apparently. I got a few good pieces of advice on that too. So. What y'all got to offer?" Reed asked, pulling out a pair of leather jackboots.

  "How about this," the younger guy said excitedly. "You help us out with gearing us, and we will take you outside and help you farm." Seeing that Reed grimaced, he quickly added in a hushed tone, "And when you're ready, we found this sweet little cave, a dungeon, that we could tackle together."

  "All right, all right, you got my attention here, but trust me when I say, I had plenty of offers to go out of here with folks. Some were even decent like yours—not the chains, whips, and leathers ones. Got plenty of those already, and no thank you." In fact, Reed already liked where this was going. Yes, she did have a lot of offers to join teams, but all the respectable ones left too early for her liking, and she was stuck with the prospect of either forming up a team of her own from the leftovers or going solo—hence all the little vials of potions she had stored up. Going with someone who had plenty of experience outside, sweetened with the promise of a dungeon exploration, was quite appealing.

  This was probably the moment the boy realized it was improper to invite a girl to a dungeon party—even one not including whips and all that—without introducing himself first. He tried to correct the faux pas.

  "Name's Ethan," he said, face flushed. "This is my sister..." He pointed at the girl next to him, but she interrupted.

  "No, no." She grinned like an older sister about to fully abuse her position—which she most probably was, Reed thought, feeling a sliver of anticipation. As an only child, she could enjoy sibling mischief from a safe, popcorn-eating position.

  "We're in a game, my dear comrade in arms," the girl continued, her grin turning more sinister with every word, "and we're using our game names here. I'm Daniels, this is our mother Faye, father Rustbucket, and of course my younger bro here"—she pointed theatrically at the still-blushing guy—"Boardlord!"

  There was a moment of silence after the presentation.

  "Looooord, you better either go solo or pray that system allows you to change it if you ever want to get laid in this game," Reed laughed, unable to hold back her mirth, "'cause we're stuck here for up to like what, thirteen years? And let me tell you, Boardlord gonna have himself a very sad twenty-first birthday."

  Seeing how the young man's face went from red tomato to falling down to a gray potato with realization made everyone else burst with laughter as well.

  "You better start workin' on a dark, mysterious persona now for a backup plan," Reed wiped a tear from her eye. "Let me guess—family board game night nickname?"

  "Jackpot." His sister continued grinning. "Eight years old and ego the size of his playhouse in the backyard."

  "Well, name's Reed." She gave a small wave. "Quite nice to meet y'all," she said, switching back to her entrepreneurial side—which was proving unexpectedly difficult with the grin tugging at her lips. "And as much as I like the idea, it's a tad vague. Once I give you goods, what's there to stop y'all from ditchin' me here on the spot, huh?"

  "A fair question." Rustbucket sighed, spreading his hands. "We got nothing but verbal assurances to give. See, that's why I said we got nothing to pay you with."

  Losing a deal where she was to profit in levels? Not a chance in hell. Reed's brain was already doing the math—experienced group, clearly capable of surviving outside the walls, willing to drag her underleveled ass along for the ride. This was the kind of opportunity that didn't knock twice. It kicked down your door once and then left forever. She'd give them the boots off her own feet if she had to. Well, not literally. She liked those boots. But metaphorically? Absolutely.

  "Nah, y'all look like good people," Reed said, handing the pair of boots to Faye. "Let's strike a deal like this. I'll give y'all some boot change as an investment. I got some other things too. You take me outside and start leveling me up, and I'll share my stuff as we go."

  "Are you sure, though?" Faye asked. "By the way, where is your family? Are you alone here? May I ask how old you are?"

  Reed recognized the tone in an instant—a clear indicator that the motherly instinct had kicked in. It wasn't the first time someone saw her and went into mama-bear mode, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Unlike the "kid" comment from Rustbucket, which had made her want to commit violence, being asked where her parents were by Faye didn't trigger her murderous side. In fact, things like this always made her feel kind of... nice. Warm, even. Like maybe she'd missed out on something growing up with only men around.

  "Lawd have mercy on my issues," Reed thought, not for the first time. She was going to need so much therapy after this game. More therapy. Additional therapy. A whole therapy expansion pack to the therapy she already needed. Maybe she could find a mind-reading monster and traumatize them instead. Spread the wealth.

  Out loud, she said, "Ma'am, I may've been off haggling somewhere when they was handin' out growth spurts, but I assure you I'm eighteen"—she lied without a blink; it was close enough—"and perfectly capable of makin' my own decisions." And that part was true, at least.