Chapter Eleven: Overthinking

  I’d never worried about a dog’s dignity. I’m not sure dogs did dignity, really, although I could imagine one who did. Maybe a Great Dane? Nah, they were mostly goofballs. Or a Bernese Mountain Dog? Except every Bernese I’d ever met had that super sensitive dog soul that took even the most mild reproof as a catastrophe of the highest order. It’s not dignified to mope dramatically every time your person scolds you.

  Yeah, dogs didn’t worry about dignity. But I could tell that the General did.

  I’m not sure how I knew that so clearly. My ability to understand him was simultaneously really weird, like suddenly being able to roller-skate proficiently when I’d actually broken my arm the one-and-only time I’d used roller skates, and deeply intuitive, as if I’d always known how to speak cat and was just remembering it now.

  Despite the dignity issue, I pulled the litter box and the jug of kitty litter out from my pouch. I set the box under the desk, the spot where feet would go if someone was sitting in the chair, and filled it.

  Standing, I said, “Just in case there are monsters outside. I know you’re capable of going out, but if it feels unsafe, you don’t have to.”

  The General flicked his tail.

  I pressed my lips together, hiding my smile.

  Cats were so expressive. That tail flick simultaneously complimented me on my competence as a human servant and expressed his disdain at the idea of using a litter box.

  I gestured toward the food on the side table. “Dinner for you. I’ll be back for the empty bowl later.”

  Another tail flick, this one slower, softer. It felt like a thank you.

  I nodded, and left the office, closing the door behind me. Back in the living room, I rubbed my hands over my face for one tired moment.

  The power was out and there were monsters outside the fence line. Not good news.

  I could try to get the generator running and maybe save the stuff in the fridge. My generator—okay, yes, my dad’s generator—was the portable kind, not the standby, which meant that I’d need to set it up, fill it with gas, and plug it into the electrical panel. It wouldn’t run the AC, but it could keep the fridge going.

  Thing was, though, it was outside the fence. Not that my fence had ever been some big defensive obstacle before. But the bougainvilleas were planted along a post and rail wire mesh fence that was mostly decorative. It had never been intended to do anything more than keep out the deer and honestly, the deer hopped over it like it wasn’t even there. The driveway side of the house wasn’t fenced at all. To use the generator, I’d need to drag it out of the garage and plug it into the outside electric panel.

  No big deal.

  Unless there were monsters.

  On the other hand, maybe I was tougher than the monsters. Probably I was, in fact. But on the other, other hand, the monsters were dogs. Or canines at least.

  Killing goblins had been hard, especially the higher level ones that seemed more human. Killing bugs, tedious, but not hard.

  Killing dogs, though…

  If I was going to be the apex predator of my neighborhood, I might have to kill monsters-that-once-were-dogs someday, but it wasn’t going to be today. I’d work my way up to it.

  “Everybody okay?” I asked the dogs. Riley had returned to his bed, Bear was lying down on her rug by the door, and Zelda was waiting for me.

  It was amazing to me how clearly I could see the difference between their three attitudes. Riley was tired, a little confused, and ready to nap. Bear was watchful, willing to rest, but staying alert.

  And Zelda was coming with me. Wherever I went, whatever I did, she planned to be there.

  “I think I need to go back to the coffee shop,” I told the three of them. “Not to the bugs, though. Just that restaurant part. Can you all stay here and guard the den?”

  Riley thumped his tail on his bed, an easy yes. Bear looked away, not meeting my eyes, but expressing her acceptance of my authority. She’d do whatever I wanted her to do. And Zelda hopped to her feet and headed to the door, informing the world—well, okay, the living room—of her intention to join me every step of the way.

  I didn’t argue. I could have. I was used to being the grown-up who said no. Zelda always wanted to join me when I left the house, no matter where I was heading. This time, however, I didn’t bother. It was my RMI, so it must be a dog-friendly cafe. Leaving Bear and Riley inside, we headed to the back and entered the rift again.

  System Chelsea applauded from behind the counter. “Well done!”

  I sighed and headed straight for a table. “Could I get a cup of tea?”

  “Of course.” She immediately started bustling around behind the counter.

  I glanced at the chalkboard menu. The Tier One Progress bar for the Thorn’s Edge entry read 0%.

  Success. Or at least so I hoped.

  I opened my notification archive and started scrolling through my messages. Every individual bug death got its own notification, followed by another message about loot that was usually nothing more exciting than [Insect Chitin—Crafting Component: General] or worse, [Insect Ichor—Crafting Component: Alchemy]. Yes, the System actually thought bug guts counted as loot.

  But also, the archive defaulted to starting where I’d last stopped reading, which meant wading through hundreds of meaningless notifications. Since I’d spent several hours back in the scenario creating what I’d thought was the “perfect” HUD, this particular stupidity felt like my own fault, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. With a resigned sigh, I started organizing.

  I’d been at it for a few minutes—setting up rules and folders, mostly—when Chelsea took a seat across from me, setting a mug on the table. I looked away from my notifications, but stilled at the sight of the mug.

  It was a tall ceramic latte mug, off white with a green ivy pattern and a matte finish. The interior was deep green, matching the shading on the ivy.

  Carefully, I picked it up and sniffed the tea. Ginger hibiscus, a slightly weird but favorite afternoon blend. Being served in my favorite tea mug.

  I loved the size of this mug, the weight, how the handle fit my hand, the way the matte finish absorbed the heat so that the mug stayed warm but not hot, and the tea cooled quickly but not too quickly. I never used it for coffee or water, because I liked my coffee hot and my water cold, and thermal cups were better for that. I used it only for tea.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Oh, the System was weird. How did it have my favorite mug? Why did it have my favorite mug?

  “Thank you for the tea,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” Chelsea replied. “Did you get it? I think you should have gotten it.”

  “Get what?” I asked absently, running my thumb over the ivy pattern. Why was the System being nice to me? It could read my mind, obviously, so it knew how to replicate my favorite mug, but why was it bothering? What was its goal?

  Chelsea sighed. “Don’t overthink it.”

  I picked up the mug and tilted it in her direction. “Millions of people are dying and the System is giving me tea. I don’t think it’s overthinking to be suspicious.”

  I followed that up by taking a sip, though. Suspicious, yes, but I also felt like I’d been waiting forever for my tea, and I wanted to be sure I drank at least a little of it before the System yanked the rug out from under me and made it disappear.

  Chelsea shook her head. “The System gave you, and approximately 999,999 others, a personalized interface construct.”

  “That’s an awfully specific number to be approximate,” I said warily.

  Chelsea shrugged. “Say at most, then. In a new integration, up to a million people—believed from early interactions to have potential as future citizens of the multiverse—are granted limited access to tools that advanced citizens of the multiverse take for granted.”

  She waved her hand up and down, indicating herself. “Me. Not omniscient, can’t make choices for you, can’t act outside of specific limited parameters, but can make you a cup of tea. Although the latte machine is more fun.”

  She leaned forward across the table and her voice held Real Chelsea’s warmth when she said, “You die, I die. So I’m motivated to keep you happy.”

  My mouth fell open. And then I closed it. I took a sip of my tea to give myself time to think, but before I could come up with a response, System Chelsea leaned back in her chair and sighed again.

  “Okay, that’s maybe a little unfair. I don’t die exactly. But my data gets added to the interface construct database and my experiences are reviewed, evaluated, and then positioned accordingly within the parameters of the PIC functionality. If my choices lead to successful outcomes, future constructs develop abilities concordant with my decisions. If not… well, if you fail, I fail, and then future potential citizens don’t get tea. Get it?”

  I so did not get it. It was crazy to me how System Chelsea dropped into bureaucratic jargon. Or maybe programmer-ese? Whoever taught her English—or, you know, this variant of English—had a lot to be sorry for.

  I set my tea down. “I’m really confused about how all of this works. What you know, what you don’t know. Why you’re not allowed to give me advice, but why you want to anyway. Why you’re—” I gestured at her, sort of helplessly. “Why you’re you.”

  “Approximately 82% of personalized interface constructs wind up looking like the recipient’s idea of a god.” The corners of System Chelsea’s mouth tucked into not-quite-a-smile. “Often a trickster god. Old men, beautiful women, both heavily over-represented. Interestingly enough, though, never the type of god that provides clear instructions and strict rules, which is surprising considering that’s what most believers demand from their gods.”

  I blinked. I kind of thought she had that the wrong way around. Wasn’t it the god that was doing the demanding?

  But she continued, “Religion gives us gods that say ‘thou shalt not eat green beans or wear the color blue’ but the System’s versions tend to say things like, ‘good luck with that’ and ‘I hope that works out for you.’ That’s because the multiverse—no gods involved although certainly some sapients with the powers of gods—doesn’t want worshippers. Or followers.”

  Okay, so the System didn’t want to brainwash us. Which might be a little more believable if it wasn’t a voice, in our heads, changing our brains. My skeptical look must have been obvious because Chelsea chuckled.

  “Our restrictions are in place to respect your free will. The multiverse provides the System to help you survive, not to shape you into a specific type of being.”

  “The System uses classes. Little boxes that define what people should do and how they should live. And it chose one for me,” I objected. How was that not shaping me into its idea of what I should be?

  “And it offers you quests and rewards. The System’s not shy about making opportunities clear. But your choices belong to you. Respecting your autonomy is my first priority.”

  I wanted to argue but I didn’t even know where to begin. The System had forced me… well, no, all right, it hadn’t forced me. I’d missed the invitation to the challenge scenario, but it had been there. And no one had made me kill goblins. If that first goblin had killed me instead, I would have just been magically transported back to my front yard, probably thinking the whole thing was a hallucination. And the System hadn’t dragged me into the rift—I’d chased Bear inside the first time. My mouth twisted as I considered all the moments in the past few days where I’d made decisions. There were plenty of them, really, mostly not awful.

  Chelsea studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “As for why I look like this, personalized, remember? In our first interaction, I explored some options, analyzed your responses, and determined that tea, trust, and a sense of humor aligned with your personality.”

  She leaned forward. “That’s a little bit of an insider’s view of the process, but I don’t want to insult your intelligence by acting as if my appearance is random.”

  I stared at her, my thumb still rubbing over the ivy on my mug, processing that. The System had basically scanned my brain for someone I’d trust, then borrowed her face. It was both reassuring and deeply unsettling.

  Chelsea sat back, businesslike again. “If you’re satisfied with the reasons for the tea—”

  “—in my favorite mug,” I interjected, lifting it in her direction. The tea wasn’t nearly as strange as the container.

  She smiled, and finished, “—perhaps now might be a nice time to look at your status sheet.”

  I hesitated, then said, “One last question. Do you really have a boss? Who did you call earlier?”

  Chelsea’s smile deepened. “The framework amused me. What I have is the interface core module. It’s… you could call it my parent, maybe? Or the original? It’s the piece of the System that instantiates the personalized interface construct instances. It contains all the relevant authority, so if a situation arises outside of my parameters, I consult. Like calling home for advice, if you will, although really it’s more like consulting the rulebook. Its answers aren’t suggestions, and I’m not free to ignore them.”

  “So when it said no to giving me more XP for the quest…”

  “It said no, but it also said…” Chelsea did a funny hand spiral, the kind of gesture that meant something like ta-da. “Check your status sheet!”

  I had a little half smile on my face as I opened my status sheet. I spotted it right away.

  Name: Olivia Thorne

  Title: First Defender, Preliminary Challenger - Top 1%, Rift Keeper, World First Rift Clear

  “Whoa! World first? Really?” I gazed at the title until the tooltip popped up.

  World First Rift Clear — You were the first sapient on your world to successfully harvest a full rift. Your actions demonstrate that your people may be able to survive integration and develop the skills necessary to thrive in the multiverse. But you will always have been the first. Recognition of your achievement grants you increased experience gains.

  Title Bonus: +10% experience from all sources.

  “Is it good? Is it good?” System Chelsea was bouncing in her chair.

  I read the title description aloud to her and she pumped her fist in the air like she was a sports fan watching her team win.

  “Yes!” she cheered. “Check the dog now,” she ordered and then she winced, putting a hand to her head. “I mean if you want to. If you’re interested in that. If you’re curious.”

  “If I’m so inclined?” I said, voice dry.

  “Exactly.” System Chelsea smiled brightly. “If you’re inclined.”

  Zelda had done exactly what she always did in a coffee shop: curled up next to my right foot and gotten comfy. She wasn’t in a deep sleep, but dozing in what I thought of as her patiently bored position, head down on her forepaws, ears still up.

  I didn’t need to use [Analyze], because I could see all her info on the Companion pane of my HUD, but I did anyway. She had the title, too, plus a new trait for reaching 40 points in Spirit.

  Heart’s Howl (Spirit 40+)—Your voice carries the weight of your spirit. When you howl, allies within range feel courage rise, while enemies feel instinctive fear. The effect scales with Spirit and triggers naturally in moments of danger.

  I reached down and gave her ears a rub. “You’ve got a new trait, love. You’ll have to start howling, though.”

  She raised her head and gave me a Look out of her brown eyes.

  She’d also reached Level 16, putting her a full six levels ahead of me.

  I shook my head and muttered, “And you're still cooler than me.”

  Maybe it was time to change that. Or at least to try to catch up.