“T.H.E.I.,” he said. “It’s an acronym—Transgenic Hybridization and Exploitation Initiative.”
“W-what now?” Deckard frowned. All this time, he thought Ronan had just been being ominous—they this, they that. Turns out, he’d been saying T.H.E.I. An actual organization.
Senn let out a deep burp—Zulmerian, apparently, for either frustration or a grudging confirmation.
“They’re one of the largest criminal enterprises in the galaxy,” Senn went on. “Funded by people with power, influence, and no morals. Their specialty is forced mutation. They alter, hunt, and sell rare creatures—sometimes to elite collectors, other times to underground gladiator pits or experimental labs.”
Deckard stared. “You’re telling me the Rain of Fire was caused by… poachers?”
Another Zulmerian burp.
“That storm killed thousands. And it was just… fallout?”
“I don’t get it,” Deckard continued. “What does the Rain of Fire have to do with any of this? What does a meteor shower have to do with poachers?”
Senn pushed back from the desk and stood, bracing both hands against the edge. Then, for no reason Deckard could fathom, he raised one leg and tucked it against his thigh like a flamingo.
Deckard frowned. Was that some kind of ritual? Or just a stretch?
Senn didn’t explain. He just held the pose and said, “The science is… complicated. Your civilization is only Tier II, based on your FTL tech? This is Tier V territory. But I’ll try.”
He paused to collect his words.
“Reality isn’t just space and time—it’s layered. Heat, polarization, phase states… they’re not just forces, they’re dimensions. Invisible, but essential. Folded into what we think of as ‘real.’”
Deckard opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“What T.H.E.I. does is use Fracturers—machines like this one—to create micro-singularities. Tiny tears in the fabric of existence itself.”
Deckard’s eyes widened. “They tear reality?”
Senn nodded grimly. “And when it tears, reality always tries to heal itself. That process releases a very specific form of exotic energy. Highly mutagenic. Wildly unpredictable.”
Deckard scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, but what does that have to do with meteors?”
Senn opened a drawer, pulled out a dull metal bar, and lit a blowtorch.
“Here,” he said.
He applied the flame to the bar. After a moment, it began to glow red-hot.
“Why is this glowing?”
“Because you heated it?” Deckard offered.
“Correct. The heat excites the electrons in the atoms—they jump to higher energy levels. When they fall back down, they release photons. Light.”
Deckard nodded slowly. It sounded vaguely familiar from school.
“Now scale that up,” Senn continued. “Same principle—different scope. They use Fracturers to excite reality itself. Until it snaps. And when it resets, it doesn’t release heat or light. It gives off something else. Something unstable. And that energy mutates living things.”
He shut off the torch and let the bar cool.
“But half the damned senators are regulars at the arenas,” he muttered, turning back to the Fracturer. “T.H.E.I.’s biggest customers.”
Deckard scrubbed his lenses, trying to keep up. This was not where he thought the quest was heading.
Alien poachers had set off a reality bomb. Not to conquer Earth, but to make the wildlife more... exotic. So they could harvest it. Sell it. Fight it.
The Zulmers, then, were the ecologists fighting back.
“So, how can I help?” Deckard asked.
“With this latest tech of theirs,” Senn said, lifting the miniature Fracturer, “we’ve got even less time than we thought. We need to dimensionalize Earth’s life—and get it to safety.”
Senn drummed his fingers on the desk. “I’ve been researching dimensional recycling. If I can crack it, we can speed things up. Maybe catch up with T.H.E.I. But I’ve hit a wall. I don’t have the resources for the final computations.”
He studied Deckard, eyes narrowing. “Ronan might be onto something. Your mutated brain—human, but altered—might be exactly what I need. If I brought you into my research…” He paused. “It could tip the balance.”
“Here,” Senn said, extending a hand. Deckard shook it.
A jolt of energy passed between them, and Deckard jerked back.
You’ve received a new quest: [Arms Race].
Arms Race (Epic)
You’ve been dragged into an intergalactic clash between ecologists and reality-bending poachers. The Zulmers are outgunned. They need your help to push the frontier of dimensional science—and stop T.H.E.I. before it’s too late.
Mission Objectives:
-
Collect 30 copies of the same Common card
-
Collect 15 copies of the same Uncommon card
-
Collect 7 copies of the same Rare card
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
-
Collect 4 copies of the same Epic card
-
Collect 2 copies of the same Legendary card
Deckard gulped. What a weird and troublesome quest.
Duplicates, he thought. That meant [Subdimensionalize] was out. No easy tricks.
He’d have to grind card drops. Or get rich.
Getting 30 commons or 15 uncommons? Doable.
The rest? He could already feel the nightmare coming.
“Once you’ve collected these resources,” Senn said, “return to me. We’ll give T.H.E.I. a run for their credits.”
“You got it.”
“And… human?”
Deckard paused. “Yeah?”
“T.H.E.I. has eyes everywhere. The factory, the garrison, even the magistrate. Don’t trust anyone. One wrong step, and you’ll blow everything.”
Deckard gave a tight nod. “Understood.”
“Now,” Senn added, “I’ll do you a solid and get you out of here undetected.”
The Zulmer rose, circled the desk, and placed both hands on Deckard’s shoulders.
Deckard blinked. “Uh… are you about to hug me?”
Senn tilted his head, stared at him a moment, then reeled back and slammed his forehead into Deckard’s jaw.
Everything went white.
When Deckard came to, he was standing on the teleportation pad in Aquascape. He staggered a step and rubbed his chin.
“What in the world?” he muttered. “Don’t those aliens believe in handshakes?”
He sighed and glanced around. The city buzzed as usual, oblivious to the intergalactic arms race he'd just been pulled into.
So… he thought. I’ve got a major class-related quest. Rare drop requirements. Mutant brain research. Alien poachers.
Great.
He had decisions to make—how to spend his money, what species to stick with, and which gear builds to prioritize.
But for now, he would log out. He had plans for this morning.
*
Deckard stepped into the Mulligan Café. He had been here the day prior in the early afternoon, and as promised by Nevan, things were quieter in the morning. But that didn’t mean the café was empty.
Near the window, an elderly couple sat facing each other, sipping from matching mugs. A half-played game of dominoes stretched between them. The woman chuckled softly at something her partner said, brushing biscuit crumbs from her lap.
At another table, a pair of college students leaned over a thick textbook, dice scattered around their untouched croissants. One had sketched an intricate flowchart on a napkin, and the other kept jabbing at it like it held the coordinates to buried treasure.
The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and roasted beans.
As Deckard moved farther in, his eyes found a familiar figure behind the counter.
Nevan was behind the counter, washing dishes. Today he wore a moss-green blazer with jagged yellow stripes running down the sleeves—just as oversized as the plaid one from yesterday. His hair was still damp, slicked back like he hadn’t had time to dry it.
Deckard walked over, and Nevan looked up before he could say a word.
“Dexie! You’re back,” Nevan called, like he’d been expecting him.
Deckard gave a small nod. “Yeah. Morning.”
“Well, sit down then.” Nevan tapped the counter. “You buying the next coffee, or are we still in ‘recognition bonus’ territory?”
Deckard laughed. “Don’t worry. I didn’t come to mooch off you. One Americano, please—and one of your scones.”
“Coming right up.” Nevan turned to the machine, hands moving in a quick, confident rhythm.
“So,” he added over the hiss of steam, “still testing versions of your island deck?”
“Actually, I came to tell you—I won the game. Beat the quest.”
Nevan froze mid-motion, then spun around with a grin. “What? That’s incredible! Congratulations!”
“You helped a lot. I wanted to thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I had a lot of fun playing with you yesterday.”
Before long, two scones rested on the table—one brushed with melted butter, the other crowned with a dollop of strawberry jam. A steaming Americano sat beside them, dark and fragrant.
“So what’s next?” Nevan asked, settling across from him.
Deckard exhaled slowly, hands wrapped around his mug. “Well... I’ve got a few decisions to make for my character.”
“Ooooh! Exciting! Like what?”
“You sure you want to hear me babble about AstroTerra and Terralore?”
Nevan burst out laughing. “Of course. Why else would I run a place like this? I love talking about games. And you’ve got so much wild stuff going on in that account of yours. I don’t know—I like the idea of being part of it.”
Deckard smiled. “Very well then… Let me start with what I won last night.”
And just like that, he was off—recounting everything. The aftermath of beating Redbeard, the strange encounters with the Zulmers, unlocking the Card Master profession, and the disturbing implications of what T.H.E.I. was really doing. He walked Nevan through his current gear, the races he was considering, and the curious listings he’d spotted in the auction house.
Nevan listened without interrupting. He nodded along, occasionally frowning in thought. At one point, he grabbed a napkin and started scribbling on it, the pen tapping out a thoughtful rhythm.
For a moment, Deckard felt like a teenager again—back in his old room, cross-legged on the carpet, deep in conversation with Andy. They would argue over meta cards, draw diagrams on paper, and lose track of time debating the best loadouts.
The more Deckard spoke, the lighter he felt. Before coming here, he thought he just wanted to thank Nevan. But the truth ran deeper. Nevan reminded him of Andy—sharp, curious, grounded. One of the few people he’d met recently who made conversation feel effortless.
And it had been too long since he’d had a friend like that.
“…so that’s what I’m debating,” Deckard said, realizing only then how much he’d shared.
Nevan leaned back with a groan. “Whoa… You’re making my life difficult, Dexie.”
“Huh? How come?”
“You’re really tempting me. I swear, I’m this close to running out, grabbing a VR rig, and diving in headfirst. After you left yesterday, I spent every spare second reading up on the game.”
“That would actually be awesome. You should totally do that.”
Nevan paused, looking like he might seriously consider it. Then he slowly shook his head.
“I can’t. I’ve got a business to run. And once you’ve worked in game design, it’s hard to enjoy playing. Every system feels like a bug you forgot to fix. Every card’s a balancing headache. It’s like clocking back in, even when you’re supposed to be having fun.”
“I guess that makes sense…” Deckard leaned in slightly. “Anyway, if you were in my shoes, what would you do?”
“From what I was reading last night, there’s a new Terralore season each month, yeah?”
“Yeah… The next one starts in one week.”
If he wanted to climb to Regional, he’d need to spend most of his playtime in the Gaming Parlor until the end of the month. That was fine by him—more than fine. It was why he’d started playing AstroTerra in the first place.
Besides, he could still make progress on his Card Master profession. Even his [Arms’ Race] quest tied into it—he just had to keep winning cards from other players.
“That gives you time to settle on your decisions, right?” Nevan asked.
“Right. But I do have to deal with my gear problem sooner or later. And there’s that money to spend.”
“Okay… So, you mentioned gear for professions. Anything specific to Card Masters?”
“Nope. I checked. Nothing.”
“Hm. Then I’d focus on alignment. From a design’s perspective it seems to be the most universal, and one that should become more relevant as the game progresses. If your goal is to leave you with room to grow and keep your options open, alignment makes the most sense.”
“You already have the tricorn hat, and with that quest of yours, you’re kind of playing the hero role. Might as well lean into it. Can you help old ladies cross the street? Serve the poor at a soup kitchen? That kind of thing.”
“I haven’t checked. But I’m sure there’s something like that.”
“As for races… I’d go Oceanling.”
“Really? But there are so many other options.”
“Sure, but can’t you change it later? I mean, if there are quests to turn humans into Oceanlings, there’s probably a way to reverse it too, right? It wouldn’t make sense to offer lizardmen and Skylings as starting races without giving them a way to become human later. If I were in the game’s design team, I’d definitely include that kind of flexibility.”
“That… makes sense.”
“Plus, you’re already in the Water Caves region. Don’t you unlock special cards by completing collection milestones? Being an Oceanling would help you a lot with that. Figure the rest out later.”
“That’s a way to look at it.”
They continued to talk about the Card Master profession—its strange restrictions, its hidden potential. Then about decks, cards, and tournaments.
Somewhere along the way, the conversation drifted.
From cards to mechanics.
From mechanics to players.
From players to people.
It was seamless. Unforced. Deckard found himself laughing more than he had in weeks.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about the game. Or his financial situation.
He was just talking with his new best friend.