Looks Damn Fine
"Looks damn good. "Sh, shit!"
The VR game device that had been secretly spreading among gamers, regardless of target, reason, or timing—swept up in all sorts of rumors.
McKenzie was terrified by the situation, yet on the other hand, a sense of superiority washed over him, like he'd been chosen by the world itself. His lips twisted into a grin.
BOOM!!!
"Did I lose my fucking mind picking this game...!"
Even as he grumbled to himself, the moment he entered the game world, his piloting skills kicked in hard. The enemy fighters swarming like flies in front of him exploded in the sky one after another from the optical weapons he unleashed.
"My name's McKenzie... right? Feels off... This isn't some human experiment rig, is it...?"
Despite the feast of futuristic weapons—optical cannons and railguns straight out of sci-fi novels and anime that could make your eyes pop—McKenzie just clicked his tongue, his face twisted in dissatisfaction.
When you get home from work and find a massive mystery package at your door, any normal person would eye it suspiciously while chuckling about whose screw-up it was, then check the label. And if by some coincidence the label has your name and address? There's only one thing to do.
It's human nature to want to open something addressed to you and left right on your doorstep.
Grunting under its unexpected weight, McKenzie had hauled it inside like a kid on a treasure hunt.
Setting aside second thoughts, he tore open the box to reveal... some massive, incomprehensible machine. It looked like a tanning bed knockoff. What the hell is this thing...? After staring at it blankly for a while, McKenzie suddenly recalled an urban legend-style rumor, and chills ran down his spine.
He didn't know exactly when it started, but the story went: if you ever faced this situation and you were a gamer, you'd hit the jackpot bigger than the lottery—a total life reversal.
Back then, McKenzie had locked his doors tight, terrified someone might break in drawn by the mystery. If the rumor was true, he pondered what game would be the best bet. And his final choice? This one.
Nova... Should've just jumped into some hentai game.
Nova topped the list for McKenzie, who was too old for grinding RPGs or FPS games. It was a turn-based strategy title demanding tactics, and even in VR, its space opera setting promised to let him absorb advanced tech—maybe even patent knockoffs back in reality. His dreams swelled endlessly against his will, leading him to pick it.
After a thorough bath, he dove in—and it was a whole new world. Tech beyond stars, humans with unreal DNA tweaks. All he could do was cling to his sanity enough not to derail the game's flow.
BOOM!BOOM BOOM!
But unlike his tangled thoughts, the pure white variable fighter he piloted—FV-50—danced with flashy maneuvers, mercilessly blasting enemy craft from the officer academy skies and turning them into fireworks.
"Fuck. It's variable mode... so why the hell does the transform code say 'no permission'?"
The grumble slipped out unconsciously, laced with pure regret. Any guy would want to ride a badass transforming mech and pull off slick moves, shoulders shrugging coolly, right?
If they were gonna let him pilot it, they should've handled the backend properly... Along with that thought came memories of the tutorial: academy seniors and instructors sacrificing themselves in his place.
A base part of him sneered—they were just NPCs, while he was superior new humanity. He snorted at the countless chunks of flesh littering the ground.
"Eh, following the story means I'll end up owning everything anyway... So till then, play it safe."
To reiterate: this was a turn-based strategy game heavy on tactics. No matter how insanely well he handled a fighter for the first time, the genre wouldn't let him go full rampage. McKenzie wore a faint smile, hammering the trigger on his stick.
"Hmm... looks like it's wrapping up...?"
"Yeah... explosions are way down from the start. Federation didn't actually lose, right?"
"No way they'd get turned to mincemeat on home turf. The admiral probably ordered reinforcements before evacuating."
"True... he's called a war hero for a reason."
Linda nodded at my words, her face brightening innocently.
Dazed from my groping, she'd followed me to the pantry amid the chaos outside. The racket had her trembling visibly, leaning into me.
The weaker the survival instinct, the more those eyes glaze over. Heh heh.
Even now, with the noise dying down to just mopping up stragglers—a sigh-of-relief situation—her hand gripped mine tight, whether consciously or not. Wouldn't let go, just like at first. Nodding eagerly at my every word, beaming like an idiot. I couldn't wait for her to snap out of it and remember this moment—my lips curled up on their own.
"But surprisingly, they didn't blow the whole colony."
"Think they'd skimp on calcs for a massive habitat? Half-assed hits don't break easy... same with people."
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
Recalling some fun bullshit from the Demonic Cult, nonsense slipped out. I waved off her puzzled tilt of the head casually and stood. Time to bail.
Everything's about timing, right? If outside was wrapping up the tutorial like I figured, real soldiers would be rescuing civilians proper. Hunker down here thinking it's safe? We'd end up abandoned in the rubble, begging on streets. No thanks.
"C'mon, up. Not full bombardment, but nearby hits could collapse the building."
"Right! But how's a pantry this cozy in a terror attack?"
"Freaks are everywhere, I guess."
Saying that, my eyes caught a burly brute in the corner, dead with a hole through his forehead.
This guy's a classic trash-game villain—subtly, ambiguously gay-flirting the protag nonstop. Mechanic ex-soldier setup: fortifies his shop weirdly, survives, joins protag's party for war.
Protag's gotta be strong even base-level, so if he's groping that much... Better not risk some freak accident keeping him alive.
No real threat to my prime youth, but trash-game gays got that vibe, y'know? Lingering full-body stares, that predator-to-prey flip feeling.
So the second we hit this shelter, while pretending to support dazed Linda, I gave him a shallow transfusion jab, staged a gunshot death with pebble bullet-finger technique, and toed the trash into the corner. Just in case his gay aura rubbed off.
"We got here early—close call. Melee-wise, no big threat though."
"Yeah. No way they'd waste high-rank enhanced humans on a quick raid..."
I averted my eyes from the brute's corpse, scanned around with Linda, and shoved open the warehouse door. A massive ship blasted eye-searing light, flaunting its silver hull for all to see.
Its metal was a strategic treasure enemy nations coveted. Powering that colossal frame? A fluke-born antimatter engine. And inside, a ship AI—autonomous, independent thinker, deemed impossible this era.
The ship kickstarting every story floated right there before us.
Strategic weapon Minerva... looks damn fine. Heh heh.