Hector touched the view-port button on the door, and it flickered, displaying the hallway and the landlord’s back as he walked away. Satisfied, he returned to the couch. Lemon, meanwhile, followed him, arms folded, gray eyes stormy. “Why’d you do that?”
Hector looked up, genuinely confused. “What?”
“Get all into my business?”
“I couldn’t concentrate.” Speaking of… Hector focused his thoughts, directing his aura system to display his archetype options again.
- The Brawler – strength refined through repetition, impact, and endurance—direct combatant.
2. The Conduit – currents joined, strength exchanged—supporter, unifier, sustainer.
3. The Watcher – perception sharpened, awareness expanded—marksman, scout, finisher.
4. The Bulwark – vitality anchored, resilience layered—protector, defender, unyielding wall.
“Concentrate on what? This is my place, you know. I’m going to be talking to people here. You get me?”
Hector sighed and shifted his gaze to lock eyes with her. “I need to think.” She glared, but he held his stare, and finally, she huffed and walked away. Hector heard her fidgeting with things behind him and tried to tune her out, concentrating on the archetype options.
He felt that his initial impulse to go with Brawler was still a sound choice. His new skin was tall and lean, reasonably quick, too, but it lacked strength and density. The Brawler would lead him down a path where he’d hopefully gain abilities and refinements that would fill in some of the gaps between his current self and the Hector he used to be.
Of course, he might want to lean into his new skin’s strengths. He could choose the Watcher option; it seemed like it might lead down a crit-based combat style. Strength was important, but so was skill. He shook his head. The truth was, he’d probably enhance both those lines eventually, and he felt like he’d see the most immediate gains from the Brawler. Besides, if he played his cards right, a better class might open up. That decided, he—
“I have to step out—client.”
Hector looked up to see Lemon standing near the door, her makeup fresh and her dress partially transparent again, though it was shaded pink. Combined with her undergarments, it left just enough to the imagination—for a dollhouse. He tilted his head as he looked down her long legs to the blue, crystalline pumps on her feet. They didn’t look comfortable, but then, that was probably part of the style.
She folded her arms and leaned toward him, widening her eyes. “Well?”
“What?”
“I said I have to step out!”
Hector shrugged. “Anything more to eat and drink? I’ll need it tonight.”
Her glossy lips pursed slightly as she scowled. “Seriously?”
He nodded.
“There’s nut milk in the fridge, and I have granola in the cupboard. Soup packs, too.”
Hector explored his new skin’s facial muscles, trying to offer a grateful-seeming smile. “Good.”
Lemon’s reaction to the expression was to recoil slightly, folding her arms over her chest. Still, when she spoke, she sounded almost regretful. “You’ll stay here? If something happened, I’d…well, I’d get in trouble.”
What did she say? She’s got a client? Hector frowned—a far more comfortable expression. “You okay?”
“Fine. Are you gonna stay put or what?” Despite her shortness, Hector saw something in her eyes relax, saw the tension fall from her shoulders as she lowered her arms and turned toward the door. She’d wanted him to ask something like that.
“I’ll be sleeping soon. The skin requires it.”
She gave him another measuring look, then shrugged. “See you tomorrow morning then.”
Hector watched her leave, heard the door lock, then closed his eyes and instructed his aura system to begin the archetype assignment.
//Brawler archetype selected…
Initiating aura pathway propagation. Nutrient supplementation and rest recommended for the next 7.8 hours.//
Hector didn’t feel anything yet, but he knew the first thing to hit would be the exhaustion, so he stood and walked over to the kitchenette. He figured he’d eat and drink as much as he could, lie on the floor, and hope he passed out before the pain hit. He started with the granola, finishing the bag and Lemon’s carton of milk as the lethargy really set in. By the time he lifted the bowl to drain the dregs of the milk, his arms felt like they were wrapped in lead blankets, and he was struggling to hold his eyes open.
He went to the fridge, found Lemon’s last beer, and carried it with him over to the bathroom. As he stood over the toilet, emptying his bladder—bright green thanks to the nanites he was clearing from his system—he glimpsed himself in the mirror and abruptly threw the beer at his reflection. When the can bounced off the plasti-glass, cracking it in the process, he felt his first genuine amusement since waking up in his current…hell? Purgatory?
He stared at his reflection, mentally filtering out the crack running across his chest, and tried to reconcile his self-image with the young, dark-haired, dark-eyed man staring back at him. He was too tall, too lean, too handsome, too…soft. We’ll fix that. Hector flushed the toilet, picked up his beer, and then made his way to the “view” wall, collapsing onto the carpet. He slumped against the wall, ripped the tab off the can, and then gulped.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
He was beginning to feel the heat in his extremities—the aura system was modifying his nerves and vessels, expanding the pathways to deliver aura and aura potentia to his cells. Thankfully, the process was as taxing as it was painful, and he was already nodding off, barely able to keep his eyes open. He crushed the beer, tried to toss it on the coffee table, then fell to the side, kicking his legs straight as he let his eyes close. In seconds, he slipped into darkness, pulled down by the weight of absolute exhaustion.
He swam through disjointed memories, a kaleidoscope of nightmare battles, prideful celebrations, blood-drenched surgical tables, stress-filled over-watch assignments, clandestine meetings, and hushed conversations. Through them all, a steady hum of indistinct voices intruded, and a constant, underlying sense of paranoia set his teeth grinding.
When he opened his eyes, blinking into the dark room and staring at the starfield projected onto the ceiling, it took Hector nearly a full minute to remember where and who he was. It helped that his aura system was displaying information for him. As he read it, things gradually came back to him:
//Brawler archetype integration complete. Corpus vivum restructuring has exceeded baseline parameters. Pathway propagation efficiency increased significantly, enabling accelerated perk growth and advanced archetype evolution.
Archetype Report:
- Brawler established – Level 1 (10 aura potentia required for Level 2).
- Muscular microfilament density increased by 17%, improving Strength rating by 1.36.
- Neural reflex latency reduced by 11%, improving Speed rating by 1.1.
- Aura pool increased by 3.
Aura Status:
- Aura Pool: 8/8
- Aura Potentia: 3
Current Abilities and Boosts:
- Strength Boost: + Aura
Available Abilities and Boosts:
- Reinforce Strength – +2 Strength. Repeatable. Cost: 5 aura potentia.
- Iron Fist – Infuse aura into bone and muscle to amplify striking force. Cost: 10 aura potentia.
- Aura Blade – Condense aura into a short-length force projection. Cost: 10 aura potentia.
Notes:
- New abilities, boosts, and perks will unlock through the advancement of existing selections and further archetype development.
- Corpus vivum adaptation remains active. Muscular fatigue and localized soreness are expected for up to seventy-two hours post-integration. Recommend doubling baseline caloric intake to support recovery.
//Awaiting directive…//
Hector cleared his throat, finding his mouth dry, his tongue thick. He heard a soft murmur not far away and figured Lemon had returned late and was still asleep. He was groggy, his head sore, his body throbbing, but the information from his aura system slowly penetrated his sluggish thoughts, particularly the bit about his new skin having “exceeded baseline parameters.” It seemed he’d won a lucky roll of the dice for a change. Whatever poor bastard who’d given up his body had DNA that was remarkably compatible with Hector’s aura system—maybe even better than the skin he’d died in.
At the thought, Hector’s mind began to spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut while a wave of vivid images washed over him. The system had integrated more of his damn memories. Why no update? At the thought, a new message flashed across his vision:
//Neural pattern remapping 77% complete. Gray matter patterning continues. Some memories will be unavailable in the meantime. You will continue to experience brief moments of nausea or disorientation throughout the process.//
Hector searched his refreshed memory, but it still wasn’t there—he didn’t know what had happened with the Conti family. The last thing he could recall from his old life was attending a security briefing for a state dinner; dignitaries from the Imperial Seat were coming in advance of Drake’s centenary celebration. The bastard—a hundred years old in the body of a teenager.
“Mmph,” Lemon said, and Hector heard her bedframe squeak as she sat up. A moment later, her voice came again: “Are you alive?”
“Alive,” Hector croaked.
“You sound terrible. Go back to sleep.”
Hector tilted his head to the side so he could see the clock on the projection wall: 0524. “Need to eat,” he grunted, and it was true. His insides felt hollow. His skull was straining at the seams of his scalp, thudding with each beat of his heart. “Water, electrolytes.”
“Damn, buddy. You’re worse than a newborn.” He heard Lemon yawn, the creak of her muscles and bones as she stretched, then the bed jostled in its frame as she stood. Her soft steps on the carpet were almost too faint to hear, but Hector felt the vibration in the skin of his shoulders.
When did I take my shirt off?
“I bought breakfast before I came home last night. Guess you’re eating early.” She yawned again. “Funny story: it was actually my client who bought you this. Told him I wanted something to take home. He was kinda sweet, to be honest. Don’t get many like that around here.”
She walked over with a paper carton, a plastic fork, and a bottle of fizzy fruit punch.
I’m going to need to do some damn shopping. Need to get my own bits to spend.
With a grunt and several lances of pain from protesting muscles, he sat up and leaned his back against the wall. “Thanks,” he muttered, taking the food.
“You’re welcome.” She sat on the coffee table looking at him—long, pale limbs jutting out of black underwear and a too-small T-shirt. To his surprise, she held a chem-stick between two of her fingers, and when she pulled on it, inhaling deeply, it self-ignited with a fluorescent green glow and a trail of steamy smoke. Hector wrinkled his nose, and she looked to the side as she exhaled. He still caught a peppermint whiff.
He started to open the carton, but stopped, noting the red pull tab on the side. “Self-heating?”
“Yeah, hold on.” She stood and padded around the couch, over to the bathroom, and then returned with a towel. “Put this on your lap, or it’ll be too warm.”
Hector smiled crookedly, deciding he liked Lemon. A lot of people—him included—wouldn’t think about another person’s comfort like that. He laid the towel over his thighs, placed the carton of food on top, then pulled the red tab. Chemicals hissed, and he felt the warmth, even through the towel. The scent of spiced eggs, potatoes, and fatty meats hit his nose, and he ripped the top off the carton, exposing the steaming innards. “Damn, that smells good.”
As he shoveled the food into his mouth, Lemon leaned back on the couch and smoked her chem-stick. He was half done before she asked, “My creep landlord interrupted us last night. You were going to tell me what your deal is.”
“I was?” Hector folded a piece of bacon—synthetic, he was pretty sure—in half and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Don’t be like that. Who are you? How’s a guy with no money, no place to live—how does a guy like that end up with a ghost chip?”
Hector paused his eating long enough to drink half the fruit punch, then he leaned back, letting things settle. “Grando got my neurodeck.” He motioned toward himself. “And this skin.” He shrugged, picking up his fork.
“But who were you? Why’d Grando have your, um, neurodeck?”
Hector sighed. “I used to be someone, but now I’m not. I’m a…” He searched his mind for the right term, and when it clicked into place, he nodded, locking eyes with Lemon as he said, “Revenant.”