Zagan ruffled the cat's fur, letting the storm of information settle in his head. He already had a rough plan of action: Step one, don't get caught. Step two, enter the Soul Realm and power up. Step three… stay alive. His plans ended there, and his mind snapped back to the present.
"So, Furball…" Zagan smiled, giving the grey cat a name that suited it. He had thought of calling it Tom, but Tom didn't feel right for a Persian. "You said a Synth woman named Margret owns this house? What does she do? And… What's her relationship to me?"
"Meow?!" Furball tilted his head, that ridiculously childlike voice slipping out. "I'm prohibited by Miss Margret from sharing personal details about her."
Zagan blinked. "Then why were you answering my other questions? Isn't that also off-limits?"
Furball licked his tiny paws, calm as a saint. "No. I am instructed to keep her guests company while she is away."
"Guests?!" Zagan's brain short-circuited. He was completely naked except for these damn synthetic black boxers. Was this what guests wore now? Was it some new cultural thing?
No… no, wait. The original owner… maybe he was someone close to her. Boyfriend or something? And… he died after a steamy session? And now I am stuck in his body?!
Holy mother of fuck! He needed the original owner's memories, like yesterday. This guessing game was going to fry what little sanity he had left.
Zagan had no choice but to improvise. He leaned closer to Furball and asked, "Then what can you tell me about myself? Do you know who I am, little furball?"
Furball lifted his head, amber eyes scanning his face. A soft, AI-like voice whispered from within:
"Accessing AndroNet… checking for matches… match found. Loading details…"
Furball's amber eyes flickered, circuits whirring beneath the fur, and a blue hologram bloomed into the air, displaying the boy's details. Another hologram floated nearby, spitting out dozens of videos.
Zagan's jaw dropped. Holy shit, I'm basically Tony Stark right now, he thought, scrolling through the data like it was schematics for an Iron Man suit. The more he read, the more he cringed.
Finally, he clicked on the newest video: "Farewell My Love." A girl poured her heart out, whining about how some other girl named Ria didn't deserve Airin.
Ten minutes later, after digesting all the information, Zagan finally got it. The original owner hadn't died from some sexy mishap — he'd died a martyr, protecting his girlfriend. And Margret? She had nothing to do with him. Maybe she was some side character, or worse, a bottom-tier side chick.
Airin Falmere. That was the boy's name. The original owner of this body. Presumed dead in a dungeon somewhere in the Soul Realm. And now… he was ZaganOmen Lysander. Just Fantastic.
Decent guy… but Zagan couldn't help groaning aloud. "Most Romantic Male?! What the actual fuck, bro?!"
Zagan leaned back against the bed's headrest and drummed his fingers in a slow rhythm on his thighs. Analysis time.
Hmm… best way to handle this mess. Airin's dead, half-naked in some woman's house, and the woman was nowhere to be found. What did that even mean?
He needed more details, but the little fucker was tight-lipped about Margret.
Zagan's lips curled. There were always ways to trick an AI — so long as it wasn't fully sentient. You just had to ask the right way.
"So, Furball," he said, putting on his most innocent voice, "how should I impress Miss Margret? It's my first time meeting her, so… I kind of want to make a good impression."
Furball lifted his head, and replied in that infuriatingly cheerful tone, "Stay dead. That's the best way to impress Miss Margret."
Zagan blinked. "Sorry — did you just say, stay honest?"
Furball shook his head. "No. Stay dead."
A vein pulsed at Zagan's temple. He grabbed the cat by the scruff and hauled it up to eye level. "Listen here, you little shit. Are you fucking with me? Do you think you're being funny? One more smart-ass answer and I will personally pitch you out of this window."
Furball blinked slowly, perfectly calm, as if Zagan's threats were a quaint curiosity.
"I answered your question with the data available," Furball said in that same childlike tone. "The best way to impress Miss Margret is for your bodily functions to cease and your body temperature to drop below 20 degrees Celsius. She especially prefers a corpse that's been dead for approximately two days."
Zagan froze, eyes narrowing.
Necrophilia? A Synth with that kind of fetish?
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. Where the hell did I end up this time?
No — there was no time for bullshit. If that woman returned now, he'd either get caught… or worse, ravaged. He needed a plan, fast.
But escaping was risky. From what he'd gathered, being seen without a collar was as good as signing his own death warrant.
To the Synths, a human without one was an anomaly: something to be captured, dissected, or erased. And the worst part? Airin Falmere was famous enough for most to recognize.
Zagan jumped off the bed, tossing the cat aside.
"Meooow…!!" Furball landed gracefully on all fours. Physics, apparently, bowed to cats, real or robotic.
Zagan began scanning the room for anything useful. The body he now inhabited was absurdly strong. From what he'd learned, when a person's soul died, all the strength gained through the Soul Realm, through their soul body, was lost.
But the enhancements done directly to the physical body stayed. Muscle grafts, neural augments, synthetic organs — those didn't vanish with the soul. And Airin? The guy had been heavily enhanced.
He just needed the right tool… and the element of surprise. Killing wasn't the problem. He'd done worse before.
Zagan rummaged through the shelves, grabbing anything that looked remotely useful. Half of it, he had no clue what it was... but the digital encyclopedia nearby helped identify each item with a quick scan.
The more he searched, the more his face paled. There were… a lot of things in this room. Synthetic lingerie, neural cigarettes designed to induce hallucinations, and enough toys and tools to make any sane man question his life choices.
He froze, holding up a sleek black whip. Its specs read: Pain Induction Amplifier — Stimulates the nervous system to blend agony with pleasure.
Zagan's expression twisted.
"…Was she planning to use this on me?"
A shiver ran down his spine. Nope. He was not waiting around to find out.
Finally, he found something useful: a compact thermoregulator. With this, he could lower his body temperature artificially. Perfect.
He turned to Furball. "So, when was the dungeon raid video first uploaded?"
"The live stream went up exactly 3 days and 9 hours ago," Furball replied.
Zagan hummed, thinking. Three days dead, but no decay, no stench. Either the body had been preserved… or Airin's augmentations were working overtime.
"What would my body temperature be right now if I'd actually been dead for 3 days and 9 hours?"
Zagan could have calculated it easily using Newton's Law of Cooling — a dead body would reach room temperature within hours. Basic thermodynamics. He was both a physicist and a kenjutsu master, and had pulled off the impossible: time travel at 23. In his own words, he was a fucking genius.
But this was no ordinary body, and this wasn't the 21st century. Enhancements embedded in the flesh could alter the normal rules, keeping the body unnaturally preserved or masking its temperature.
"Let's see what future science has to say," he muttered, eyes narrowing at Furball.
Furball padded closer, its amber eyes glowing faintly. "It depends on the ambient temperature, whether your body was preserved perfectly, or if any nanites remain active. I can only scan if you let me test a drop of your blood, Meow."
Fair enough. Blood nanites were expensive, mostly limited to residents of the Midline and Upper Spire. Zagan grabbed a needle from the wardrobe and pricked his skin, letting Furball do its work.
After a brief scan, the cat replied, "I cannot identify the exact tier of nanites in your blood. My clearance only allows access to Level 1 AndroNet data in Lowshield regions. Based on what I can detect, your nanites are either Elite or Echelon-tier."
The cat paused, then added, "Assuming your body was preserved, with high-level metabolic blood nanites capable of hibernating for a week before energy depletion, your current body temperature should be approximately 23.8°C, given that you died 3 days and 9 hours ago."
Zagan raised his brows, impressed. "Efficient… very efficient," he muttered. "Not bad for a little furball. Once I take care of Margret, you're officially my butler."
He finally grabbed a Stasis Serum from a nearby shelf, along with the thermoregulator. Beyond that, there wasn't a damn thing in the room that would save him if this went south.
From what he'd figured about the serum, it should work on both humans and Synths of early Rank 1 or below. Considering most folks in the Lowshield region were Rank 0 or 1, he could only hope Margret qualified.
The room reeked of her… hobbies. No cameras, no hidden tech. He had checked every corner with Furball's help. Ugh. What kind of freak keeps this many whips and bizarre tools lying around? He even wondered if she was truly necrophilic… or just had a penchant for torturing corpses.
Now it was time for the third talent he'd been born with: acting. In this case, pretending dead. Until she came close enough.