Building walls oozed with the kind of oily gunk that built up over years of idling diesel trucks and overflowing dumpsters nobody in City Hall cared enough to empty. A thin scent of cheap light beer mixed with genuine, committed filth soaked into every crevice of the sidewalks, into the mortar between bricks, into the DNA of the place.
Even on a rainy night like tonight, the beer smell wasn't washed away. It was enhanced, married to that mulchy odor that follows a too-humid night in a town that flat-out refuses to get clean.
So it didn't help when the fine gentlemen I was riding with opened the back door of their Crown Vic, screamed something shitty at me ("Have a nice trip!" or something similarly 60-IQ), and launched me face-first into a murky puddle on the side of the road.
The puddle tasted exactly how you'd imagine a Fanhattan puddle would taste. Motor oil. Flat beer. Something organic that I chose not to investigate further. All of it rushed into my mouth and nose because the brown paper bag on my head decided this was the perfect moment to vacuum-seal itself to my face.
I couldn't breathe.
Every inhale sucked wet paper tighter against my nostrils. My lungs heaved, pulling in nothing but recycled garbage water and the chemical sweetness of whatever that snake-faced bastard had forced down my throat earlier. The taste was behind everything else, underneath it. Like someone had dissolved a roll of Smarties in battery acid.
It was all I could do to roll sideways out of the puddle, claw the bag up just enough to clear my mouth, and cough until I thought my ribs would crack.
I sat back on the wet pavement. The world tilted. Swayed. Did that fun carnival thing where the ground seems to breathe.
Then the text appeared.
Not on a screen. Not on a sign. In my actual vision, floating six inches from my face, glowing faint blue through the soaked paper of the bag:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ STATUS: DISORIENTED ║
║ ║
║ Analysis ............ -2 ║
║ Hustle .............. -1 ║
║ ║
║ WARNING: Unknown substance ║
║ detected in bloodstream ║
║ ║
║ RECOMMENDATION: Seek shelter. ║
║ You look terrible. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
I blinked at it. Hard. The kind of blink where you squeeze your eyes shut and hold it, willing whatever you just saw to not be there when you open them again.
It was still there.
I swiped at it with my hand. The display simply moved with my field of vision, casual as a pop-up ad that knew you couldn't close it.
Great. I'm either dying or going insane. Possibly both, in which case at least I won't have to deal with one of the two for very long.
I staggered to my feet. My legs felt like someone had replaced the bones with wet linguine. My arms hung heavy, pulled down by gravity that seemed personally offended by my continued existence, like they were a couple of dead salamis dragging me toward the ground.
The spins were getting... better? Hard to tell. The fact that I hadn't face-planted again was promising, in the same way that "the building is only partially on fire" is promising.
I looked around for landmarks, squinting through the ragged eye holes in the bag. Even having spent weekends in some of the seediest corners of Fanhattan, I didn't recognize a thing.
And yet somehow, I just... knew exactly where I was. Like the information was being uploaded directly into my brain by a GPS with boundary issues.
LOCATION: Stadium South District
Status: Neutral Territory
Danger Level: Moderate
NOTE: Multiple gambling operations within
500 meters. Try not to die before reaching one.
Stadium South. Never been here before. So how did I know? And why was an invisible heads-up display being extremely casual about the possibility of my death?
On one corner at a nearby intersection, lights shone through dirty but well-maintained windows. An old-timey light-up sign read "Shep's" on the corner, though the "P" was unlit, making it read "She's."
It was the only sign of life in the area. And like a moth to a flame with a drinking problem, I staggered toward it.
But what if they're there? I thought. What if it's one of their buildings?
It was a chance I had to take. What else could I do? I could barely walk straight. Even if I could, where would I go? Mom's was almost certainly being watched. Same as Bailey's. Once everyone else figured out who I was, who I really was, they'd just as soon spit in my face as welcome me in.
So "She's" it was.
I got to the door and steadied myself in the entryway. Another wave of nausea hit. It took every remaining ounce of composure not to boot my entire stomach contents (which admittedly wasn't much: late lunch ramen plus whatever shit-puddle water I'd been "lucky" enough to inhale) all over the welcome mat.
With one big push, I lurched through the door and into the bar.
My eyes screamed. The lights. I yanked the wet bag down over them, which helped exactly as much as putting a wet grocery bag over your eyes has ever helped anyone do anything.
AC/DC played on the speakers, not so loud that I couldn't hear myself think, which was appreciated. "Back in Black." Appropriate, given that my entire field of vision was rapidly becoming exactly that.
I surveyed the clientele through my soggy eye holes. Not bad for a Tuesday. It was a solidly blue-collar place, but in the way where you knew the owner took pride in that fact. Surfaces weren't immaculate but they were cared for. The beer taps gleamed. A small collection of regulars gathered at the bar, laughing the kind of laughs that come easy when you're three or four deep. I was pretty sure one guy was sneaking a cigarette.
I teetered for one second. Then another.
The spins were back. That pre-vomit feeling started climbing the back of my throat like it had places to be.
I stumbled to the bar.
"A... uh... Yuengling, please!" I stuck up a finger. I tried to lean against the bar to steady myself, but fell about six inches short and tumbled to the ground.
Just... right onto the floor. In front of everyone.
The laughs stopped. All eyes turned to the kid in the paper bag who had just eaten hardwood.
Behind the bar, a large bearded barrel-chested man had been smiling and pouring a Yuengling. He looked in my direction, and the smile fell off his face like it had been slapped. The tap ran and overfilled the mug as his eyes went wide.
"Holy shit, hey buddy, you okay?" He threw a white bar towel over his shoulder and tried to hop the bar. Even as disheveled as I was, I managed a chuckle watching him jump once... twice... three times, each attempt not even close to clearing the obstacle.
"For f—!" He stopped himself, glanced at the ladies, and ran the long way around.
He wrapped a thick, meaty, bear-like paw under my armpit and propped me up. The man's hand was warm and calloused and roughly the size of a catcher's mitt. He smelled like dish soap and Old Spice and the faint ghost of a cigar he'd smoked four hours ago.
That's when the options appeared.
Words, floating in my vision, like I was in some kind of fever-dream video game:
DIALOGUE OPTIONS:
1. "I'm fine, just tripped."
2. "I think I've been drugged."
3. "Who wants to know?"
4. "..." (Say nothing)
I blinked at the floating options. Was I supposed to... choose one? Like, with my eyes? Was this a test? A hallucination? A really specific stroke?
Experimentally, I focused on option 2.
"I think I've been drugged," I managed. My voice sounded distant, even to my own ears.
SKILL CHECK: Grit (Honesty Under Duress)
Base: 3 + Modifiers: 0 = 3 vs. DC 2
SUCCESS
Effect: +1 Trust with "Shep"
"Hey! Any of you good-for-nothin's wanna help me out here?!" The bearded guy yelled at the gawking crowd. Immediately, two of the regulars rushed over and helped prop me up.
"What the hell did you run into, fella?" He whispered into my ear. Or rather, into the spot where he thought my ear should be, relative to the eye holes on the bag. He was off by about three inches.
"A sack of nickels," I said. "A sack of heavy freaking nickels."
"Get me a pot of coffee and a shot of Fireball!" He yelled at nobody in particular as he and his patrons carried me through a door into the back of the place.
My head was still swimming. It was all I could do to let myself be dragged through the doorway like a sack of wet laundry. But even in my scrambled state, something warm registered in the back of my brain. For the first time in what felt like a very long time, someone was looking out for me.
Now just wait until he takes you to his gimp dungeon in the basement, I thought. That'd be par for the course.
They guided me into what turned out to be the bar's office. Piles of papers lined the desks. I wouldn't call them "disheveled" exactly. They were placed, stacked in a way that showed a method to the madness.
I couldn't help but notice the several stacks topped with "PAST DUE - FINAL NOTICE" in bold red ink.
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ OBSERVATION: "Shep" is in ║
║ significant financial distress. ║
║ ║
║ Probability of bar closure within ║
║ 6 months: 73.2% ║
║ ║
║ This is information you should ║
║ probably not mention right now. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
The HUD was right. I filed that one away.
The men heaved me into a chair that looked like it belonged in a 1950s kitchen. I half-expected them to zip-tie my hands and beat the truth out of me, so I was only halfway surprised when they went to pull the bag off my head instead.
"NO FREAKIN' WAY!" I screamed.
My hand shot out in a fury. Every ounce of remaining strength went into slapping their big, calloused hands away from my face. I connected hard enough that both men recoiled.
As I did, information flashed across my vision:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ ITEM: Brown Bag Mask ║
║ Rarity: LEGENDARY ║
║ ║
║ Current Bonuses: ║
║ ? Analysis +2 ║
║ ? Identity Protection (Active) ║
║ ? Probability Shielding (Locked) ║
║ ║
║ ? WARNING: Removing mask will ║
║ disable ALL bonuses and expose ║
║ identity to hostile detection ║
║ ║
║ Seriously. Leave it on. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Hey!" "Damn!" "Come on!"
I brought my fists up in a boxer's guard, which must've looked absolutely ridiculous given that I was sitting in a kitchen chair, probably bobbing and weaving from side to side with whatever cocktail of poison and head trauma was still pinballing around inside my skull.
The bearded man winced as he lowered himself to my bag-eye level. His knees popped like bubble wrap.
"You know, I ain't no doctor, but it looks like you got a pretty bad head injury the way you been actin', fella. Forgive these guys for tryin' to getcha the help you need."
"I don't need any help!" I shot back.
Options appeared again:
DIALOGUE OPTIONS:
1. "Sorry about that, just don't touch the bag."
2. "I have my reasons."
3. "Try that again and you'll pull back a stump."
4. "..." (Say nothing)
I focused on option 1.
"Sorry about that," I muttered. "Just... don't touch the bag. Please."
The bearded man studied me for a long moment. Then someone rushed in with the coffee and the Fireball. He took them and held one in each meaty hand, raising his eyebrows like a waiter at the world's most tragic restaurant.
"Ahh? Ahhhhhh?" He made the coffee pot and shot glass dance on either side of his head.
It was super trippy. I was still seeing triple.
I reached for the middle shot glass. It was the right one. I lifted the bag up just enough to get it under, and downed it in one draught. Cinnamon fire exploded through my sinuses.
Next was the coffee. I guided the pot to my lips, burning the living hell out of them in the process.
"Shit, that's hot!"
"Easy... EEEA-SY!" The man guided my shaking hands.
I blew on it twice and guzzled it down, heat be damned. It was good. Especially compared to the shit-puddle water I'd been taking in minutes before.
Almost immediately, the world stopped spinning. My senses sharpened. And the HUD updated:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ STATUS UPDATE ║
║ ║
║ "Disoriented" ——> REMOVED ║
║ ║
║ Analysis: -2 ——> 0 (Baseline) ║
║ Hustle: -1 ——> 0 (Baseline) ║
║ ║
║ ACTIVE EFFECT: Bag Bonus ║
║ Analysis: 0 + 2 = 2 ║
║ ║
║ ? ALERT: Unknown substance still ║
║ detected in bloodstream ║
║ Estimated clearance: 48-72 hours ║
║ ║
║ Status: Functional. Barely. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
"Okay there, settle down now, guy, ya hear?" The bearded man looked at the others who'd helped cart me in. "That'll be all. Thanks, fellas. Next round on me, ya hear? Tell Toby what yer havin'. Even the top shelf shit, my treat."
He nodded at them. They returned the nod and filed out.
"Does that go for me too?" I asked.
The man chuckled. "I guess it depends how ya feelin' and how bad that head shot you took is."
The Fireball had opened up my sinuses, and the coffee was already doing its work. I didn't care that it was after eleven and I'd be wired the rest of the night. At least the room had stopped breathing.
The man took in a sharp breath. "Whattoo I do here? Ask you yer name? What's yer name?"
I thought for a second. Then another.
The pause wasn't dramatic. I genuinely could not remember my own name for approximately two full seconds, and those two seconds were among the worst of my life.
Then it came back. Like a word you've had on the tip of your tongue finally falling loose.
"Billy," I said. "Billy... Brownbag."
The moment I said it, the HUD lit up:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ IDENTITY CONFIRMED ║
║ ║
║ USER: Billy Brownbag ║
║ CLASS: Shark (Novice) ║
║ LEVEL: 1 ║
║ ║
║ CORE STATS: ║
║ Analysis ........ 2 (w/ Bag Bonus) ║
║ Hustle .......... 1 ║
║ Grit ............ 3 ║
║ Influence ....... 0 (LOCKED) ║
║ Sync ............ 0 (LOCKED) ║
║ ║
║ BLOODLINE: Brown Family Legacy ║
║ Status: Partially Locked ║
║ ║
║ Welcome back, Billy. ║
║ Your father would be proud. ║
║ (Assuming you survive the night.) ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Your father would be proud.
My chest tightened. I didn't know why.
The bearded man's eyebrows shot up. "Well, that's pretty convenient, now isn't it?" He nodded at the bag. "Family heirloom?"
"Something like that."
He stifled a smile and shot out a big paw. "I'm Shep. Nice to meet you, Billy Brownbag."
I took his hand. He squeezed my pathetically limp digits like he was hand-juicing a grapefruit.
"Nice to meet you." I hoped he couldn't hear my knuckles popping.
"So what the hell are ya doin' stumblin' into my bar at damn near eleven-thirty on a Tuesday night after you get hit with 'a bag of heavy nickels'?"
"A sack. A sack of heavy freakin' nickels."
He nodded. "Bag, sack, whatever."
I thought for a moment. Searched the static where my recent memories should've been.
"You know... I can't really remember."
Shep nodded. "Must've been one hell of a head shot you took."
"I remember being in a car," I said slowly. The details surfaced in fragments, like pulling wreckage out of deep water. "It smelled terrible. Cheap cologne mixed with an old barber shop. Two big gooney-type guys in the back with me. Then one of these doofuses says something dumb and tosses me out. And they sped off."
Shep rolled his eyes. "Uh huh. So you got no idea why these guys threw you outta a moving vehicle?"
"Hmm... not... 100%?"
"Well what about 50%? 75%? Do you at least remember if you owed them money or anything?"
Owed them money...
"Not 'money.' I mean, yeah, maybe money too..."
For the first time, I noticed the shitty old cathode-ray TV in the upper corner of the office. The light was still rough on my eyes, but I was adjusting. A basketball game played on the screen. I recognized the familiar outline of Ray Stephenson bringing the ball up the court.
Something pulled at me. Something deeper than curiosity. Like a compass needle swinging toward true north.
"Hey, is that the Falcons game?" I asked.
"Yeah. Not that it matters." Shep nodded at the score with the resigned look of a man who had bet money he didn't have. "I got three units on them. I guess I'll never learn my lesson?" He decidedly did not laugh.
Stevenson's stat line flashed on the screen. 12 points, 2 assists, 2 rebounds. Four minutes left, fourth quarter. Falcons losing 88-81.
And then the numbers came.
Not from the TV. From inside my head. The HUD exploded with data, probabilities branching like a river delta, each one clear and sharp and absolutely certain:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ SKILL ACTIVATED: Probability Sense ║
║ ║
║ MATCHUP ANALYSIS ║
║ Fanhattan Falcons vs. Dallas ║
║ Current: DAL 88, FAN 81 (Q4, 4:00) ║
║ ║
║ Falcons Win Probability: 78.6% ║
║ Falcons Cover -3.5: 71.2% ║
║ Stevenson 4+ Assists: 82.3% ║
║ Stevenson Triple-Double: 14.7% ║
║ ║
║ KEY FACTOR: Milone 3PT incentive ║
║ clause triggers at 187 made 3s. ║
║ Current: 186. He will shoot. ║
║ ║
║ CONFIDENCE: HIGH ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
The percentages hovered over the TV like a filter on reality itself. They were as clear as the score. As obvious as the court and the players and the sweat on Stephenson's jersey. But Shep didn't seem to notice anything unusual.
I didn't understand how I knew any of this. I didn't understand what I knew, not really. But the numbers were there, and they were right, and I was as sure of that as I'd been sure of anything in my shattered, Swiss-cheese memory of a life.
"What was the number?" I asked.
"3.5," he said.
I nodded at the screen. "Ten bucks says not only do the Falcons cover, but Stevenson hits his over on 4.5 assists."
Shep blinked. "Why not make it twenty?"
I looked at the dingy green loveseat in the corner of the office under the TV.
"How about if I'm right, you let me crash there on that 'lovely' loveseat in the corner. And if I'm wrong, I owe you fifty bucks and you call me a cab and I'll be out of your hair."
SKILL CHECK: Analysis (Gambling Proposition)
Base: 0 + Bag Bonus: 2 = 2 vs. DC 2
SUCCESS (Marginal)
Note: You don't actually have $50.
Or $5. Or a cab to call.
This is a bluff. A good one, though.
It was a total bluff. I had nowhere else to go. I didn't have five dollars to my name, let alone fifty. But in my jumbled brain, I knew one thing for certain:
I knew numbers. I knew probabilities. And for some reason that I couldn't begin to explain, I knew basketball.
Shep eyed me carefully, weighing the offer.
"And if I'm right, you make your three units anyway and we celebrate with a cold one?" I made one last push.
He shot out his meaty paw. "Yer on!"
We watched as Stevenson dribbled up the court, drove the lane, and went airborne. A shrill whistle. He released the ball behind his head, banked it off the backboard and in.
"And one!" Shep shouted. He swatted a high-five at me. When he connected, my hand stung for ten solid seconds.
"Maybe yer right, kid?"
I nodded. I didn't just think I was right. I knew.
Stevenson hit the free throw. Dallas came back down. Their shooting guard passed off to his wing, and Stevenson darted in front of it. Clean steal. He dribbled up and heaved a pass to Sean "Dinky" Milone, who was camped beyond the arc. That silky smooth stroke. A rainbow arc toward the hoop.
Swish.
Timeout, Dallas.
Shep was whooping. I was too. I felt good enough to stand, and even did a little jig around the office. The HUD pulsed:
PROBABILITY UPDATE:
Falcons Win: 91.3% ↑
Stevenson 4+ Assists: 94.1% ↑
Milone 3PT Season Total: 187 ?
(Incentive clause: TRIGGERED)
We watched as the Falcons turned Dallas over twice more. Stevenson ran the offense like a man possessed, dishing assists, controlling tempo. His fourth assist put the Falcons ahead.
Shep was losing his mind. I hadn't done anything. All I'd done was make a friendly wager with a stranger for a place to sleep. But when you're at the end of your rope, when everything rides on the outcome of a game, it's enough to turn a man back into the primitive hunter his ancestors were, the kind who looked at a meteor shower and thought the stars were crying.
Dallas was in real trouble now. They had to force the ball up the court. Desperation territory. And even though my numbers said 91% Falcons, that also meant a 9% chance they'd pull it off. A 9% chance I'd be back in my cozy little shit puddle for the night.
Dallas gave their 4 the ball at the top of the key.
"Watch this," I said.
Stevenson acted like he was switching off his man, then rolled back and shot a hand out to deflect the pass.
"HOLY SHIT!" Shep screamed.
Fast break. Stevenson and Milone, two-on-one. Stevenson had a clear path to the basket, but he stopped short behind the arc.
"No... no no no no nooo!" Shep screamed.
I chuckled. "Now watch."
Milone cut to the corner. Stevenson rifled a pass. Milone caught it, set his feet, and released a three with that stroke as time expired.
The ball hung in the air for one second.
Two.
Buzzer.
Swish.
The HUD exploded:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ ?? PREDICTION: SUCCESS ║
║ ║
║ XP Gained: 75 ║
║ (First prediction bonus: +25) ║
║ ║
║ Reward Earned: Temporary Shelter ║
║ Location: Shep's Bar (Back Office) ║
║ Duration: 1 night ║
║ ║
║ Trust Gained: Shep +2 ║
║ ║
║ LEVEL 1: 75/200 XP ║
║ ████???????????? 37.5% ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
"HOLY SHIT, KID! HOLY SHIT!" Shep picked me up in his big arms and shook me up and down like a rag doll. My teeth rattled. My brain sloshed. The bag nearly came off twice.
Realizing what he was doing, he put me down and patted my head. Like I was a Jack Russell terrier that had just done a particularly impressive trick.
"How did you know?"
I nodded at the TV. "Milone has an incentive for three-pointers in a season. That was the one that put him over."
Shep stared at me. Blinked. Processed. Shrugged.
"Well shit, works for me, kid. You're welcome to stay here tonight. Only problem is you can't stay there." He nodded at the loveseat.
"Oh yeah? Why not?"
"'Cause that's where I'm stayin'." He chuckled. "Though since that one came in, hopefully not for long. I'll get ya all set up though. Got someone I want ya to meet tomorrow."
The HUD flickered:
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ NEW QUEST: "Meet Shep's Contact" ║
║ ║
║ Objective: Follow Shep to meet ║
║ his mysterious contact ║
║ ║
║ Reward: ??? ║
║ Risk Level: Moderate ║
║ ║
║ NOTE: You have no other options. ║
║ So this is less of a "quest" and ║
║ more of a "suggestion you'd be ║
║ foolish to ignore." ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Shep led me to what turned out to be a mop closet with a rickety cot. The cot was thin and stained with something I chose to believe was coffee. The pillow was a folded bar towel. The blanket smelled like bleach, which was honestly the best thing I'd smelled all night.
A flash of something. A memory trying to surface, pulsing behind my eyes like a migraine with ambition. I reached for it, but it slipped away before I could get a grip.
The only thing it left behind was a question.
Not where am I or what happened to me or even why is a heads-up display giving me sarcastic life advice.
The question was simpler than all of those. And worse.
Where are my sisters? And what the hell happened to my father?
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ BLOODLINE ABILITY TRIGGERED ║
║ ║
║ Brown Family Legacy ║
║ Status: Partially Active ║
║ ║
║ MEMORY FRAGMENT UNLOCKED (1/?) ║
║ Fragment quality: Corrupted ║
║ ║
║ You remember two things: ║
║ 1. You have sisters named Bailey ║
║ and Baby. ║
║ 2. Someone took your father. ║
║ ║
║ Everything else is static. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
I pulled the thin blanket up to my chin. The bag stayed on.
Tomorrow, I'd find answers. Tomorrow, I'd figure out what the hell was happening to me.
Tonight, I needed sleep.
I was unconscious before my head hit the folded towel.