Sometimes the smoldering remains of what came before are necessary for the growth of the future.

  The Cold Bay Police Station was just a couple of blocks from the harbor, the ruins of the CHYC clearly visible from Chief Roy Quint's window. Brom had driven past the squat brick building any number of times, seeing the cruisers parked in the garage under it, and had never given it a second thought. While he might have had his differences with the law, he'd never gotten in trouble here in Cold Bay. Even a dog didn't shit where it slept. He had been in here once before, giving a statement in regards to a harassment case he'd witnessed.

  Now he walked in with Officers Millar and Rodgers, mentally checked out a little bit as he looked around. He was still processing riding in an actual wagon instead of a car. Police wagons. He supposed that bicycle officers were now mounted on horseback and sheriff's deputies were once again a mounted posse. Yee-haw.

  When they motioned for him, he followed them, thankfully staying here in the upper levels as he passed many closed doors. This wasn't an open-plan office, the building had been built back in the sixties. If there was something like a 'bull pit', he didn't pass it on the way they took him. He was led to a door that wouldn't look out of place in a school, faux wood with a narrow window that had the wires in the glass. A nameplate, very polished and very shiny, sat next to it, announcing that it belonged to Cold Harbor's one and only police chief.

  Roy Quint Lv ???

  Roy Quint should have been an NPC. He was clearly more than fifty, his build still powerful enough, though. His hair was less salt and pepper and more steel and iron, his mustache a vintage model he'd probably trimmed into shape in the 70's and never bothered to change. When Brom was let into his office, he stood, extending a hand.

  "Mister Jones, the man of the hour. Thank you for stopping by."

  Brom gripped that hand in a firm grip. "Chief Quint, it seemed like the polite thing to do." Grey eyes met green, and Brom felt stunned, finishing the shake mechanically.

  There was too much intelligence behind those eyes to be an NPC. There wasn't any sign of panic, of a trapped soul. Instead, Brom found himself weighed, measured, and catalogued like some rare specimen of trouble. Like a man looking at some obscure machine and wondering if that squeaking noise was a severe problem or just needed a little grease. Or maybe one of those guys on that old antiques program, trying to figure out how to tell this person that they had something valuable but ruined it by cleaning it wrong.

  The tension broke, and the Chief sat, gesturing for Brom to do the same.

  "Before we start, what are you? You're not an NPC, but you're not a Player either." Brom was certain of it. The uncanny valley sensation of something that looked human but wasn't was screaming in his primordial hindbrain. "Not to be rude, just... you know."

  The Chief blinked, moustache twitching but not hiding the brief smile. "For the sake of transparency, think of me as a Moderator. But that leads me to a bigger question." Those rough hands folded on his desk, and he leaned forward on his forearms. "When you were connected to the System, when you got your powers and got logged as a Player, part of the package is a 'settling' routine. Runs in the brain, all very standard. This isn't to make you different, it's so that you don't go insane from the alterations. The mindset needed to survive in a world with monsters, experience, and magic is very different from the one you were raised in. Most snap. Hence, the slight redirection of neurons."

  Brom tensed. That was a lot to take in. "Spare me the exposition."

  "...well, I can't say that wasn't in your file. You want the short version, fine. You are a problem. You've got a body stat rivalling a level twenty Fighter. Your health stat is well within range for a heroic event mob or a dungeon mini-boss. You shrug off virtually every environmental hit that can be thrown at you. All of that is because your primary passive was bugged on Day One. We've patched it for any future Barbarians that come along and acquire it, but you, it's part of you."

  Bugged?

  What?

  He pulled up his skill sheet, staring at it.

  [Passive Skills]

  - Enhanced Physique (Legacy)

  Barbarians are known for being physically robust, and you are the apex of Barbarian physicality. You can shrug off wounds and conditions that would cripple a lesser individual. You have increased health, deal increased physical damage, and are immune to physical debuffs.

  - Iron Willed Heathen (Legendary)

  Barbarians bow to no power except their own, and you take that to the extreme. You cannot be harmed by hostile spells or spell-based abilities. You cannot learn magic spells.

  - Unyielding Stance (Rare)

  When you make the choice to fight you will hold your ground to the end. Once set in a fighting stance, you are immune to movement effects.

  [Active Skills]

  - Heavy Attack (Legendary)

  After every third attack, you may deliver a Heavy Attack laden with destructive force. This attack becomes stronger each time it is used without the attack chain being interrupted on a target.

  - Heinous Blow (Legendary)

  You land a hit on a foe laden with so much destructive force that it leaves them broken and reeling. This blow will always inflict the 'Stunned' condition regardless of how much damage is dealt. If this blow pushes an opponent below 50% health, they will gain the 'Weakened' status. If this blow pushes them below 25% health, they will also become 'Horrified'. Heinous Blow can always be used as the first hit on an opponent. It can be used once every five hits after.

  He'd always thought his Enhanced Physique skill had done a bit too much. This was confirmation of it.

  "You couldn't alter it?" He looked at the other curiously. "Like, a day one patch type deal?"

  Stolen story; please report.

  "To be honest, it wasn't until your stunt in the Event Dungeon that anyone realized it wasn't functioning properly. It's just our good fortune you were the only Barbarian to acquire it. Had that been a glitch for a more common class or a more common passive, it could have been catastrophic. We're talking full server rollback, which isn't healthy for the long-term life of your world. Still, you understand now why I wanted to meet with you. Why the Sheriff, the Mayor, and a few others do too. You, Brom Jones, aren't just a darling in the eyes of the Viewers. You have the potential to destabilize things. Now, the Viewers love a good power fantasy character, which is why it's a policy from Admin to not just terminate people like you. But it doesn't come for free."

  Brom shivered a little as the Chief settled back in his chair, watching him as if to make sure it was sinking in.

  "I get it. I get it. I'm not here to make waves. I've been trying to keep things low-key, believe it or not." He didn't want the fame. He hadn't known he'd get broadcast all over after completing the dungeon like that! Now that he did, he'd be far more careful. Probably. Maybe.

  "It's noticed and appreciated. So, here's my plan. First, I'm going to get you a new manager. The System contact you've currently had has mishandled things up one side and down the other. I can't fix what they've done, but I can get you someone more helpful in the future. That's the good part."

  Okay, he was getting to say goodbye to automated Satan, but at what cost? Brom sighed. "What's the bad part?"

  "Two things. First, you're going to have to take four of my finest and go explore the new dungeon that opened down in Gull Cove. Just a run or two, make sure they get some experience and drops so that they can take their fellow Officers through safely. Saves lives that way. Second, and this will be hard for you, you've got to stop fighting that adjustment process, or it will drive you insane sooner rather than later. And if you snap, the Admins will delete you no matter how popular you are with the Viewers."

  There it was. The thing he'd been dreading. Just let the System rewire him. Stop fighting it. Let go of these little fragments of humanity.

  "I don't want to be less human."

  The Chief sighed. "You've been interacting with people, right? Are they less human? Some of them might also notice little differences here and there, but I assure you, by the end of the week, that would have entirely smoothed out. Or they'll snap. You cannot afford to snap. I'll send a little something to your mail that'll help speed the process along. Just mix it in any kind of drink before you head to bed, and you'll be fine in the morning." The tired but friendly expression on the Moderator's face hardened. "I've flagged your account to the Admin. If you don't..." He spread his hands.

  Brom got it. He hated it, but he got it. Call him a coward or a sheep, but Brom Jones didn't feel like dying just yet. "When do I have to be at Gull Cove?"

  The Chief's relaxed expression returned. "Tomorrow morning at seven, meet them here at the station, and they'll take you by wagon to Gull Cove. It shouldn't be too much difficulty for the five of you, my Officers aren't teenagers. You don't have to protect them. They've been clearing instances and getting their levels up, getting comfortable with their abilities. Look at it as an opportunity to finally exercise some teamwork, Mister Jones."

  [Quest: Justice Never Sleeps]

  - Visit Chief Roy Quint Complete!

  - Quest Complete!

  [Quest: A Call to Action!]

  - Enter the Drowned Depths Dungeon 0/1.

  A moment later, the man stood, offering his hand again. Brom rose and took it, a little less energetic in this one than his previous one. The meeting was over, for better or worse, and Brom had a lot to think about. The little notification was already blinking in the corner of his vision. The mail with the item, no doubt.

  "You work quick."

  "It's my job, Mister Jones. Have a pleasant evening." With that, the Chief sat back down, returning to the papers spread across his desk, no doubt actually swamped in work. A moderator indeed.

  Brom retreated outside the room, an officer who'd been leaning nearby perking up when he came out. Allen Lv 2, cheerful enough for escorting him out of the building, not cheerful enough to have overheard anything. Brom was grateful for that, he wasn't in the mood to chat or chatter.

  He fast-traveled home the moment he was outside, leaning his forehead against his front door with his hand on the knob. He turned it, foot moving on instinct to block Alice from escaping. He knew she didn't really want out, if she did, she could easily have dodged around his foot. The few times she had gotten onto the porch, she'd promptly turned and meowed at him, proud of herself, but made no move to escape the scoop that returned her indoors. Today was much the same, her trotting away the moment her escape was blocked.

  The exhaustion gnawed at his bones like the termites of his soul. His new jacket went back into his inventory as he unequipped it, his shoes were discarded where he would likely trip over them in the morning. He turned on the lights as he went, dodging the cats, saving Bean before he climbed atop the fridge again, opening his messages and finding a very simple vial attached to one. It looked like it was full of water, colorless and odorless. Just a little tube of nothing.

  His hands shook as he got down his favorite mug, the one with the dumpster on fire graphic, dumping the liquid in the bottom. Then he put on a kettle of water, staring at it, wishing the old adage about watched pots was true. It wasn't, the water boiled anyway. He added his tea bag, added the water, added his cream and sugar. Twenty minutes, that was all it took to brew the cup that would take something away from him forever.

  He watched it cool on the counter, watched the steam slowly grow less and less. Felt the ceramic grow a little cooler with every minute. Delaying the inevitable. Delaying letting go of something. Really, though, what was he holding onto so tightly? A world that had always been a little rough to him, like cheap toilet paper. Things that, even if he remembered them, could never be recovered. He might dress it up pretty, say it was some grand resistance. Maybe it was. Maybe he really was abandoning something precious as he brought the mug to his mouth and drained it all.

  But Brom wanted to live.

  Sometimes a sacrifice had to be made.