You Can't Craft Until You Finish the Tutorial? (1)
"No. You've got to be kidding me."
Ten minutes of slapping my own face later, I finally had to accept it. I was tired. And it hurt.
"Of all the classes to get possessed into, a Crafter... No. No. Stay calm. It's broken. It's OP."
Late-game broken, sure.
A late-game powerhouse that forced you to luck your way through roughly half the tutorial, never mind the early-game dangers swarming every corner. A class whose pathetic starting stamina, strength, and cardio left you gasping just trying to do anything with a weapon in hand. Even if you got lucky enough to find a gun, your marksmanship was so abysmal you'd have to hole up somewhere and spend dozens of minutes just field-stripping the thing.
"Goddamn it...!"
Lord, was trying to reel in newbies really such a terrible sin? Sure, the early game was rough, but once you scraped past that weak start, the late game overflowed with content. And this was my punishment for recommending a character that suffered through a miserable early game?
"No. I can do this. I can. If crafting is just unlocked..."
The biggest hurdle was the tutorial. Every class ran the same tutorial—same base stats, same set of missions to complete. The problem was... let me think.
Acquire three material items.
Acquire and equip one melee weapon.
Acquire and equip one ranged weapon.
Acquire and equip one piece of armor.
Kill and butcher five Giant Spiders.
Kill five zombies.
And kill the mini-boss—one Hammerhead. That was it, right?
"Even so, this is..."
There was no answer. If it had been a class that handed you a weapon from the start, maybe. But a Crafter's backpack definitely had...
"A flashlight. Spare batteries. An improvised crafting kit. Damn it—there's seriously no weapon?!"
At random, with an extremely low chance, a pistol could spawn. If I just had a pistol, I could make it work somehow. Giant Spiders weren't hard with a torch, zombies were manageable with a single axe, and if that pistol used .45 ACP, the Hammerhead would go down easy—
"Is that... it?"
Not even food. No first-aid kit for when I got hurt. Flashlight. Spare batteries. Improvised crafting kit. End of list.
"Don't do this to me. Please."
I dumped everything out and shook the bag until it rattled. Not so much as a breadcrumb fell out. Without food, even exploring was dangerous. Sure, I could go hungry—but I had no weapon and I had to starve?
"Aaaaaaargh!!!"
Normally I'd just throw my body into a zombie horde and start over. Or maybe watch a swarm of rats do the wave with my limbs?
...Wait a second.
"The improvised crafting kit."
The improvised crafting kit was a Crafter-exclusive item, pure and simple. With it, you could fabricate everything from guns to ammo to magazines on the spot. Provided you had the materials, of course. You couldn't make a proper pistol, but you could build a single-shot shotgun they called a "One-Shot." One round, then reload—but that was something.
So, so...
"Why won't this open?"
No matter how hard I yanked. Even putting everything I had into that little clasp.
"Nnnggghhh—"
The only thing that rolled was me. It wouldn't open. Not at all.
...Wait.
Each class's special ability only unlocked after finishing the tutorial. Which meant, in other words—
"I have to get three material items, one melee weapon, one ranged weapon, one piece of armor, kill five Giant Spiders, five zombies, and one Hammerhead... with this?"
The bag was light. Far too light. If it had been heavy, I'd have complained that the weight slowed me down. I'd have griped that a Crafter's trash stamina couldn't handle anything. But even for a Crafter's garbage physique, this was too light.
"Fuck..."
What the hell did I do to deserve this?
"Still... at least the outpost shouldn't be far."
There were survivor outposts. And fortunately, during the tutorial, every survivor group welcomed the player—even if that group was the fanatical Rebirth Church. Even if it was the Zeroth Reich, a bunch with barely any territory who still didn't hesitate to commit ethnic cleansing with whatever military gear they'd lucked into.
Each survivor group marked its territory with signs on the corridors, the floors, symbols, or booby traps. In my case...
"Never seen this mark before."
Sometimes that happened. Family units or small survivor bands would spin up their own upstart faction, and if luck was on their side, some community no one had ever heard of would end up holding several bunkers and grow into a real power. One of the posts that had racked up a thousand recommendations had a faction named something like the "Banana Squad," if I remembered right. From the details, they'd run into the Zeroth Reich early, crushed them, and absorbed every scrap of their tech.
Maybe this faction had that kind of luck too. Maybe...
"Well, look at that."
A booby trap built around a shotgun. Luck. Disarm it and I got a gun—and the fact that something like this was here meant someone skilled enough to set traps was nearby. Leaving a survivor mark out front and then building the trap was clearly good news. It said, We don't want a fight, but if you cross the line, we won't be afraid of one. Which meant the faction ahead wasn't some cheap pack of starry-eyed optimists.
The problem was—
"How the hell do I disarm this?"
In the game, one button press played the animation automatically. No way I could do that myself... No. No. I'd watched that animation thousands of times. With two thousand hours and every situation imaginable under my belt, I ought to be able to manage this much.
"...Right."
I patted myself down, searching, and sure enough—pliers. The base animation used pliers, so of course they were there. ...Honestly, I'd half expected them not to be. Cheap-ass class.
I traced the line with my fingers, feeling the material. Cloth thread, carefully twisted so it wouldn't snap. The trap's sensitivity itself wasn't high, though. Loose, even. Maybe it wasn't meant for people. Or maybe it had been sitting a long time... no—the thread was too new for that. The shotgun itself was worn enough to be suitable for a trap. Whoever set this was clearly experienced.
The real question was why the thread—
"Stay right where you are."
—was for this.
A trap designed so that while you were busy disarming it, someone could size up the surroundings and identify the intruder...! Even for luck, this was too much luck. And the voice was calm—an elderly man, from the sound of it.
"I may be old, but I've still got the strength to pull a trigger."
"I have no intention of hurting anyone, sir. And I don't have a gun."
"You can hide anything in the dark. Now, don't get jumpy. If you so much as twitch an arm toward a pistol or a knife, that thread might catch the wrong way."
"You'd shoot me before that happened, wouldn't you?"
"I'm not aiming for show. If you understand, raise your hands. Slowly."
There was no one visible in the darkness ahead. But the voice was close... A hunter? Or a former soldier?
"Are you alone?"
"I am."
"I don't see anything on you that would mark an affiliation."
In the game there had been several dialogue options depending on your Charisma level. Right now I had no such luxury.
"I really am alone, sir. I didn't see eye to eye with the community I was with before. I've been wandering since, and this is where I ended up."
"Care to name that old community of yours?"
"It didn't have a name, really. A man named Hamsmill was in charge, though."
I made that up on the spot. The name Hamsmill—was it two days ago? While rerolling for a Crafter with decent base stats and starting gear, I'd sent one of them off a cliff in a bungee jump without a cord. Sorry, Hamsmill. In this story, you're the leader of a community.
"That explains it, then. Throw me your bag."
"I'm taking the bag off. Don't shoot."
"Even with these old eyes I can see a stupid move coming. Just throw it already."
He wasn't going blind. The way he'd stayed concealed outside the light I'd set on the floor wasn't something fading eyesight could manage. Or he was wearing glasses.
I hurled the bag with everything I had into the darkness where the voice had come from. A moment later came the sound of fabric being rummaged through.
"...Hands up. High."
But his voice had gone wrong somehow.
"Turn around."
The click of a double-barrel's hammers being cocked.
Why?
"W-wait a second, sir. Are you going to shoot me the moment I turn my back?"
"If you don't turn, I'll shoot you where you stand."
"W-why are you doing this?! I threw you the bag like you asked!"
"What was in the bag?"
"What was in it? My crafting kit, the flashlight's over here, and a few batteries?"
His voice was not right at all. And he'd finished preparing to fire.
"The world outside is crawling with monsters and madmen, and you're telling me you wandered for days with nothing but this?"
At the edge of a thin scrap of light, a gun barrel gleamed. Just as the sound had said—a clear double-barrel shotgun. Even if I ran and his first shot went wide from bad eyes, the second would find me. And if those were birdshot that spread wide, a bare body like mine wouldn't...
"Talk straight. Are you a scout?"
"No, sir. If I were a recon team, I'd have turned around the second I saw the mark."
"You realize that one sentence says a great deal?"
His deduction was as sharp as his years. A combat veteran, no question—and the real thing, experience still intact.
"Like I said, I tried my hand at various work in the community, our temperaments didn't match, and we split. I ate through the food on the road and tossed what was left. I was wandering without supplies when I ended up like this..."
"And trying to disarm the booby trap?"
"A booby trap you disarm is a free shotgun, isn't it? And if the choice is between being torn apart alive by walking corpses... I'd rather take a headful of buckshot."
If I'd been one of those radiation-immune "Kimchis," better known as New Skins, any answer at all would usually earn a hail of bullets. Even as a New Skin, the right dialogue for the situation could at least get you run off without dying—so this much I could manage.
...And this was probably the best I could do. What happened if he shot me here? Did I actually die? Please...
"Well. Compared to having those things tear open your belly and dig through it while you're still breathing, a shotgun's a more certain way to go."
Good. Thank God. The persuasion had worked. The old man slowly stepped out of the dark. He looked like standing on two feet was hard enough—but the way he held the gun was pure composure, and his eyes were sharp. A long white beard, and on his head... of course. A beret.
"Don't drop your guard. I don't want to watch you relax, walk out, snag the trap, and crawl around on the ground. I've only got the one cane, besides."
"May I step back a little?"
"Don't step back. Your bag's over here. Looking at the state of you, you've been wandering without food for a while. Come on over. My granddaughter happens to be making soup."
"...Soup."
Soup. A less-than-pleasant memory surfaced. Early settlements that welcomed you with bowls of soup—settlers who turned out to love human flesh so much they made steaks out of it, Michelin-starred ghouls who'd spike your bowl and fillet you alive.
"We found a whole pile of canned beef and tomatoes. First feast in a long time. Bad memories?"
"...Let's just say I once saw the ingredients leave something to be desired."
"If I ask any deeper, what little appetite I've got will vanish for good. Come on over. Quickly."
As the muzzle slowly lowered, I carefully stepped over the booby trap's line.
...I'd be sure to come back for that later.
Just wait for me, shotgun.