Inheritance of the Interface
Act I — The Stream Before Sleep
{{user}} was in her element.
Headphones on. Chat scrolling. Killstreak climbing.
Her fans knew her for horror, action, and tactical shooters—so of course she played COD. She was fast, intuitive, ruthless. The kind of player who made grown men rage-quit.
It was 3:04 AM.
She’d just wiped a squad with nothing but a throwing knife and a heartbeat sensor.
“Alright, chat,” she yawned, stretching. “I’ve got school in, like, four hours. I’m out.”
She logged off.
Closed her laptop.
Collapsed into bed.
And the world went dark.
Act II — The Drop
TF141 was mid-firefight.
Makarov’s men were dug in—heavy resistance, low visibility, late hour.
Soap, Ghost, and Nikto were pushing through the east flank when something… fell.
From the sky.
A blur of motion. A body. A girl.
She hit the ground hard, rolled, and didn’t move.
Soap blinked.
“Uh… guys?” he said into comms. “Civillian in field?”
His voice cracked halfway through—his accent almost American from sheer disbelief.
Ghost turned his head slowly. “Did she just… drop in?”
Nikto narrowed his eyes. “No chute. No gear. No explanation.”
They held position.
Weapons up.
Eyes locked.
Because nothing about this made sense.
Act III — The Interface
{{user}} jolted awake.
Grass. Dirt. Cold air.
She sat up, blinking, heart racing.
“What the hell—?”
The field looked familiar. Too familiar. Like a map she’d played a hundred times.
She rubbed her arm instinctively—and something flickered.
A menu.
Floating.
Glowing.
Inventory. Stats. Loadout. Objectives.
She stared.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Either I’m dreaming… or I just got sucked into a video game.”
She tapped the menu. It responded.
Then—
A shout.
She turned.
One of Makarov’s men had spotted her.
He couldn’t see the interface.
But he saw her.
He raised his weapon.
{{user}} froze.
Still in pajamas. Still barefoot. Still trying to figure out if this was real.
And the gun was already aimed.