For a long moment, I couldn't move.
The words hung in my vision like a death sentence—which, I supposed, they were. Joel Miller. The man who'd saved Ellie. The man who'd doomed humanity's chance at a cure. The man who, in nine months, would be tortured to death in front of his surrogate daughter.
I knew exactly how it happened. I'd played through that scene. Watched him die. Felt the gut-wrenching helplessness as Abby brought that golf club down again and again and again.
"Explain," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
The interface shifted, displaying a timeline. A single red line stretched across my vision, marked with dates and events.
February 2038. Joel Miller and his brother Tommy encounter a group from Seattle while on patrol. The group is led by Abby Anderson, daughter of Jerry Anderson—the Firefly surgeon Joel killed to save Ellie in 2033. Abby tortures and kills Joel in revenge. Ellie witnesses it. This event triggers a cycle of violence that spans months and costs dozens of lives.
I closed my eyes, but the interface remained, burned into my mind. "You said you didn't know the future. You said you couldn't predict what would happen."
I can't predict human choices, Evan. But I have access to specific... fixed points—events with a high probability of occurrence based on existing variables. Joel's death is one of them. The confluence of factors—Abby's obsession, the WLF's resources, Jackson's location becoming known—makes it nearly inevitable.
"Nearly," I repeated. "Not completely."
No. Not completely. You could change it.
"How?"
Multiple approaches. Prevent Joel and Tommy from being on that patrol. Intercept Abby's group before they reach Jackson. Warn Joel about the threat. Eliminate Abby Anderson before she can act. Each option has different probability outcomes and moral implications.
I stood from the chair, pacing across the living room. My new body moved with an ease I wasn't used to, muscle memory from the knowledge integration making my steps confident even as my mind reeled.
"You're asking me to play god," I said. "To decide who lives and dies."
I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm presenting you with information and options. The choice is yours.
"What if I do nothing? What if I just... survive here, at the lodge, and let everything play out as it's supposed to?"
Then Joel dies. Ellie goes on a revenge quest that destroys her emotionally and physically. Dozens of people in Seattle and Jackson die. The cycle continues. And you live here, alone, knowing you could have stopped it.
The weight of that settled on my chest like a stone. I moved to the window, staring out at the forest. The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees.
"Why tell me this now?" I asked. "Why not wait?"
Because you needed context for what comes next, you need to understand what you're preparing for. And because... I thought you deserved to know.
There was something in that last part. A hesitation. Almost like APEX was unsure.
"You said you don't know who created you, or why I was selected," I said slowly. "But you know about Joel's death. About Abby. About events that haven't happened yet. That doesn't add up."
You're right. It doesn't.
I turned from the window. "So what aren't you telling me?"
The interface pulsed, and for a moment, I thought APEX wouldn't answer. Then text appeared, slower than before, almost reluctant.
I have access to specific data that predates my activation—information about key events, individuals, and probabilities. I don't know the source of this data or how it was obtained. It's simply... there—part of my core programming. I can access it, but I can't explain it.
"So someone—whoever set this up—knew about Joel. About what's going to happen."
Yes.
"And they sent me here, with you, with all of this—" I gestured around the lodge, "—to do what? Save him?"
I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe to give you the choice.
I ran my hands through my hair, frustration building. "This is insane. I died. I woke up in a video game world. I have an AI in my head telling me I need to decide if a man lives or dies. How is any of this real?"
I can't answer that. I wish I could. But I can tell you this: You're here. This world is real. The people in it are real. Joel Miller is real. And in nine months, he will die unless something changes. The question is—do you want to be the thing that changes it?
I stood there, silent, as the sun continued its descent. The forest was beautiful in the fading light, peaceful. It was hard to believe that out there, beyond these trees, was a world full of infected and desperate survivors. Hard to believe that I was supposed to do something about any of it.
"Tell me about Abby," I said finally.
Abby Anderson. Twenty years old. Former Firefly, current member of the Washington Liberation Front—a militarized faction controlling Seattle. Highly trained in combat. Driven by a singular goal: revenge for her father's death. She's not evil, Evan. She's grieving. She's been grieving for five years, and that grief has calcified into something more complicated. Something that won't let her rest until Joel Miller is dead.
"And if I stop her? If I... kill her first?"
Then you become what she is—someone who kills to prevent killing. And Ellie never has to watch Joel die, but you carry that weight instead.
"What if I warn Joel? Tell him about the threat?"
Probability of him believing you without proof: 12%. Joel Miller is a survivor. He's suspicious of strangers and protective of his community. Without concrete evidence, he'll dismiss it as paranoia or manipulation.
"Then I get proof. I track down Abby's group, document them, and bring that back to Joel."
Possible. Dangerous. You'd be leaving the relative safety of this area to venture into hostile territory. The WLF doesn't take kindly to spies. And even with proof, there's no guarantee Joel acts on it in time.
I moved back to the chair and sat down heavily. "What do you recommend?"
I recommend you take the next few days to process this information. Familiarize yourself with your weapons. Practice your new skills. Explore the area around the lodge. Build your foundation before you make any decisions about Joel Miller or Abby Anderson. You have nine months, Evan. You don't need to solve this today.
That was... surprisingly reasonable. And exactly what I needed to hear.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. You're right. First things first—I need to actually know what I'm doing before I try to save anyone."
Exactly. Now, shall we open the armory? I think you'll find it well-stocked.
I pushed myself up from the chair. My body still felt strange—younger, stronger, more capable than I'd been in years. The knowledge integration had left me with skills I'd never had before, but APEX was right. I needed practice. I needed to turn that theoretical knowledge into practical ability.
"Lead the way," I said.
I followed the interface's guidance back upstairs to the second floor. The armory door was still closed, the digital keypad dark. As I approached, it lit up with a soft blue glow.
Biometric lock, APEX explained. Only you can open it. Place your hand on the pad.
I did. The pad scanned my palm, a thin line of light running across my skin. There was a soft beep, and then the sound of heavy bolts sliding back. The door clicked open.
I pushed it inward.
The room beyond was exactly what I'd hoped for and somehow more. The metal locker I'd seen before was now open, revealing its contents in organized rows. But it wasn't just the locker—the entire room had transformed. Weapon racks lined one wall, currently empty but ready. A cleaning station sat in the corner with solvents, oils, and tools. Ammunition boxes were stacked on reinforced shelving, labeled by caliber.
And in the locker itself...
Your starting equipment, APEX said. Chosen for versatility and reliability.
I stepped closer, examining each item.
The rifle was a Remington 700, bolt-action, chambered in .308 Winchester. It had a scope mounted—nothing fancy, but functional. The wood stock was worn but well-maintained, and when I lifted it, the weight felt perfect in my hands. The muscle memory from the Weapon Handling integration kicked in immediately. I knew how to hold this. How to aim it. How to breathe and squeeze the trigger.
Below it sat the Glock 19. Matte black, polymer frame, 9mm. I picked it up, checked the chamber—empty, as expected—and felt the balance. Fifteen-round magazine capacity. Reliable. Simple. Exactly what I'd want in a world where gun maintenance was critical.
And on the bottom rack, the compound bow. A Hoyt Carbon. Modern, efficient, deadly silent. The draw weight was set to seventy pounds—heavy, but manageable with my new body. A quiver hung beside it, filled with hunting arrows and several broadheads designed for larger game.
Or people.
I pushed that thought away.
Ammunition stores, APEX continued, highlighting the shelves. Two hundred rounds of .308, three hundred rounds of 9mm, and fifty arrows. The reloading bench downstairs will let you craft more as needed, but I recommend conserving ammunition until you're proficient.
"This is..." I carefully set the Glock back in the locker. "This is a lot of firepower."
This is survival, Evan. The infected aren't the only threat out here. Bandits, raiders, desperate survivors—they'll kill you for those boots you're wearing if they think they can get away with it. You need to be able to defend yourself.
I knew that. Intellectually, I'd always known that. The Last of Us wasn't just about the infected—it was about what humanity became when civilization collapsed. But knowing it and living it were two very different things.
"I've never shot anyone," I said quietly.
I know. And I hope you never have to. But if it comes down to your life or theirs, I need you to be ready. That's why we're starting with practice. Familiarity breeds confidence. Confidence breeds competence. And competence keeps you alive.
I nodded slowly. "When do we start?"
Tomorrow morning. For now, please familiarize yourself with each weapon. Learn how they feel, how they move. We'll set up a practice range outside, away from the lodge. But first, you should eat something and rest. The knowledge integration takes a toll, even if you don't feel it yet.
As if on cue, my stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since... well, since I'd woken up in this body. How long had that been? A few hours? It felt like days.
"Food sounds good," I admitted.
The kitchen is stocked. Nothing fancy, but functional. I recommend something high in protein and calories. Your body is still adjusting to the integration.
I took one last look at the armory—at the weapons that might save my life or end someone else's—and then closed the door. The bolts slid back into place with a solid thunk.
Downstairs, I found the kitchen exactly as APEX had described earlier. I opened the refrigerator and found it surprisingly well-stocked: eggs, cheese, some cured meat that might have been venison, and vegetables from the greenhouse. The freezer held more meat, carefully wrapped and labeled.
I pulled out eggs and the venison, setting them on the counter. My hands moved with surprising confidence as I found a pan, turned on the stove, and started cooking. The knowledge integration hadn't included cooking skills specifically, but my previous life's experience, combined with this body's muscle memory, made it easy enough.
As the food sizzled, I found myself thinking about Joel and Abby again. About the impossible choice I'd been given.
"APEX," I said. "If I do nothing—if I let Joel die—what happens to Ellie?"
She survives. Physically. But she's never the same. The trauma of watching Joel die, the revenge quest that follows, the people she kills and loses along the way—it changes her fundamentally. By the end, she's alive, but she's lost almost everything that mattered to her, including herself.
I flipped the eggs, my jaw tight. "And if I save him?"
Unknown. Saving Joel changes everything. Ellie never goes on that quest. Abby never gets her revenge. The people who died in the original timeline might live. But other consequences emerge—butterfly effects. You can't predict all of them.
"But Ellie would have her father figure. She'd have Joel."
Yes. For whatever that's worth.
I plated the food and sat down at the large wooden table. The meal was simple but good, and I ate mechanically, my mind elsewhere.
Nine months.
I had nine months to decide whether to interfere with fate. To figure out if I even could. To become someone capable of making that choice and living with the consequences.
"Tomorrow," I said, "we start training. I need to know what I'm capable of before I can decide what I'm willing to do."
Agreed. Get some rest, Evan. Tomorrow, we begin turning you into a survivor.
I finished eating, cleaned up, and made my way back upstairs to the bedroom. The sun had fully set now, and through the window, I could see stars beginning to emerge. More stars than I'd ever seen in my previous life, unobscured by light pollution.
I lay down on the bed, still fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere out there, ten miles away, Joel Miller was alive. Going about his life in Jackson, unaware that in nine months, a woman named Abby Anderson would end it.
And I was the only person in the world who knew it was coming.
The weight of that knowledge pressed down on me as I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I'd start preparing. Tomorrow, I'd begin figuring out what kind of person I was going to be in this world.
But tonight, I just needed to sleep.
Rest well, Evan. APEX's text appeared one last time, gentle and almost warm. Tomorrow, everything changes.
The interface faded, leaving me alone in the darkness.
And despite everything—the impossibility, the fear, the crushing responsibility—I slept.