part of me aches, wishing I could still keep up or else its Carpal tunnel syndrome, the risk of getting one is high.
Sometimes I boot up the game just to hear the startup sound.
I'll play a ladder match or two, usually get crushed by someone named "Sseoni" again, heh, he's always climbing the rank. He probably doesn't even know who I am these days. But every now and then, I win one. I execute a perfect drop, micro like I used to, and for a brief moment, yeah? That guy has been the Southeast Asian champion for five straight years. And it wasn't even him that dethroned me.
For just a few glorious minutes, it's early 2010 again, and I'm standing on stage under the lights, crowd roaring, hands steady.
People think esports is about winning. It's not. It's about the rhythm of the game, the precision, the creativity, and the constant adaptation to the meta. It's the art of thinking faster than another human being. And even if I can't play like I used to, I still carry that mindset with me. The discipline, the obsession, the beauty of it. the cheese of the game. The unorthodox playstyle of getting the one-up against your opponent, either in macro or micro play. Every unit counts, every APM click counts. One more unit, one more kill count, how fast you build it, how fast you can match the opponent's economy and dominate.
It's what makes RTS fun for me, it's why I still play this old game even when the company didn't exist no more or has merged with some Chinese company back in 2030. I really thought the Koreans would buy them since it's their national game and all that, I guess League of Legends has placed higher these days.
Not like anyone remembers Starcraft anymore.
So yeah, I'm Jason Lim, retired StarCraft II player. My wrists ache, my APM is shot, and the game has moved on without me. But when I close my eyes, I still see the battlefield with those darn blue minerals, the glowing command centres, the crisp voice that says, "You must construct additional supply depots."
Till I had a nice retirement and my life came to an end.
It was ...alright.
I thought I was going to Heaven.
I thought wrongly.
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the smell. Rust, oil, and the faint tang of salt from the sea. It wasn't my apartment. It wasn't even anywhere familiar.
I was lying on cold metal, or the coffin my kids ground my ass into since I passed away. I was an old man when I died...was.
Now, where the hell am I? The afterlife?
Why does the afterlife smell like salt and piss?
On the side of an old freight car, the paint was flaking off in layers. The air was heavy with the low hum of distant industry, and somewhere not too far away, I could hear gulls. A trainyard stretched out around me, littered with broken rails and abandoned cars, graffiti marking the walls in symbols I didn't recognise. So not the afterlife then...
King Yama playing jokes, huh?
I sat up slowly, my head pounding. "What the hell…" I muttered, rubbing my temples.
I patted my pockets. No phone. No wallet. No ID. Just the same hoodie I always wore when streaming, faded and comfortable, the one with the DreamHack logo still stitched on the sleeve as I had it back in my professional days.
"Okay," I said to myself, taking a shaky breath. "This… isn't funny."
I stood and looked around. The city skyline wasn't one I knew, but it had that American industrial look, just like dock cranes, low-rise warehouses, and a distant oceanfront. The air felt off, though. Heavier somehow.
Like the atmosphere carried something waiting to happen. In Asia, the docks were different; containers are neatly arranged with strict logistics. Not...whatever this is.
Then I saw the posters. Torn flyers were pasted to a nearby wall.
"CAPE CONFLICT INCREASES AS PRT URGES CAUTION."
"Eidolon Sighted in Boston for Endbringer. Watch Heightened."
That word. Endbringer.
My chest went cold.
Of course it did, I knew it. What else would you do when you grow old? you retire. Suddenly you have a lot of time. Suddenly, that time is filled with reading stuff on the internet, and more stuff. Reading was my second favourite hobby, and oh boy, is that one a woozie. Written by Wildbow, they say. Odd name if you ask me.
I'd read Worm years ago, binged the entire web serial between tournament trips. The idea of parahumans, powers triggered by trauma, the city of Brockton Bay is slowly rotting under its own corruption. I stared at the words, trying to convince myself it was a dream.
Except the wind was real.
The grit on my hands was real.
The metallic echo of my footsteps is all real.
Piss ass smell is real.
FML ..this is really happening, isn't it?
Somewhere down the track, I saw a figure moving between railcars, a woman in a yellow raincoat, carrying a duffel bag. She glanced at me once, then turned away fast, as if strangers were bad news around here. Do I know her? dear lord, I hope not. Let it be a transmigration story so I dont have to deal with anybody.
And maybe they were a stranger, yeah? The genre was dark after all.
I laughed nervously under my breath. "Of all the universes to end up in…"
I didn't have powers. I didn't have money, allies, or even a clue how I got here. But old habits die hard, ya know? The same instincts that carried me through tournaments kicked in. First: assess the map. Second: gather intel. Third: survive until you understand the meta. Same mindset I had when I was coaching, too. It's all the same.
The game had changed, but the rules hadn't.
I pulled my hoodie tighter and started walking toward the city. If this was really Brockton Bay, then I needed to find out when I'd landed before the chaos really started. Because I've read it before. Should it be the same or different?
The crunch of gravel under my shoes was the only sound for a while until something thudded onto the ground beside me. I jumped back on instinct, years of reflexes snapping into place like I'd just heard a drop alert. Was something underneath me?
There, sitting on the tracks in front of me, was… an SCV. beside a bunch of trash and stuff.
A real one.
Compact, blue, industrial-looking, like it had rolled straight out of my old Terran base. The little mining unit was about the size of a small car, metal plating scuffed and dusty.
Its mechanical arm twitched once, the engine humming softly like an idle computer fan. It looks like a mini mech. It's bigger than I'd imagine in real life. I guess the real thing was pretty huge then. Kinda reminds me of Ripley claw mech. It has almost the same size, somewhat smaller, albeit.
For a long, stunned moment, I just stared at the thing.
"…No way."
Then I saw the note taped to its side, written in looping handwriting that looked far too cheerful for the situation-
"Sorry, this is your goddess. I wish I could reincarnate you, but you made me lose a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong back in 2011 DreamHack during the finals, soo... enjoy Grimdark with a free SCV as a cheat, you filthy Terran player! Humph!"
Sincerely,
Goddess in charge of Earth 246511 Prime world
P.S. Find your own ID. Oh, and here's 200 dollars. Enjoy Brockton Bay!
There was a small envelope taped underneath the note. Inside two crumpled hundred-dollar bills, American currency. Real. I just stood there, blinking at the letter, rereading the words Grimdark and free SCV over and over.
My brain finally caught up. "Wait. She's for real? Bruh."
I looked up at the empty sky. "You lost a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong? Over DreamHack back in 2011? I was just playing for fun!"
Well, I played to win, got contracted with Orange E-Sports gaming and all that. Big money. Big sponsorship and all that. I had to win! It's my job! and my dream!
The clouds didn't answer. Somewhere far off, a horn blared the kind that sounded like a ship leaving the docks, except they aren't. The docks in Brockton Bay isnt working due to the underwater debris. That horn was miles away, probably near the Boston side.
Shit.
This is my life now. Even the best years of my life offended someone, and it happens to be the goddess, great.
Absolutely fantastic!
The SCV suddenly beeped, its console lighting up with the familiar blue Terran interface. I actually laughed half in disbelief, half hysterical relief. "You've got to be kidding me."
The thing stood still.
"Alright," I muttered, rubbing my face. "So I'm stuck in a world full of capes, monsters, and trauma-based superpowers… but I have an SCV. That's...uhh"
I hesitated, then smiled faintly. "That's...actually the most Terran thing that could happen."
I turned toward the city skyline, the distant lights flickering through the fog.
"Let's see if Terran ingenuity still works in Brockton Bay."
In the StarCraft series, one of the most recognisable and indispensable units of the Terran faction is the SCV, short for Space Construction Vehicle. Though it lacks the firepower or sophistication of combat units, the SCV is the foundation of Terran military and economic power.
From the first StarCraft in 1998 to StarCraft II, the SCV remains the literal and symbolic cornerstone of Terran ingenuity, resilience, and adaptability. Did you know that back in the first StarCraft game came in white.
Not blue. The T280 SCV is regarded as the foundational unit for the Terran Forces. They also had better plating back then. Broodwar knows I even rely on SCV to fight zergs.
The SCV gave a low mechanical whir, its cockpit hatch hissing open with a puff of compressed air.
I stared at it, heart pounding. No pilot in there, but it is moving on its own.
The interior looked exactly how I remembered it from the in-game cinematics, rugged, utilitarian, glowing with that blue Terran light. This one seems to be the SCV from Starcraft 2. It doesn't have the external plating from the base SC1 based on the Korpulu Sector.
The controls weren't futuristic in the sleek sci-fi sense; they were industrial. Worn joysticks, analogue switches, and a seat that looked like it came straight out of a construction vehicle, compared to the traditional mech design similar to the Thor.
"Okay," I murmured. "This is insane. But if I'm going to survive here…"
I climbed in.
The hatch sealed behind me with a clunk. The hum of the engine deepened, resonating through the frame like a heartbeat. The moment my hands touched the controls, everything went white.
A flood of data slammed into my mind; it was knowledge.
Blueprints, schematics, resource charts, unit production cycles, everything I'd ever seen in the Terran tech tree and more. Every iteration, every DLC, every patch, old and new, every item removed and added into the latest patch, and even Blizzard's very own concept items came to my head. including the odd CO-OP variant trees and the various Commander specialised units. They were all there. All the knowledge.
Command Centres. Barracks. Factories. Starports. Add-ons. Supply Depots. Engineering Bays. Fusion Reactors. Orbital Commands. Heal Reactors, nanomachines. Stimpaks! glorious stimpaks!!
It wasn't just visuals. I could feel how to build them.
The exact mechanical sequences, the material requirements, and the energy flows. The logic of Terran infrastructure, once just a game mechanic, has now burned itself into my skull as reality. I dont think I have parahuman powers. I know how to forge Neosteel!
Or just synthesise one for that matter.
This is probably the goddess, or then I receive a message from the other two gods. Zeus and Sun Wukong, with a note, "Sorry about that stupid goddess, here's a tune up.. We hope this is adequate compensation", like a foreign eldritch thought came into my head from the multiverse.
"Sun Wukong and Zeus"
I gasped, clutching my temples. Off pairing. One was a Roman Pantheon, and the other is from the Jade Palace. I wonder who the goddess is? Ugh...screw her. The only reason I'm here is because of her mess. Why give me powers when they can just send me back to the afterlife?
Or...I could just end myself now.
....
....
...
Nah.
The cockpit HUD flickered wildly, cycling through data streams in languages I didn't recognise. My brain felt like it was being rewritten line by line, like a computer forced to download an entire encyclopedia through a dial-up connection.
STOP! Just slow down!" I yelled, but the data didn't listen.
Images kept flashing before me-
An SCV is welding the first panel of a Supply Depot. Marines training in rows, armour glinting under artificial light. The dull red glow of a Starport reactor.A Command Centre landing on a fresh planet, dust swirling around its base.
Then… silence.
I slumped forward, breathing hard. My vision swam with afterimages, holographic outlines of structures flickering faintly in the air around me, like augmented reality ghosts. My head is a little fuzzy from all the downloading...I think a Migraine might be coming in.
"Okay," I whispered, voice trembling. "That… was new."
I slumped forward, breathing hard. My vision swam with afterimages like holographic outlines of structures flickering faintly in the air around me, like augmented reality ghosts. It's like a set of rules, step 1. Gather resources.
closed my eyes, steadying my breathing.
If I could really build Terran structures in this world… that changed everything. I have my cheat.
I glanced out through the SCV's reinforced window at the trainyard, a wasteland of steel and silence. "Alright," I said quietly. "Step one: find materials. Step two: test if Supply Depots actually work."
But then I realise...
I realised after the data storm cleared that I had a problem.
A big one.
I stared at the holographic blueprint, which hovered faintly in front of me from the SCV. A perfect, glowing wireframe of a Supply Depot floated above the cracked concrete as my mind's UI showed me exactly what I needed. Vespene gas? Minerals??
"Right," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "And where, exactly, am I supposed to find minerals in downtown Brockton Bay?" I looked around. Rusted shipping containers. Empty train cars. A suspiciously large pile of shopping carts. Not exactly rich in space crystals.
"People here don't have blue mineral patches growing out of the pavement!"
A beam of blue light swept across the area, passing over piles of metal scrap, aluminium cans, and a forgotten propane tank. After a few seconds, the unit cheerfully announced:
"Update complete! Mineral substitute identified: metal. Vespene substitute identified: butane or other hydrocarbon gas."
I blinked. "You… updated yourself?"
"Affirmative. Patch 1.01: Real-world compatibility update installed."
couldn't help it, so I started laughing like a madlad.
Is this for real?
It wasn't the calm, relieved kind either. It was the half-delirious, 'of course this would happen to me' kind. I mean, in a situation where a goddess lost a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong, I mean...my life is one big troll at this moment. Oh, right, troll me, will ya? My life is the gods' entertainment.
"So let me get this straight," I said between chuckles. "You're telling me that I can build Terran bases now, as long as I feed you scrap metal and cooking gas?" That's what the SCV is saying right? That would be so much better if it were true.
I stared at the SCV for a long second. Then, at the propane tank sitting nearby. Then back at the SCV.
"Oh yeah," I sighed. "I'm totally going to get arrested for this. Nothing suspicious about a random guy in a hoodie dragging a giant construction mech and a gas tank through a crime-infested city."
"Awaiting construction orders."
I pointed a finger at it. "You stay here. No building. No welding. No, anything until I figure out how to not get shot by a gang member or arrested by the PRT, got it?"
"Affirmative. Standing by."
The SCV tried to salute without me controlling it! That's some advanced A.I . I may have thought that this thing got inside its mainframe? I wonder what kind of processing power it has on a basic SCV. I thought I needed to pilot the thing directly, but I guess it comes on autopilot as well. Very convenient.
It gave a salute! a salute!
Before shutting down into standby mode, the blue lights dimmed to a soft glow as it hid itself in a bunch of concrete and junk at the abandoned trainyard to remain hidden. I dropped onto a nearby crate and groaned and wondered if this was a good Idea. The place isn't exactly hidden.
"A goddess loses a bet to Zeus and Sun Wukong, dumps me into Worm, and gives me a StarCraft utility bot that runs on scrap metal and propane. Sure. Why not. Totally normal here, I suppose. Powers are bullshit except I dont have those polentia things in my brain."
My stomach was grumbling, and I groaned again-
"Where the hell am I gonna get food this late at night?...on another note, what time is it? What day is it? I need to find out"
....
The SCV was tucked away behind a stack of rusted freight containers, powered down and hopefully inconspicuous enough that no one would think to report "construction mech found loitering in the trainyard." I'd walked for almost an hour now with the damn sneakers crunching on gravel loosely. Wouldn't wanna get found out on my first day as a Tinker. I'd get snatched up like It's Christmas by the gangs and get pressed gang into joining the PRT.
How does magic even work?
Even though the shoes are new, and I feel a lot younger since I'm no longer an old man, this still needs some getting used to with all the things happening around me, not to say it ain't comfortable, but I was an old man.
I dont even think like an old man anymore. It's the perspective shift due to all the neurons and synapses firing in my brain being active again. Age does matter. People saying age is just a number don't really know that. I might have dementia in my old age and I wouldnt even notice it.
When was the last time I wore sneakers? In high school? Back when I was still playing for tourneys? It's like I was transported back to all those years ago, the city gradually waking around me, but it has the same beats of being in the early 2010s. Different world, same blues. Like a dream within memories of a life I didn't have, except I did. It feels surreal.
Instead of the afterlife, Life simply goes on, giving it a harder difficulty.
Brockton Bay wasn't what I expected. Sure, I remembered it from Worm, a grimy, collapsing port city ruled by gangs and fear. But being here in person was… different. That was a web novel. This shit here is the real thing. Not to mention, I'm even in a different country.
The air smelled of salt, oil, and faint decay of something I'm not really sure I wanna know. Living in South East Asia, the grime and gloom are certainly different. People think America is the bastion of progress all around the world, but back in Southeast Asia? I think life back there was heaven on earth. Streets were clean, people were civic-minded, there wasn't any trash on the roadside, not even a single paper wrap.
Here? I've passed by a dozen black trash bags strewn all over.
Ships sat half-sunken in the harbour. Buildings sagged under their own weight, and graffiti seemed to serve as both decoration and territory markers. People moved quickly, eyes down, like they'd learned the city's unwritten rule: Don't stand out. dont smile, always minding your own business. It's a different social norm here. Back in the east, everyone minds their own business, but still cares enough to take care of each other and lend a helping hand.
I wasn't sure if I was breaking it already.
Or maybe I'm too harsh,
I shouldn't judge it based on this world's sensibilities.
This world's sensibilities have city ending Kaiju's after all.
After wandering past what looked like a half-closed laundromat and a pawn shop advertising "GUNS, JEWELRY, AND DVD RENTALS," I finally spotted salvation, a convenience store. The neon sign flickered, but it was on, and at that moment, that made it the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
The little bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside. The smell hit me first: air freshener and old coffee. A comforting kind of humanity.
The cashier barely looked up from his magazine. He looked tired in that way that retail workers everywhere did. "Hey. Welcome."
I nodded, grabbing a basket mostly for show. My stomach growled, apparently interdimensional travel burns calories, so I grabbed the essentials: a bottle of chocolate milk, a packet of sweetened bread, brand unknown bread, and a cheap sandwich that claimed to contain "real ham."
When I reached the counter, I pulled out one of the crumpled bills the Goddess of Bad Bets had left me. "Uh, just these."
The cashier rang me up lazily. "Four seventy-two."
I handed him a hundo. He gave me change without a word, reluctantly due to the amount I've given and then went back to flipping through his magazine. Right, people here still read magazines, it's that far back huh? That's when I noticed the date on the lottery poster taped to the counter. It didnt really hit me until I saw the date.
JULY 2010.
I blinked, thinking maybe I was hallucinating. But then I saw the receipt as he handed it over 07/14/2010, 9:42 p.m.
I froze, the carton of chocolate milk halfway to my mouth.
"Something wrong?" the cashier asked.
"No, just uh… this year."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? It's 2010."
"Right," I said quickly, forcing a laugh. "Just testing your memory."
He gave me the kind of look you give to someone you don't want to start a conversation with and went back to his magazine. I walked outside, the automatic doors wheezing shut behind me.
That meant I'd arrived a year before the events of Worm actually started, before Taylor triggered, before Leviathan, before the world started falling apart piece by piece.
I sat down on the curb outside, unwrapped the sandwich, and took a bite. The bread was dry, the ham questionable, but it was still the best thing I'd tasted since waking up in this universe.
"July 2010," I murmured, staring up at the grey sky. "So I'm early to the apocalypse. Great."
The chocolate milk tasted sweet, almost nostalgic. I couldn't help but chuckle between sips.
"Alright, Jason," I said to myself. "A hundo and ninety-five dollars left, and about eleven months before a kaiju the size of a city decides to drop by for brunch."
I leaned back against the wall and sighed.
"Terran survival mode, huh? Let's see if we can micro our way out of this one. Now, where the hell am I gonna sleep for the night?"
I could almost hear the background music from StarCraft II, that soft Terran guitar riff that played between battles. My eyelids grew heavy. "Yeah… this is fine," I mumbled, pulling my hoodie tighter. "Auto-pilot, don't crash into anything, okay?"
I must be getting tired, need some shut-eye, but there's no place in sight. Except this dungheap of a trainyard and the Free SCV goddess of poverty decided to gift it to me for some odd sense of cathartic reason that seems to think it offends me, nah. SCVs are great. This is fine...Yeah.
"Understood. Activating Rest Mode." The SCV replied,
"Rest Mode? sure...rest...*yawn* I sure need one right about now." I asked, half-conscious.
"Playing ambient mining sounds for operator relaxation." The SCV said while playing ambient music. Sure enough, the soft clink-clink of mining tools and the faint hum of engines filled the cockpit's speakers. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.
But the sleeping quality was questionable. Sleep here? In the SCV?
...
...
...
Sure, why not?
The rhythmic motion of the SCV was oddly soothing. Each mechanical sway felt deliberate and steady, like being rocked in a slow-moving tank. The interior was surprisingly insulated, too warm, with the gentle vibration of the servos beneath me. The only thing I had an issue with is sleeping while sitting on the cockpit in an upright position; while the recliner could move back like a car seat, it wasn't bad for someone like me who's used to it.
"Guess I've slept in worse," I muttered. LAN parties on hotel floors, airport benches during layovers… yeah, this wasn't so bad.
The hum of the machine became a lullaby. I half-watched the HUD as the SCV trundled along, its mechanical arm reaching out now and then to scoop up scrap metal or old gas canisters, neatly stacking them in the rear storage compartment. The system kept count in real-time while I was sleeping, and it worked on autopilot on the Docks and trainyard.
Eventually, my eyelids get heavier..
The last thing I saw before sleep took me was the flicker of the SCV's arm reaching out toward a rusted ship hull, neatly cutting through it like butter, the HUD calmly adding more numbers to the count. The way it kept tally almost made me nostalgic. That it came into my dreams, too.
Little SCV is doing little things.
.....
I woke up...still in the SCV, swaying and humming with that Aetheric Hum of something familiar yet not at the same time with the whirling servos of the tiny mech was surprisingly docile. I woke up with a stiff neck and a stiff leg. Legs dont work. probably feels like jelly. Jetlag. slip into my pockets for a half-eaten bread and whatever was left of the chocolate milk I saved up from yesterday. Yep...a sorry ass breakfast for a sorry ass man living in his mech.
Resources Acquired:
Metal: 1870 units
Butane: 4 canisters
The way it kept tally almost made me nostalgic. I could almost hear the background music from StarCraft II, that soft Terran guitar riff that played between battles. It's my Imagination, of course, note to self. Make some kickass rock music in this world. No..scratch that. It came out randomly? Ugh..morning blues. What a way to wake up.
"Ten out of ten," I mumbled as I drifted off. "Best mech. Would nap again, but I think I prefer a proper bed next time."
Available Construction Options:
Barracks (Cost: 1500 Metal, 4 Butane)
Factory (Cost: 2000 Metal, 8 Butane)
Supply Depot (Cost: 500 Metal, 1 Butane)
I stared at the options, coffee-deprived and morally unprepared for this kind of existential decision.
"Okay," I said to myself, thinking out loud like an esports commentator dissecting a bad build order. "Option A: Barracks. Cheap, basic, and gives me infantry. Except… there's no infantry. Just me. Unless I plan to recruit the local pigeons and train them to stimpack themselves with bread crumbs."
I paused, frowning. "...Actually, no, that sounds dumb even for me."
"Option B: Factory. It's more expensive, but I could maybe produce… drones? Hellions? A small mechanical unit might actually be useful here but I dont have enough resources for that"
I leaned back, drumming my fingers on the armrest. "But if I build the Factory now, that's all my metal gone. No room for expansion. No Supply Depots, no backup. One mistake and I'm just a broke Terran in a mech suit yelling at pigeons again."
The SCV's voice chirped from the console.
"Of course you'd say that," I sighed. "You're literally programmed by Blizzard to love Supply Depots."
I looked out at the misty harbour. Sunlight glinted weakly off the half-sunken hulls in the morning. What time is it? I dont have a watch. The SCV timer is out of sync without a Command Centre. Half of the control UI panels here dont work with no data. Obviously, you usually have a Command post or Command Centre built first.
This left me with a conundrum. I have the means to build it, just not the resources needed. Thankfully, it's not complicated. But with just one SCV? That's a long ass game to play.
There was a strange peace to the place except for the smell. If I could somehow clear out this whole dockyard, there'd be enough scrap to build a small base. Maybe even multiple structures. But time… time was the real enemy.
I needed shelter, power, and a plan before shit hits the fan.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's think like a terran again."
I tapped the interface, pulling up the resource projections.
Estimated Metal Yield Remaining in Vicinity: 18,000 Units
Estimated Time to Extract: 19 Days
Local Security Risk: Moderate – Gang Activity Detected
I groaned. "Right, the gangs. Forgot this isn't just a casual ladder match. It's Worm. Great."
The SCV beeped again, as if sensing my hesitation. I sighed, looking between the options again, I wonder why the option to build a Command Centre isn't here.
Barracks is the safe bet, the classic opener, the bread and butter of Terran strategy. Or I could go with the Factory, the tech route, higher risk, higher reward. I also need money. Money as a mercenary? hell no...but maybe I'm doing it all in the wrong way.
"Hey, estimated time for a supply depot is roughly six hours, right? "
Bleep "affirmative"
I grinned faintly. "Yeah. Build a Supply Depot. Right here. We'll start the Terran way slow, steady, and with way too many spreadsheets. I would rather just build a CC, but that ain't available."
The SCV whirred to life, lifting its welding arm as blue holographic grids spread over the ground. Sparks flared, metal clanged, and for the first time in history, Brockton Bay witnessed the rise of an honest-to-goodness Terran structure.
I leaned back, watching it build, still half-dazed by how surreal this all was.
"Barracks or Factory can wait," I murmured. "Right now, I just want a place to put my chocolate milk if I ever need a place to store it."
By the time the SCV finished building, the sun had burned off most of the morning fog. Had to skip breakfast on account that it's too far to walk to the nearest convenience store, and ...I think I'm still not sure about Brockton Bay, so it's easy to get lost.
After six hours. In the middle of the afternoon, probably-
The new structure gleamed in the weak light, a squat, metallic bunker half-buried in the dirt, humming softly like a generator. I climbed down from the cockpit to inspect it, expecting, at best, a glorified tin shed. But if the lore is right, it's supposed to be a tiny little hovel home for the marines. Good enough to hang out with, too.
Instead, the thing opened up like one of those old school 90s garage doors.
Panels hissed and unfolded with mechanical precision, revealing an interior workshop brimming with neatly arranged tools, sealed crates, and I swear I almost laughed at the thing, a small, fully automated defensive turret perched on top like a high-tech gargoyle.
It dont look so tough, but that turret up there shoots Gauss ammunition.
"…You have got to be kidding me," I muttered, walking inside.
The Supply Depot's interior was surprisingly organised. Every crate had a logo stamped on it: "Terran Supply Division" Each drawer or locker had labels like Standard Issue Gauss Ammunition, Engineering Kit, and Ration Pack (Do Not Microwave). And the Gauss rifle as well, except there's only one. Ohh, free weapon? dont mind if I use it. Is that even real? Eh. I'll have a look at it later. I'm more interested in the workbench here.
I picked up a wrench. It was solid and heavy. Hey, isn't this made from Neosteel?
Everything here is real. How did it prefab everything? beats me. The information is in my head, but it seems like science fiction since it happened yesterday.
"This shouldn't even exist," I whispered. "I mean… I know Supply Depots in-game store units, but… not like this." This is a glorified toolshed with all the tools needed to build and craft an everyday end-of-the-world scenario scene. Bunkers? This is the real-life equivalent of a bunker. It has almost everything I needed for survival.
The SCV beeped behind me. Sure enough, the automated gun above the depot rotated lazily, scanning the horizon. I half-expected it to start blaring the Terran victory theme.
Then something caught my eye on one of the screens mounted near the back wall, a glowing prompt labelled:
Weapon Fabricator: ONLINE
Ammo Printer: ONLINE
Defensive Turret: ACTIVE
The SCV beside me whirred curiously, tilting its welding arm. I crouched to look closer at the screen. SCV Construction Cost:
Metal: 500 units
Butane: 1 canister
Time: 1 hour
"Wait," I muttered, frowning. "Why would a Supply Depot be able to build an SCV? That's supposed to be the Command Centre's job."
"Patch note modification detected. System running in isolated survival mode. One Supply Depot for One Unit of SCV"
I sighed and leaned against a crate, rubbing my temples. "Great. I'm a retired pro-gamer running a black-market Terran colony in Brockton Bay. This means I can't abuse it permanently.
If I want to build better stuff, I still need to build a command centre, but I think this has to do with Mengsk. The StarCraft 2 co-op commander that provides a free SCV with every supply depot built is available in his tech tree, pertaining to the Royal Guards, which supplies a different way.
Thank god for Zeus and Sun Wukong's gift.
No, wait, that might actually be it. Better not be it.
I tapped the screen and selected [Construct New SCV].
"Acknowledged. Beginning unit fabrication."
The room filled with the familiar hum of Terran machinery. Sparks danced. Panels slid open, and a construction arm descended from the ceiling, assembling components like an invisible factory worker. When the new SCV finished printing itself out, emerging from a haze of smoke and warm metal like a mechanical newborn. I quickly learned the fine print of my situation.
Each Supply Depot could only host one SCV. No Command Centre meant no resource network, no production queue, no orbital commands. In Terran terms, I was basically a homeless engineer with a very fancy garage.
The glowing text on the console confirmed it, as if to mock me:
NOTICE: "Current construction protocol limited to Supply Depot capacity. Command Centre required for multi-unit queueing and advanced tech access. Have a nice day!"
Still, I had to admit, the new SCV looked good. Sleek, polished, and slightly bigger than the first one. Its voice was a little more upbeat, too, like someone had toggled the "Corporate Enthusiasm" setting to high. "Unit SCV-02 online and operational! Awaiting work order!" Mengks SCV unit have a weird sense of humour, huh.
"Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're gonna help me get this operation rolling. Start with the easy stuff first, I guess, and collect any scrap you can find near the docks. And…" I paused, glancing toward the glimmering waves beyond the ship graveyard, "…see if you can find any canisters or gas tanks in the water." Mengsk's unit can dive underwater, too. Hurray to the Royal Guard scvs! Glory to the emperor! Ah, well, he's dead. whatever.
"Understood, sir! Scavenging and deep recovery operation initiated!" It bleeped.
The new SCV's boosters flared, lifting it slightly off the ground before it trundled off like a metal crab on a mission. The original SCV gave a few polite beeps before following suit, the two of them syncing movements in eerie mechanical harmony.
I leaned against the Depot's entry frame, watching them go. The older one was slower, more deliberate — like a seasoned worker who knew the job. The new one was… well, enthusiastic. A little too enthusiastic.
When it reached the waterline, SCV-02 hesitated for a moment, then engaged some kind of improvised sealing protocol. A shimmer of light coated its hull before it plunged straight into the ocean with a mechanical splash.
I blinked. "…Okay, that was cooler than I expected."
I glanced at the HUD display inside the Depot, which now tracked both units in real-time. Little blue icons drifted across a crude 3D map, collecting icons labelled "Metal Fragment", "Fuel Drum", and, amusingly enough, "Rusty Toaster (0.01 Resource Value)."
Still, as I watched them work, the weight of the situation crept back in, and I got bored. So I decided to check into the supply depot to see what it had. Pretty sure there was a Gauss rifle nearby, too yep. gotta nab that. I wish I had a carry bag somewhere. Dont wanna leave a damn future tech rifle like that lying anywhere.
"Alright," I said finally, pulling up the interface. "Let's get systematic about this. Once we've got enough metal, we start working toward a Command Centre. No point rushing for Barracks or Factory until we've got proper logistics."
"Acknowledged," replied the first SCV over comms. "Efficiency increased by 72.2% with additional unit assistance."
"Affirmative!" chirped the second SCV from under the waves. "Found several compressed gas tanks. Smells like propane and regret!"
Uhh..."…Did it just make a joke?" Why how? I dont get it.
"Learning humour subroutine… complete."
I sighed, staring out at the docks. "Fantastic. I've created a sarcastic underwater robot. I'm gonna check out the supply depot. Y'all have fun now"
Roger!" said the first.
"Roger that!" chirped the second
I stepped back inside the Supply Depot once both SCVs were out scavenging. With the daylight streaming in through the reinforced viewport and the hum of power running through the walls, I finally had a moment to really look at the place.
The design was unmistakably Terran, industrial, utilitarian, and overbuilt in that way that said, but surprisingly? Real Terrans aren't like that. Loud, Rowdy, Confederate cowboys acting like it's the wild, wild west. That's the Terran everyone knows. A bunch of redneck space yahoos. The lovable wankers consist of the downtrodden and the lawless, Marines? Convicts conscripted into servitude. Gotta love the craziness.
"We expect this to survive an orbital bombardment and maybe a bar fight." I heard Reiner once said in one of those dialogues in the game. That stuck with me throughout my adult life, always expecting a bar fight...Thailand? Barfights. Vietnam? Sure..same rules apply. Singapore? Orchard Street bars are notorious for Geylang boys doing nonsensical shit when they drunk AF. Yeah..Reiner was dead right. Always expect an orbital strike when going into a bar.
The hell...what sort of fiction-esque bullshit is this? I assure you it's all the truth.
The walls were lined with alloy panels, each marked with serial codes and caution stripes. The floor was metal plating, textured to prevent slipping, with grates along the sides where warm air hissed through. The whole structure was a low, one-story layout, but it felt surprisingly roomy inside.
A reinforced counter split the space neatly, one side clearly meant for operations and storage, the other like a crude lounge or waiting area. I ran a hand over the counter. Smooth, cold, and definitely not IKEA. "Well, I'll be damned," I murmured. "This really is just like the old Terran depots in one of those Tarsonis maps."
I'd seen the in-game concept art years ago, Marines sitting around inside these structures during downtime, cans of synth-beer in hand, the walls plastered with pin-up posters of Dominion propaganda. On hotter planets, the depots' supercharged ventilation made them prime hangout spots between firefights.
And now I was standing in one. In Brockton Bay.
I poked around behind the counter, checking what the Depot had spawned in with. There were racks stacked with sealed crates of rations, field gear, utility tools, and what looked suspiciously like vacuum-sealed jerky. There was even a built-in water recycler in the corner and a low hum from the ventilation array running along the ceiling.
"Supercharged ventilation system… check," I said, smirking to myself as a cool breeze drifted through the room. "Guess the Goddess gave me the deluxe edition."
A terminal near the back wall flickered to life as I approached it. The interface labelled it Base Management node, which sounded more impressive than it was, basically a glorified inventory screen. Yeah, well, Terran always love their doohicky and minor tech stuff.
Power: Stable
Structural Integrity: 100%
Ventilation: Optimal
Inventory:
Food Rations (Terran Standard) - 14 packs Filtered Water - 200L Basic Tools - 1 setSpare Parts - 2 crates Ammo Crates and a locked Emergency Bedroll - 1
I stared at the last line, then opened the nearby locker and out came a bedroll. Neat.
A perfectly folded bedroll sat inside. "…Okay, I'm calling it," I muttered. "This is officially my base! for now." It wasn't much, but it had four walls, air conditioning, food, and didn't smell like a decaying fish market and piss from the outside, which, given the rest of the dock graveyard, was a small miracle.
Near the entrance, finally, the thing that caught my eye in the first place, a long, matte-black shape mounted neatly on a weapons rack. For a second, I thought my brain refused to process it. Then I stepped closer and felt my stomach drop in disbelief. It really was a Gauss rifle. This thing is real. That confirms it.
It was unmistakable, just like the game. the angular frame, the reinforced barrel coils, the compact magnetic accelerator housing that looked like it could turn concrete into confetti.
A C-14 Gauss rifle. Standard-issue for Dominion Marines.
I ran my hand along the weapon, feeling the faint vibration of the internal coils still holding a static charge. It was real. Every bolt, every piece of neosteel plating, the subtle weight distribution was exactly as I remembered it from the StarCraft lore entries I'd read as a teenager.
C-14 Impaler Rifle
Property of Terran Dominion Armed Forces
Calibre: 8mm armour-piercing sabots
Effective Range: 800 meters
Rate of Fire: 8 rounds/sec
Warning: Do not use near children, wildlife, or nuclear silos.
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, that last part checks out."I doubt I'll ever build nuclear silo's. There was only one rifle and a single half-empty ammo magazine, but honestly? That was more than enough. And if I wanted more, I could just order more ammo from the supply depot to fabricate it.
I picked it up carefully, the metal humming softly in my grip. The targeting reticle auto-synced with my field of view for a moment, a flicker of red crosshairs hovering wherever I looked.
"Okay," I muttered, a grin creeping in. "Now we're talking."
Still, I wasn't stupid. A single rifle wasn't going to make me invincible. I needed protection, something light, durable, and at least semi-bulletproof.
Fortunately, the Depot had thought of that too.
Behind the counter, I'd noticed a small armoury bay. It was compact but fully stocked, an automated vice, a welding arm, even a material printer calibrated for neosteel composite. The machine's screen flickered to life as I approached, displaying a simple prompt.
I selected Armour Fabrication, and a holographic schematic popped up. It was a modular, minimalist frame designed for mechanics or engineers. Something between a light chest armour and a utility suit. The kind of thing that could take a hit, but wouldn't turn me into a walking fridge.
"Perfect," I murmured. "We'll call it… casualwear. Not exactly Ghost or Spectre standard, but this will do nicely."
The machine beeped obligingly as it began to assemble the first pieces. Sheets of neosteel slid into place under the robotic arm, sparks flying as the workshop came alive. While it worked, I leaned back against the counter and took another look around. I know how to work the machine, what to do, where to cut it, and where to burn it. All the knowledge I needed to build it and even make it better.
It wasn't much, but it was more than I'd ever expected when I woke up here.
"This'll do," I said softly, setting the rifle against the wall beside me. "This'll do just fine," and checking out the hastily pieced armour for Terran civilian wear.
I imagined the marines back in StarCraft huddled in depots like this one, swapping stories, cleaning weapons, drinking synth-beer, laughing about close calls on some burning planet. I guess compared to that world, at least here we dont have the Protoss Invasion and the Zergs.
The world outside was chaos. But in here?
In here, I was Terran Command.
Still, I was the only person here. Just a tad bit lonely.
I had shelter, food, a working SCV, and a gun that could probably punch a hole through a car engine. But… now what? Sitting in a Terran bunker playing a base-building simulator wasn't exactly sustainable. I needed information. make some friends maybe? Maybe even an identity. I definitely do want one, maybe to buy a house or register a business. Having a civilian ID is important.
I rubbed my chin, thinking back to what little I remembered about Worm.
"Undersiders," I murmured to myself. "Small gang. Clever. Morally flexible. Basically, the startup version of crime. Do they even exist yet? I think so?"
Have those guys even formed a gang yet? Are they even here? Tattletale would figure me out in a second. "Yeah, no," I said, shaking my head. "Joining a teen supervillain gang is officially below my retirement goals, scratch that."
Then there was the Protectorate. The official heroes. Do I want to listen to a bunch of people breathing down my neck? no.
Still, maybe I could make contact later, much, much later, after figuring out how to explain a working Terran factory in the middle of their city without getting black-bagged by PRT or worse..that snake dude, whatever his name is..Coil? Calvert something. Protectorate ENE got holes between holes between more holes.
I do not pity their director one bit.
That left Option C: Go independent.
Forge my own path. Starcraft was only ever a single commander battlefield. The StarCraft way, the Terran way, as we expand slowly, secure resources, stay alive, and nuke everyone with your Yamato and Thor to the endgame.
Huh..that's just your average Tinker then.
I sighed, stretching as the day's exhaustion started to creep in. "Alright, one problem at a time. First step? Food."
I swapped out of the neosteel armour and pulled on my hoodie and jeans, then hesitated. The armour wasn't exactly bulky; the workshop had made it surprisingly lightweight, so I slipped the torso plating underneath my clothes just in case. The SCV had even polished the finish to a dull grey that didn't stand out.
There are even two health stimpacks made for the medics. I took it anyway.
No one needed to know I was walking around with a miniature power assist rig under my hoodie or nano medigel steroids.
The Gauss rifle, though? That stayed behind. I wasn't about to explain that one to a curious bus driver. I locked up the Depot, setting the turret to passive scan mode, and stepped out into the cool afternoon air. Time to get some grub, I'm famished. Haven't eaten since...well, Morning? Did I only have one bread and chocolate milk? Shit.
The city lights flickered in the distance beckoning me to explore.
Welcome to Brockton Bay son!
Gangs live here, oh and nazis and racist. and druggies. Yo, we got all kinds of fuck up shit. you dig?
No I do not dig.
Might as well check out the city. The bus stop was a few blocks away, the road cracked and uneven, littered with old posters and the faint smell of salt and oil. It does make me wonder how the mayor even maintains these parts of the town.
Then again, I'm right here in AZN badboys territory. The cops dont even enter here, at least the Nazi's are amicable to the white cops. Asians? It's basically Asian or gtfo. There aren't any Asian cops, and if there are? They get ostracised or worse, get a bullet to the head. Probably. What do asians like? Doctors, lawyers and businessmen. Anything else is failure.
stereotyping much? Yeah, I am. Dont mean it ain't the truth. My parents were like that...heck, even I was that when it comes to my own kids...All of that seems like a lifetime ago. When the bus finally rumbled, paint faded, windows fogged, I dropped a few dollars from the Goddess's "starter pack" funds into the fare box and took a seat near the back. a dollar for a ride? cheap.
The ride was quiet, filled with tired dockworkers and a handful of kids scrolling through cheap phones. Nobody looked twice at me, which was perfect, speaking of cheap phone...I need one of those, too. Sigh.
So many things, so little cash.
Outside, Brockton Bay drifted past half-forgotten storefronts, shuttered warehouses, and the occasional glimmer of life where restaurants and bars still clung to business. The city looked weary, like it had been through one too many bad news. So this is Brockton Bay.
Welcome to BB I guess you terran scum.
Dear god, I'm rambling, aren't I? Must be the hunger talking. When the bus reached the Boardwalk, I stepped off and was immediately hit by the mix of sea breeze and fried food. Boardwalk Mall. Oh dear lord, that smells heavenly...whatever nacho bullshit with cheese on top.
What could ever destroy my lu-
"Aaahhh!!! help!! Someone is attacking the mall!" Screaming came from the mall. Now that I think about it, wasn't there an attack in the mall? Was it Uber and Leet? No wait...that was much later. Before that, a gang called the Chorus had attacked a mall in Brockton Bay.
Amy had triggered back then, and she'd healed Victoria Dallon when she got hurt. Was this it? Was it during that time? It was in the middle of July? Does it have to happen right now, Brocton Bay? I seriously just got here yesterday.
"Sigh...really? What about my lunch?"
I had barely taken ten steps off the bus, one hand still in my hoodie pocket, thinking about which stall had the best noodles, when the crowd ahead exploded into chaos.
Great, try to get between an Asian with his ever-first noodle or taco cheese mix in this world, will ya? What does an Asian gotta do to get some food around here?
Screams cut through the boardwalk as people scattered in every direction. Cars swerved, horns blaring. A man shoved past me, clutching his kid. Somewhere farther ahead, glass shattered the sharp, cascading sound of a storefront window imploding. All the chaos and none the wiser regarding public safety.
Brockton Bay, ladies and gentlemen. Only here in B effin Bay.
Mall cops around the world would cheer "Finally.. it's my time to shine!" except that you're up against potential superpowered freaks like a pseudo evil Batman and deranged Wonder Woman on crack. In this world? Most of them turned villains for reasons, because people with powers? Deep down, they are all depressed, broken people and need therapy, so yes...a deranged Wonder Woman on crack is a real possibility here.
Just sayin-
Superhumans who take crime a little too seriously because a tumour in the head keeps egging them to use their powers. None of the "With power comes responsibility "shtick, just use powers nao, more data, mmm...data. Yummy data. Now use it on people, too. Conflict creates more data. Shards are none the wiser, creatively bankrupt and can't think beyond certain parameters because they lack emotions and empathy.
It does make you wonder why none of the shards ever want to bond or understand their host, instead of using them for new data. Like I said. Dumb parasites are dumb. At least the Xelnaga were the chipper kind of people, till Amon came and went..Nuuuuu...fuck Eternal Life. Let's have chaos instead. Eh, you know what? screw these aliens. Both of them are morons.
Not two blocks away, near the small shopping mall that overlooked the boardwalk, I could see them, a group of masked figures spilling out of the entrance, weapons raised, their movements too coordinated to be random thugs.
I shook my head exasperatedly as my stomach started to grumble. Too tired to work, and I dont have a mask to wear now. What then?
Just...ugh.
I don't know what it was that snapped first. my patience or my stomach. Probably my stomach. Because nothing, and I mean nothing, ruins my appetite faster than idiots with guns deciding to turn a food court into a concert venue. Let alone a hungry asian.
Nah...fuck this.
I had come here for noodles and tacos, and I found none. Got no bubblegum to chew on, too.
I hadn't decided. But now, instead of grilled meat or the smell of a delectable char siu bao...I dont even know if they sold them here, but all I could smell was gunpowder and broken dreams of a tired man. No meat, no bun, no more fried stuff or taco cheese! I can still smell the cheese when I came here from the bus! Cheezy tacos? forget about it.
Just gunpowder and this angry asian.
"Of course," I muttered, ducking into a half-trashed clothing store as another sonic pulse shook the glass walls. "Of course, this happens before Lunch. Why not? Perfect day. But Providence have to ruin it, Ham ka ...liao."
The mannequins stared blankly at me while I rummaged through the racks. I grabbed the first bandana I saw, a red one with an edgy flame pattern, and tied it over my face. A pair of tacky green sunglasses from the discount rack followed. Then I pulled my hoodie tighter over my armour until I looked like a grumpy street racer who took a wrong turn into a riot, except the rioters are all bunch of note wearing pansies that call themselves the Chorus gang.
Terrible name, blergh.
I checked my reflection in a cracked mirror. I look like a damn mugger on crack with zero fashion sense "Congratulations," I told myself dryly. "You now look like an idiot with confidence. Hou yeng ah. very stylish."
Outside, one of the Chorus thugs kicked open a vending machine, barking orders into a headset. The others were herding terrified shoppers toward the exits, one of them carrying a submachine gun that was absolutely not legal in any country with a functioning government.
And that was it. That was my breaking point.
Bro doesn't even hold it right.
"You picked the wrong day to debut, boy band", I muttered, stepping out of the store.
The first guy turned just in time to see me swing a metal pipe into his ribs. The armour servos in my arm flared, adding a mechanical whine to the impact. He went flying into a display case of novelty sunglasses, shattering both the glass and his dignity.
The others shouted some fired. Bullets sparked off my hoodie as the neosteel underneath deflected most of the hits, leaving bruises but not holes. It would hurt like hell, though, if it's ordinary Kevlar. But this is effin Neosteel sheet. The peak of Terran Impunity. Dominion tech supremacy! One of them even bounced off and shot at one of the gangers' butt.
"Ahh!! my butt!!"
"Yeah, that's gonna sting tomorrow," I grunted, grabbing a trash can lid and hurling it like a frisbee. It smacked another thug square in the face, sending him tumbling over a counter. woowee, I just did a Captain America on pure luck. Being young again sure feels great! I get to flex my APM wrist precision like a frisbee.
"Is he...He's attacking us?!" someone yelled.
"Yeah," I said, stalking forward as another sonic grenade whined to life and I punted that thing to another crowd of gang members ", And I'm starving."
The guy tried to activate his gadget, a handheld speaker-glove thing that buzzed ominously. Was it Tinker Tech? Honestly, I dont care, so I jammed my pipe into it before it could release a pulse. The device backfired with a fwoomp and a burst of smoke, leaving him clutching his hand and wheezing.
"Pro tip," I said, flicking the broken device aside. "Don't overcharge unshielded tech. Tinker 101. You look like an effing noob doing that." Terran tech 101, actually, we could reverse engineer the Protoss shield, we could reverse engineer anything. Suck on that Protoss! and you too gangers! Shitty tech should just fail and get scrapped!
The remaining two decided discretion was the better part of survival and started backing toward the mall exit.
"screw this! I didn't sign up to fight a cape! I thought we had time!"
I didn't let them.
A few quick steps, a running kick, and one of them went down clutching his leg. The other tried to raise his gun, but I ducked under his aim, slammed a punch into his chestplate, then another into his helmet. He went down like a ragdoll, his gear scattering across the tile. The minor servos of my tiny cabling joint, neatly connected to the power armour I'm wearing, winded. Surprisingly, it does pack a punch against ordinary people.
Terran Civilian gear 1/ ganger 0
It sucks to be a normie.
Points for me for deciding to go out with a basic exoskeleton with neosteel pads. Silence followed, broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the ringing in my ears. I stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by groaning thugs, cracked glass, and dropped guns. The mall was a mess, but the civilians were gone. No one got shot. And I was still hungry. If only they knew it was just a tired, cynical ex-gamer who hadn't eaten since breakfast.
The sound of a gunshot cut through the chaos.
I thought I dealt with everyone.
My head snapped toward the food court entrance.
There, near the edge of the shattered fountain, was a girl in a green skirt and outing jacket crouched over another young woman, her hands glowing faintly with that unmistakable, soft biolight of a healer. Amy Dallon. Panacea has triggered, and her eyes are manic with tears, trying to save her dear sister.
"Hands off the freak, or I'll put another hole in your sister!"
He barked. His mask, painted white with a jagged black music note, flickered with static. Definitely the leader. His voice carried that smug, overconfident reverb of a man who thought power meant control. The Chorus gang? What a stupid ass name.
Amy froze, hands still trembling.
I exhaled through my nose, slow and tired.
"Seriously...One day. It's just... one day since I came here," I muttered under my breath. "Of course, it's the one day I forget to bring a rifle."
"You! Dreamhack prick!" he shouted, gesturing with the gun. "Yeah, hoodie guy! The one who just flattened my crew! You think you can take the Chorus? What are you, huh? Some new cape? Some wannabe vigilante?"
I looked down at my armour-stained hoodie, the faded orange logo still visible for everyone to see, the DreamHack 2011 Finals. My last tournament. My last real victory. Now, apparently, my superhero name is Dreamhack? Heck fucking no, that's so lame!
Do they even have Dreamhack tournaments in this godforsaken world?
The goons around him murmured, and the fucker actually smirked at me! He smirked. "Guess what, boys! Looks like we've got ourselves a new player on the block! Let's see what DreamHack can do."
I stared at him. Then at Amy. Then at the hole where my patience used to be, oh hell naw, you did not just officiate my cape name in public like that. Mother effer...
"DreamHack?" I groaned, rubbing my temple. "Seriously? That's what you're going with? Out of every possible name?"
The thug blinked. "You're not denying it?"
"I'm ignoring it," I snapped.
He scowled and aimed the gun at Amy again. "Last chance, hero. Walk away before I-"
He never finished the sentence as I pummel him with an iron pipe to the face. I moved before I even thought about it, the armour servos in my legs firing as I lunged forward, closing the distance in less than a second. His shot went wide, sparking against the tile. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and slammed his hand against the nearby pillar. The gun clattered to the floor.
That's one dumbass down.
Dreamhack? really?
He screamed. I didn't give him a chance to recover. Screw him, screw everyone here. One hard punch with a servo-assisted velocity straight into his chest. His amplifier cracked, feedback screaming through his speakers. I followed up with a knee to his gut, then a backhand across the mask that sent him spinning to the floor.
"Name's not Dreamhack, got it? It's just a hoodie for god sakes. Call me Hoodieguy or Terran lord! Anything is better than a tourney name!" I muttered, standing over him. "Remember it. Or don't. I don't care."
I turned toward Amy, who was still frozen mid-motion, her hands hovering over Glory Girl's chest while she was healing her as fast as she could.
"You good?" I asked, voice softer now.
She blinked, like her brain had to buffer for a moment. "You.. You-you're not with them?"
"If I were, they'd have better aim,ashole shoots like a stormtrooper", I said dryly. "Keep healing. I'll make sure no one else interrupts Lunch...uhh, I mean, your work."
Amy blinked again, probably unsure whether to thank me or call the PRT. preferably the first one, I really dont wanna deal with PRT or any law enforcement right now. Just wanna get some good food. Meanwhile, the leader groaned on the floor, his amplifier still sparking. Oh, the asshole is just asking to get kicked in the nuts.
He's down for the count.
Do I kick it?
My mind is telling me no, but my heart says...yes!! Kick it! DO IT! Sigh...I wanted to do that to the fucker, but instead, I went to the fucker, I crouched, grabbed his jacket, and whispered close enough for him to hear through the feedback.
"You ever point a gun at someone again, and I'll introduce you to a SCV's drill to your ass, got it? Understand?"
He nodded weakly. I doubt the asshole even knows what an SCV is. It's probably not a good idea to leave breadcrumbs around, but really, eventually, he will need to debut. For now? Oh, I'm famished.
I dont think I'm thinking straight. Need to get out of here.
By the time the last of the Chorus goons hit the floor, the mall was a disaster zone, a symphony of chaos that had finally gone quiet. I stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, knuckles sore, armour humming faintly beneath my hoodie. My green plastic sunglasses were cracked, my bandana had slipped halfway down my face, and somewhere in the distance, a security alarm wailed like a dying cat.
I looked around at the unconscious bodies, with half of them groaning, the others too busy regretting life choices, and I had to pinch the bridges of my nose in contempt and disappointment and what just happened today. Disappointed that I intervene. Contempt at the gall of these idiots calling themselves proper naughty boys like they're worth shit when superpowers are a factor in this world.
"Congratulations, Jason. You just beat up a local gang on an empty stomach. Real productive." Not to mention the potential heat in this. Ugh...day one. Seriously? This was dumb. I could probably do it better if it weren't crucial.
Behind me, I heard a groan.
I turned, and there she was, blonde hair, glowing faintly gold under the flickering mall lights. Glory Girl. Victoria Dallon. She was awake. Amy was beside her, helping her sit up. Her expression was somewhere between relief and disbelief. No aura blast, so that's a good thing.
Amy's healing aura faded as she looked at me with guarded eyes, suspicious of me. really girl? You're gonna be suspicious of the guy who just saved your life? Panpan..what the fuck? My first impression of you just went out the door. Victoria, on the other hand, didn't do guarded. She did loud. There's a reason she's the collateral Barbie and gets called that for good reason. The girl doesn't know when to hold back. I doubt my neosteel and limited servos could do much in a straight-up brawl.
"Who the hell are you!?" she demanded, floating to her feet, her golden force field shimmering back to life. "And what did you do to these guys?" ahh there it is..the love me beam. God, that is annoying. I'm a 70-year-old soul who died of old age, feeling some sort of affection for a young girl like that...This is so disgusting and yet also weirdly comforting. That beam is just nasty. At least it ain't some NTR beam.
I blinked...that came out wrong.
"...I hit them until they stopped shooting people?" I said. At least these pricks are alive. Terran weapons dont have non-lethal options. They are made to kill zergs and all manner of alien scum. and each other...mostly each other. Eh...Terrans love beefing with each other.
Amy winced. "Vicky, he helped us. He stopped the one who was about to shoot me."
Victoria didn't lower her guard. Her eyes scanned me up and down, landing on the logo on my hoodie.
"'DreamHack'?" she read aloud. "That's your name?"
"Oh, for the love of..." I rubbed my face. "No. That's just a hoodie. It's a gaming event. I'm not..."
"Never heard of a gaming event with that name", Victoria said, crossing her arms. "People are gonna call you that now. You realise that, right?"
I groaned. "That's not a superhero name. That's a brand sponsorship."
Amy, despite the situation, almost smiled. Almost. "You could do worse. I mean, there's a cape named Uber."
"...Point taken," I muttered. effin Uber..I totally forgot about that dude. Victoria lowered her aura slightly, but still hovered just off the ground, that faint golden glow outlining her like an accusation. "You took out ten armed gang members. Alone. Without powers?"
"Without food, too," I added. "That's the real tragedy."
Amy gave me a look, half curious, half cautious. "Is that armour underneath your hoodie?… It's not Tinkertech I recognise. You made it yourself?"
I shrugged. "Something like that. I tinker."
It wasn't a total lie perse, technically, I refurbished a bunch of neosteel lying around in the supply depot and made a pseudo armour. The depot could procure and process steel and various metals and turn them into Neosteel. So I just acquired some materials and made a shoddy job at it. Victoria frowned, still not entirely convinced. "So what, you're some kind of vigilante? You working with the Wards?
"Hell No, Do I look like ward material to you?" I said flatly. "I'm just a guy who wanted some food and got interrupted by an off-key garage band."
Amy muttered under her breath, "He's not wrong."
The distant sirens were getting louder, definitely PRT. Time to go. I wasn't ready to get dragged into some registration mess.
"Look," I said, adjusting my hood. "You two should probably get out of here before the PRT shows up. They'll want statements, and I don't exactly have an ID for… legal reasons."
Amy raised an eyebrow. "You're just going to leave?"
"I'm allergic to paperwork. Deal with it, you're the capes." and I'm hungry, think I'm almost seeing things in double. Am I hypoglycemic? nahh.
Victoria floated a little higher, hands on her hips. "You saved us. That means something. At least let us thank you-"
"Thank me by not calling me DreamHack," I said, backing toward the side exit. "And maybe tell your PR people I'm not a villain, yeah?" To be frank, I dont even know if I want to be a hero. It's just not my thing.
Amy's expression softened slightly. "...You could've just run. You didn't."
I paused for a second, meeting her gaze. "Yeah. Well. Old habits die hard." Helping people in need is a basic human decency, and it's what I was taught growing up. With that, I turned, pushed open the emergency door, and slipped into the cool afternoon air, the faint hum of my armour blending with the distant sirens. Brockton Bay. If it ain't windy..it ain't right. At least this part of town dont smell like piss and arid sea and rust like in the trainyard.
Behind me, I could just barely hear Victoria mutter: "He just left? Just like that? You'd think he designed that hoodie on purpose.DreamHack. Seriously? What kind of name is that?"
And Amy's quiet reply: "The kind that probably didn't ask for it. I think he means it, Vicky."
"Are you okay, Amy? you just triggered and-"
Yep, not my business to know. I'm out. Not getting my dumbass interest in teenage cape drama, Nope. I'm out. Now what? Can't eat here. What's the closest place nearby to get any authentic noodles around here? Ah...is AZN badboys territory. Ya know what? Why should I be afraid? I'm asian. I can talk the talk and walk the walk.
I'm heading up North, it's nearer to the Trainyard anyway, easier walk to base.
I pulled my hood tighter, hands shoved into these damn tiny pockets, and started walking aimlessly down the cracked sidewalks. The streetlights flickered with that cheap orange glow that made everything look a little tired, or was it just mr feeling that?
Must be the hunger talking. Note to self, never fight hungry, I could literally feel the sugar rush leaving the body. It's how a diabetic feels when they get a sugar crash...probably. After ten minutes of wandering, the scenery started to change. Lanterns started to appear, hanging over doorways. Neon signs in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean flickered half-alive.
Honestly?
It's a little too stereotypical for my taste. Then again, the boomers love these sorts of things. Happened back home, too. Lanterns and blinky lights. Always the damn blinky lights like it's Christmas every day.
The graffiti was in different languages too; it's in Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and old posters written in kanji peeling off the walls. Lanterns hung over narrow streets, the smell of cooking oil and spices filling the air..Oh wow..that hits the spot. I smell malatang like Szechuan pepper.
Sirens were still echoing somewhere behind me, bouncing off the cracked walls of Brockton Bay, but I didn't care. Let the PRT handle cleanup. I'd done my civic duty for the night. All I wanted was food.
ABB's territory was actually fine, at least here in the Asian market district.
A younger me might've turned around, but honestly? I was too hungry to care about gang turf wars. Worst case, I get jumped. Best case, I get Lunch. Worth it. Feels a little like home, almost. Kinda like Petaling Street meets Chinatown in New York. Now all it needs is some Bengali peddlers selling bootleg CDs, and it would be perfect. Just like home.
a small noodle shop tucked between two pawn stores, red characters painted above the door:
老张拉面 - Lao Zhang's Noodles.
Now that is a smell of an asian kitchen. You can smell the wok hay from that smoke. Steam drifted out of the doorway, thick with the smell of soy, Szechuan chilli, and beef broth. I swear, I almost cried. The bell jingled when I walked in. Warm light, clattering bowls, the sound of someone hand-pulling noodles in the back, Real hand-pulled noodles. Like music to my soul.
The woman behind the counter looked up, smiled like she'd seen this story before.
"Ah, you hungry, young man? Sit, sit! You want lamian?"
I nodded so fast my neck cracked. Those sweet, sweet words coming from this Auntie, "One Beef lamian. Big bowl. Please."
She laughed, calling something in Mandarin to the kitchen. The guy back there started pulling dough, stretching it out and slapping it on the counter like an art form. That rhythm of simple Lamian noodles hit right at home for some reason. It is chewy, oily, spicy, just the way I like it. For the first time since being dumped into this world, I felt like a real human being again and not a confused Terran with a construction mech parked in a junkyard tacos? Its fine..I can find tacos another time.
This? This is the ultimatum, the pinnacle of my existence since coming here. To enjoy a good bowl of Beef Lamian. For a minute, I wasn't stranded in a different universe full of parahumans and walking disasters. I was just some guy waiting for noodles. No Terran Supremacy propaganda bullshit is gonna ruin this for me. This is it. Beef Noodles. All hail the beef noodle!
"Nei tai, that new guy ah? Asian one in the hoodie? see ah? He eats like he hasn't seen food in days."
"Maybe homeless lah," her husband replied from the kitchen. "Or student. He looks tired."
When the bowl came out, I nearly forgot how to breathe. Steam rising, the smell of chilli oil, slices of beef glistening like treasure.
Mm, but ABB has been around lately," she said, lowering her voice. "I don't want trouble, you know? If they think he outsider or some new gang..."
"Aiya! I told you already, stop staring at the customer!"
"What staring? I'm checking if he ABB or not! You know they like to come pretend normal, then ask for free noodles!"
"He not ABB lah! You think ABB eat lamian like this? They always want fried rice and Coke!"
"You don't know! Maybe he's undercover ABB! You see his hoodie? Got big orange word, maybe gang code!"
almost choked on my noodles. DreamHack 2011 ? gang code. Sure. The deadliest of gamer syndicates. First bite? Heaven. Actual heaven. While I try to ignore the gossip chatter behind. Oh..why haven't I learn how to cook lamien in my past life? Oh right. Why cook when you can call Uber Eats or Grab? So many choices back then...sigh.
The wife huffed, ladle still in hand.
"Undercover my foot! He looks like a tired office worker. Look at his eye bag, can put dumpling inside."
Her husband peeked out again, frowning. "Office worker so strong meh? Look at his hand liao! big like a shovel! You see that muscle? Maybe he uses it for breaking kneecaps! oso hor, why do office workers wear hoodie?! Cheesin ah?!"
I coughed; that was actually really funny to me. They froze like I'd just turned into the granddaddy triad lord Lung himself. I'm just glad this is some good noodles, ahh...the broth and the soup. This is happiness. This...is happiness.
"See lah! You make him hear you! Now he angry liao!, Maybe he really ABB!"
"You're the one talking so loud!! Stupid husband!" she hits her husband with the ladle as her husband cowers behind the wok.
"You think I care? If ABB come, I'll throw you at them first! lousy wife!"
At this point, I had to hide my face behind the bowl because I was grinning like an idiot. The tension I'd been feeling since the mall, since everything, just… cracked. These two were ridiculous. Comforting, in a way.
I finished my noodles and leaned forward, pretending to inspect the menu. The wife noticed and hurried over, all smiles again. "Ah, you like the noodles, ah? Very good, very strong man needs to eat more!"
Her husband muttered under his breath, "Strong man, sei cho ar-huh? Until ABB find him."
"You shut up, you want curse customer, is it?" Her wife sneered at him.
couldn't help myself "Don't worry," I said in English, friendly tone. "I'm not with ABB. Or any BB, really."
The wife blinked, then laughed nervously. "Ah, of course, of course! We're just talking, aiya! small talk! Family business, you know!"
"Yeah," I said, handing her the cash. "Family business."
Her husband squinted, still suspicious, but took the money anyway. "You be careful outside," he said in accented English. "The ABB people… they don't like strangers. Especially young ones like you."
"Noted," I said. "I'll make sure not to advertise my…uhh face?" That came out wrong.
As I stepped out of the shop, I could still hear them arguing inside -
"See? Nice boy! You always think everyone gangster! Boy soo lengzhai can't be gang member!" and smack her husband with the ladle again
"Today, nice boy, tomorrow in the newspaper! 'Local noodle shop feed supervillain!'You only see nice lengzhai boy!" rubbing his head in faux pain
"Aiya, you watch too much TV lah!"
Their voices faded as I walked down the dim street. Time to head back and see if there's anything I can build. Yeah, that shit was hella weird. 10/10 will come again for noodles. Damn...I'm hungry again. Should I head back? Or keep exploring Brockton Bay? Time doesn't fly much this afternoon. I saved Amy Dallon and Victoria Dallon, probably exposed myself to the PRT numbnuts. Maybe even invite the Ire of a certain Lawyer Karen in protective mom mode...dear lord, she's another issue, isnt she?
Ugh...this has been one terrible afternoon.
Except for the beef bowl Noodle.
All Hail beef noodles!!
Note to self, Protect Chinese Auntie and Uncle Laozhang Noodle. Sacred Treasure of Brockton Bay. It's the only good thing so far here in this hellhole.