I spent almost an hour on cleaning. An hour during which my newly acquired Master Clockmaker mind waged a ruthless war against chaos. Every tool lying at the wrong angle, every drop of reagent on the tabletop was perceived as a personal insult. It wasn't just cleaning; it was calibration. Bringing my world into accordance with a new, crystal-clear perception.
And while the hands worked, the head thought. There were many thoughts, but they no longer swarmed in panic. The master's mind viewed the current vampire problem not as an existential threat, but as a malfunction in the complex mechanism of my survival. A malfunction that had to be eliminated. And the fact that I hadn't yet found an elegant solution galled my new essence.
I didn't feel like sleeping. The adrenaline from the day's events and the realization of my position acted better than any coffee. In that case, no time could be wasted. I decided to replenish the stock of Intellect Potions. All the components were on hand, and the process, thanks to the clockmaker skill, went like clockwork. Every movement was precise, every measurement perfect. I even noticed a couple of small constructive flaws in my own Marx Generator that could be fixed later.
[Intellect Potion created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +30 OP!]
...
[Intellect Potion created. Difficulty: Normal. Received +10 OP!]
Five bottles brought a total of 80 OP, bringing my balance to an even 200. A nice bonus. When I finished, the horizon line was already colored in pinkish tones. Dawn. Since they didn't show up during the night, it means my lair hasn't been discovered yet. Setting up a simple tripwire-noisemaker at the garage and house entrance, I crashed onto the bed without undressing and passed out instantly.
Waking up at one in the afternoon was unpleasant. No motivation, no bursting energy like in previous days. Only dull apathy, irritation, and the cold understanding that every hour of delay is an hour I give to my enemies. The end doesn't knock on the door; it kicks it down.
I opened one of the freshly brewed bottles without hesitation. The familiar chill of the Intellect Potion chased away the apathy, replacing it with sharp, analytical clarity. Sitting before the laptop, I began to systematize my thoughts.
Assets:
1. Skills: "Master Clockmaker"—priceless for crafting, but useless in combat. And my main trump card—the touch of the Inventory. The ability that removed the vampires along with the car. It still immensely pleases me that vampires, as undead, are considered "non-living" by the system. This is my joker, and if the enemy finds out about it—I lose.
2. Equipment: UV Projector. Ten "Muscle Stimulant" injectors. A set of legal self-defense: powerful pepper sprays, a couple of tasers, a tactical baton. And a heavy level 4 body armor. I tried it on—thirteen kilograms felt like a cast-iron slab. But under the effect of the stimulant, I'll be able to not just walk in it, but run.
3. Resources: About 19 thousand dollars in cash. My "Honda." And the "Toyota" with vampires inside—a potential kinetic weapon. I could drop it from a great height or materialize it in the enemy's path. The idea of finding something more massive, like a train car, was tempting but impractical. Vampires, judging by my meta-knowledge, are almost always incredibly fast and agile. Against them, you need precision and cunning, not brute force.
Problem:
I am hunted by a clan, lineage, family, or simply an organized group of supernatural predators.
Solution options:
1. Run. Move to another city, country. Но that's not living, it's survival in constant fear. They will find me. If not today, then in a week or a month. You can't run from yourself and your problems. Option discarded.
2. Strike. The only logical path. Но with caveats. I am a weakling in a direct confrontation. Even with a stimulant, body armor, projector, and inventory, I would lose to a squad of experienced vampires. This means the strike shouldn't be head-on. The strike needs to be asymmetrical, using the main advantage—intellect. The problem is exacerbated by the fact that I can't just treat the problem; I need to RESOLVE it, tear it out at the root so I'm left alone, which means I need an ultimate solution. Not the conditional Necromizer from Arcanum I've been subconsciously thinking about for a long time—no, I need heavy artillery!
I leaned back in the chair, allowing my enhanced brain to sift through terabytes of information gleaned from my past life. Comics, movies, series, fan wikis... All this seemingly useless geeky junk was now my main armory. The brain built schemes, discarded options, looked for connections...
And found it.
The picture came together. As if the last toggle in a complex lock clicked, opening the door. В this world, if I'm lucky, even in this city, a certain character existed. Not a hero in shining armor, not an all-powerful cosmic being. But a specialist in a narrow field. Someone for whom the fight against vampires is not just a mission, but a lifelong pursuit. Someone who possesses the knowledge, experience, and weapons capable of solving my problem once and for all.
The plan was insane. Dangerous. The probability that they wouldn't even want to listen to me, and at most would simply kill me upon contact attempt, was high.
But it was the only plan that could work.
All that was left was to find him. Eric Brooks, aka Blade, aka the coolest Vampire gutter on the block, aka one of the representatives of the "shadow" side of this world, hidden from the eyes of ordinary people, just like the vampires themselves. Memory helpfully suggested that he was either a half-vampire who didn't possess the weaknesses of ordinary bloodsuckers, or an ordinary but damn well-trained person, possibly possessing Chi; in general, variations of Blade across the multiverse are different, I can only hope mine turns out to be decent enough.
So, the plan was accepted. Insane, but the only correct one. The most difficult part remained: finding a person in a multi-billion world who most likely didn't want to be found. How to reach him? I don't have a single lead, only a name and scraps of meta-knowledge. I can only hope for a digital trail, however weak it might be, and for a brain boosted by an Intellect Potion.
Another question arose: how to interest him? Would the legendary Blade, possibly the best vampire hunter in this world, care about the problems of some no-name being targeted by the same vampires he carves up by the dozen? Possibly not. But I wasn't going to come empty-handed. Social capital among the "figures" of this world is a priceless thing. Especially among those who won't want to dissect you in an underground lab. And situations like mine are the best way to earn it. The main thing is for both sides to win. And I have something to offer. After all, I don't wear the self-proclaimed proud title of a garage under-genius for nothing.
Let's begin.
I launched a virtual machine on my laptop, connected to a VPN, routing traffic through several countries, and only then opened the Tor browser. Of course, this isn't 100% protection, but in the terabytes of junk internet traffic pouring into the network every second, my harmless request for the fairly common name "Eric Brooks" should have drowned without a trace.
Naturally, social media search was discarded immediately. It would be equivalent to trying to find a needle in a haystack after pouring another dozen such haystacks onto it. My approach was different. The brain boosted by the Potion worked as a search algorithm, cutting off gigabytes of unnecessary information according to clearly set criteria.
Name: Eric Brooks (or Brook). Ethnicity: Black (probability >98%). Origin: British (probability >80%). Physical data: Athletic or large-athletic build. Additional (optional): Possible military past.
I went through news archives, government publications, digitized newspaper clippings. Dozens of Eric Brookses—footballers, musicians, politicians, ordinary workers—flashed before my eyes and were immediately rejected. Until, after almost an hour, fate brought me to a dusty forum for military award collectors, to a thread discussing the Order of the British Empire (OBE).
A prestigious award granted by the Crown for outstanding contribution to public safety, science, or art. In 2003, 79 people received it. And among them was a certain Eric Brook. An old, grainy photo from a British newspaper was attached to the message. In it, among people in formal suits, stood a tall, healthy black man. He was wearing a ridiculous, absolutely inappropriate long leather coat for the ceremony. The order was carelessly pinned to the lapel, and a fake, forced smile for the camera was frozen on his face. He looked as if he had been dragged by force under the floodlights from a dark basement, and he hated every second of being at this event. Bingo. That's definitely him.
I was on the trail. A direct search for Blade was doomed, but now I had a point in time and space. The award ceremony. And there were other people there. His circle. I began to unravel this digital ball further, checking the names of those who received the award on the same day. Writers, actors, scientists—all misses. Until I came across Ben Carper. Another photo, from another newspaper. A brutal forty-year-old soldier who, like Blade, came to the ceremony in inappropriate clothing—a field jacket—and also smiled falsely for the camera. Two eyesores for high society. They definitely knew each other.
Unlike Blade, everything turned out to be an order of magnitude simpler with Ben Carper. His digital trail was clear. I found a social media account in a minute. A man who was now fifty-six, a retired British Army soldier. He led a quiet pensioner's life: photos from fishing trips, rare shots with his wife. The phone number, of course, wasn't in the public domain.
Time for a risky step. Using "data check" services on Blade himself would be suicide—someone would definitely track such a request. Но on a modest British pensioner? Risk is minimal. I went to a dark forum, found a verified specialist, transferred 100 dollars in cryptocurrency to him, and waited. Half an hour later, a message with one line arrived at my secure mailbox: a British phone number.
A quick anonymous registration on Skype, for I had wisely removed the SIM card from my phone long ago, 30 dollars for an international call package, and here I am sitting, looking at the laptop screen. It's two in the afternoon for me. In Britain, depending on where he lives—around five to seven in the evening. Ideal time.
My heart pounded. I moved from theory to practice. Now, with the press of a button, I will invade a world from which there is no simple exit. A second of hesitation—and I pressed the call button. Long, drawn-out rings of an international call... and finally, a click. A calm male voice with a British accent came from the laptop speakers:
"Hello?"
"Ben Carper?" I tried to make my voice sound maximally confident.
"The very same," the answer was short, clipped, like a sergeant's command. No pleasantries.
Realizing that long preludes are useless with such people, I decided to go for broke.
"I need Eric Brook. Put me in touch with him. Urgently."
Silence fell on the other end of the line. Long, heavy, pressing. I already decided he would just hang up.
"Who's asking?" the voice became even colder, if that was even possible.
"A person who is in serious trouble. Trouble that hides in the shadows and has a pale skin tone," I veiled the hint just enough so an insider would understand and an outsider would think I'm a psycho.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, kid," followed the predictable refusal. "And I don't know any Brooks. I'm not a charity foundation for paranoids."
He didn't hang up. That was the key. He didn't hang up. This was a test. He was waiting for what I'd say next. Oh, to hell with it! I'll play the role he wants to hear. The role of a desperate client.
"I'm not asking for charity!" I intentionally added pathos and a tremble to my voice. "I need a specialist. The best. Someone who can save my modest life, and maybe this whole damn world! I'm only nineteen, I haven't really lived yet... Please. Tell him. He'll understand."
I put all the sincerity I was capable of into the last phrase. After that—short beeps. He hung up.
Failure. A сокрушительный, deafening failure. I didn't convince an old, callous soldier who had likely sent more people and non-humans to the next world than I've seen in my entire life. My pseudo-genius venture with Blade failed before it began.
So, Plan B. A panic-stricken, risky, disgusting Plan B.
I needed to get one vampire out of the Cruiser somehow. Place him in the inventory separately from the car. And then interrogate him in the garage under the rays of a UV projector, previously wrapped in body armor and holding a stimulant ready. At least that way I'll find out who they are and what they want. Но how, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, do you pull one creature out of a locked car that exists in my pocket dimension?! Summon it into reality? The doors will be locked. While I'm breaking them open, the creatures inside... if they are even still "alive"... No. Too risky. Maybe it's easier to drive out into the city on my Honda and play the role of bait? Idiotic idea.
At that moment, a sharp, unfamiliar ringtone sounded on the laptop screen, in the Skype window. An incoming call. Caller ID—a meaningless set of letters and numbers. My heart skipped a beat and then pounded with furious speed. It could be them. They could have hacked my laptop. But instinct, sharpened by danger, screamed: "Answer!". I pressed the green button.
"Yo. Is it you who needs a specialist of a narrow profile?" a low, brutal voice came from the speakers. A British accent again, but different—deeper, with growling notes. A voice like grinding gravel. Could it be?
"You... you know about bloodsuckers?" was all I could squeeze out.
"Well, I know they suck. But in my case—not blood," the voice owner laughed hoarsely at his own simple joke. "So, will you brief the specialist? And I'll set the rates on the spot."
It was him. Blade. Carper did pass the message after all.
"Yes... yes, of course!" I cleared my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. "It all happened yesterday. New York, Manhattan. I left college, got into my car, and almost immediately noticed a tail..."
I briefly told him the chase story, intentionally omitting the fact of the inventory's existence and how exactly I got rid of the pursuers. I lied that I just managed to break away from them in city traffic. My story was stitched with white thread, and Blade, without interrupting, let me finish and then asked just one, most important question:
"Right. Now explain why the fuck the hunt was opened specifically on you, a brat? By the sound of your voice, you don't seem like someone who crossed their path."
"Um..." I hesitated. "Apparently, because I stole a Ghost Orchid."
And before he could react, I hastily added:
"But I didn't know it belonged to anyone! Honestly! I was just walking through the park at night, and I saw something incredible blooming on a tree. How could I resist?"
Silence hung in the speakers, and then a sarcastic chuckle followed.
"Aha. Right. Just happened to be in a place at night that's considered sacred among initiates. Just happened to know the name of a rare mystical ingredient. Just happened to be able to see and pick it, unlike 99% of mortals. And the cherry on top—just happened to know about the shadow side of this world and about a fixer like me. Kid, you're a terrible liar."
I felt as if I had been doused with icy water. He saw right through me.
"Alright," I swallowed. "I didn't find the flower by chance. But I had no idea it had owners, that's true! And as for why I needed it... I'd prefer to discuss that in person. This question might directly concern the payment for your services. For a rough understanding of the payment's value, you can watch the movie 'Limitless'."
That was my only trump card. Moving the conversation from the plane of "help a poor student" to the plane of "I have something that might interest you," and I even gave an immodest hint at what exactly.
"Hm. Fair. I'm interested," he agreed after a short pause. "There's already too much extra stuff over an open line, even though I'm calling through a secure channel. Alright, I'll be in New York in eight hours. Manhattan, 'Lily & Milly' cafe. Know it? A signature burger from them and a story I can believe is on you."
He went quiet and added with a note of dark humor:
"And try to live until the meeting."
The call ended. I leaned back in the chair and exhaled noisily, feeling weakness spreading through my whole body. Fear mixed with euphoria. I did it. I will live.