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"Be honest, Maverick. How much is Silverwood Studios paying you?"
"Yeah, did the check clear yet? #Ad #Sellout."
Maverick rolled his eyes behind the VR headset, though the chat couldn't see it. "Oh, shut up, you cynical goblins. I'm serious. Look at this snow."
He crouched down, his virtual leather trench coat sweeping the ground. He scooped up a handful of powder. It clumped together in his glove, melting slightly from his body heat. When he walked, his boots didn't just clip through a white texture; they left deep, compressed footprints. The snow displaced realistically, banking up around the edges of his boots.
"In Gunfire Reborn, the snow is just a floor with a white jpeg pasted on it," Maverick geeked out, waving his hand to scatter the snow dust. "Here? It has physics. Weight. Dampness. I can literally feel my socks getting wet. That is insane detail for a tutorial area."
[Physics_Nerd]: Okay, gotta admit, the footprint compression is wild. [Hater_101]: Graphics don't make a game, though. Just wait until the combat is trash. [Simp_4_Mav]: Maverick analyzing snow physics is the content I pay for.
The graphics were standard for this era, but the feedback was revolutionary. Most VR games felt like watching a 3D movie while wearing a vibrating vest. This felt like being there.
Shivering from the biting wind—because apparently, the game simulated wind chill too—Maverick jogged toward the only structure in sight: a massive, imposing gothic chapel.
He pushed the heavy oak doors open. They creaked with a satisfying, weighty groan.
The interior was breathtaking. Rows of polished black mahogany pews led up to a limestone altar. Shafts of pale, winter sunlight filtered through blue stained-glass windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The smell of old wood and incense hit Maverick's nose instantly.
"Holy crap," Maverick whispered, his voice echoing in the virtual hall.
[Chat]:[Literature_Major]: "Holy crap." Truly a poet of our time. [Keyboard_Warrior]: Can you use a different adjective? [Bro_Gamer]: Let the man speak! "Holy crap" is the highest honor a gamer can bestow! [Architect_Jones]: That ceiling vaulting is historically accurate. I might actually convert to whatever religion this is. [Troll_Bot]: MAVERICK DON'T LOOK AT THE SCENERY, LOOK AT THE NPC!
Maverick snapped out of his trance. Standing by the altar was an old man.
He was striking—stark white hair, piercing red eyes, and dressed in robes that screamed 'aristocratic money.' He radiated an aura of absolute authority. This was Jubstacheit von Einzbern, though Maverick didn't know the lore yet.
The old man stared down at him with an expression devoid of warmth.
"You have arrived," Jubstacheit intoned, his voice raspy and cold. "The catalyst has been prepared. The summoning circle is ready. Begin the ritual, Kiritsugu."
Maverick blinked. Catalyst? Summoning? He didn't know what any of that meant.
But then, a holographic dialogue box popped up, floating in front of him. Maverick's lips curled into a mischievous, rebellious grin.
[Option 1: "Let us begin." (Proceed to Summoning)][Option 2: "No need. I have brought my own catalyst." (Custom Summon)][Option 3: "Heroic Spirit? I don't need a ghost to fight my battles. I'll tear the other Masters apart with my bare hands! Get lost, old man!"]
"Chat," Maverick said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You know the rules. We don't play by the book. We forge our own path."
[Chat]:[No_Way]: Don't do it. [YOLO]: DO IT. PICK 3. [Lore_Master]: Wait, if you pick 3, you won't get a Servant! You'll die instantly! [Chaos_Enjoyer]: CONTENT!
"I'm a pro gamer," Maverick announced. "If I need a magic ghost to win, I don't deserve the win. Watch and learn."
He slammed his finger on Option 3.
His character, Kiritsugu Emiya, let out a scoff. With a voice full of dead-eyed cynicism, he spoke.
"Heroic Spirits... magic... it's all a crutch. I don't need any of it. I'll kill them myself. Out of my way, old man."
The NPC, Jubstacheit, actually looked stunned. His programmed stoicism cracked for a split second as he processed the sheer audacity of this statement.
Maverick didn't wait for a reply. He spun on his heel, his trench coat flaring dramatically, and marched out of the church.
[Transitioning...]
The world dissolved. The snowy forest vanished.
When Maverick opened his eyes, he was standing in the middle of a bustling, modern airport terminal. The noise of announcements, rolling luggage, and chatter filled his ears.
A blood-red timer appeared in the top left of his HUD.
[SURVIVAL TIME: 02:00:00][NOTIFICATION: Online Mode Activated. Matchmaking Complete. Good Luck.]
"Hah!" Maverick laughed. "See? It matched me with someone. Probably another player. Or maybe a boss. Either way, showtime, baby."
[Chat]:[Pizza_Guy]: My delivery is 5 minutes away, Mav. Don't die before I get my food. [Wage_Slave]: I'm watching this at work. If you die in the first 5 minutes, I'm going back to my spreadsheet. [Betting_Pool]: I got 5 gifted subs that says Maverick gets First Blood'd. [Believer_7]: No way. The game just launched. Nobody knows the meta yet. Maverick has raw aim skill. He might actually win. [Troll_Face]: @Believer_7 Found Maverick's alt account. [Eat_My_Shorts]: If Maverick survives this, I will literally drink hot dog water on stream.
"Jokes on you guys," Maverick muttered, looking around. "This environment is incredibly detailed. It's... wait."
He looked down at his hand. He was dragging a heavy, black suitcase.
"I'm at an airport," he reasoned aloud. "I have a suitcase. I need to get to the city to fight the other Masters. Logic dictates I go through security."
He walked toward the TSA checkpoint.
He lifted the heavy suitcase onto the conveyor belt. He walked through the metal detector.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm blared.
Maverick froze. The realization hit him like a truck.
"Wait a second," he muttered. "I'm playing a hitman character. I'm an arms dealer."
On the X-ray monitor—visible to him and the two unamused security guards—was the contents of his bag.
It wasn't clothes.
It was a Thompson Contender. A Calico M950 submachine gun. A WA2000 Sniper Rifle (disassembled). And enough C4 to level a city block.
The two TSA agents (NPCs) stared at the screen. Then they stared at Maverick.
"Sir?" one of the guards said, reaching for his holster.
Maverick panicked. His Call of Duty instincts kicked in. "I CAN EXPLAIN! IT'S FOR A SCHOOL PROJECT!"
[Chat]:[OMEGALUL]: A SCHOOL PROJECT?! [FBI_Open_Up]: LMAO.
"Screw it!" Maverick yelled. "Plan B! Matrix Lobby Scene!"
He lunged for the suitcase, trying to unzip it and grab a gun.
He was fast. But the airport security AI was faster.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The two guards didn't hesitate. They mag-dumped into his chest.
Maverick's vision flashed red, his character stumbling back as the haptic vest delivered a sharp, wind-knocking punch to his ribs. He hit the floor, staring up at the fluorescent airport lights.
[YOU ARE DEAD][CAUSE OF DEATH: TERMINAL STUPIDITY]
The screen went black.
The chat went nuclear.
[Chat]:[KekW]: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! [Rip_Bozo]: DYING TO TSA AGENTS?! [Noob_Lord]: Pro Gamer Move: Get shot by airport security in the tutorial. [Salty_Bet]: Pay up! Where are my 5 subs?! [Mystery_Man]: Bro didn't even see an enemy player. He died to the environment. [Logic_Police]: Why did you think you could bring a bomb through a metal detector in a realistic simulator?! [Mav_Fan]: I believed in you... and you failed me.
Maverick sat in the dark respawn void, his mouth hanging open. "Okay," he said quietly. "Note to self: The laws of physics and the penal code apply in this game."
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