Chapter 2

Stepping out of the van as dawn's first light broke, I strolled toward the fence, a yawn escaping my lips. "Morning, kiddo. What brings you out here at this hour? You should grab a bit more sleep," one of the men on watch remarked. "Good morning to you too. Could you point me to Wade's workshop?" I inquired. "Wade's over there—just follow the fence in either direction and look for the biggest tent. You'll see a Behemoth parked inside," he replied before turning back to his post. I felt the urge for a little workout. And broke into a jog along the fence.

As I ran, I took in the layout of the camp. A sturdy fence enclosed the perimeter, with a truck with a walkable roof stationed every two hundred meters. The outer ring was primarily occupied by parking lots, designed to shield the center from any stray bullets aimed at the watchmen. In the center, a collection of tents, trailers, and the occasional truck for food, water, and maintenance created a bustling hub. After all, there was little sense in moving everything into a tent only to haul it back out each time they navigate the no man's land.

"50 Athletics exp gained."

As I reached the other side of the camp I saw the Behemoth peeking out of a festival tent. Entering the tent I saw nobody around so I looked at the workbenches lined up on the wall of the tent covered with neatly ordered tools and machines. "Don't touch anything before making sure you know where to put it back." came a deep voice from under the truck.

"I wouldn't mix them up. No never." I answer while taking photos to back up my claim.

"Granny told me about your situation so you're mostly running around and fetching tools and putting them back for a while, till you know which is which." spoke Wade. "So please give me a wrench and a cross screwdriver." ordered he still from under the truck. "Here" I spoke as I gave him the things he wanted for a while.

As I reached the far side of the camp, I spotted the Behemoth peering from beneath the flap of a festival tent. Stepping inside, I found the space deserted, my gaze drawn to the workbenches aligned against the tent's walls, each one meticulously arranged with tools and machinery. "Don't touch anything until you're sure you know where it goes," rumbled a voice from beneath a truck.

"I wouldn't mix them up. No, never," I replied, snapping photos to justify my claim. "Granny filled me in on your condition. For now, you're mostly here to fetch tools and return them until you can tell one from the other," Wade said, still hidden beneath the truck. "So, hand me a wrench and a cross screwdriver," he instructed.

"Here you go," I said, passing him the requested tools.

"50 Athletics exp gained. Skill level up"

Shouldn't there be some kind of info drop or something similar?

"Good. You know your tools, so grab the biggest jack you can find, lift the front on the driver's side, and take off the wheel." Following the instructions, I grasp the impact wrench and attempt to remove the wheel bolts, but they refuse to budge. Returning to the workbenches, I secure the proper wrench and a length of pipe to extend its reach. I fit the wrench onto the stubborn bolt, slide the pipe over it, and jump on the pipe. The bolt loosens with a screech of metal, and I repeat this process until all bolts yield. Grabbing the impact wrench once more, I finish removing the bolts.

"50 Engineering exp gained."

Seizing the hand truck from its corner, I slide it beneath the wheel and drive it away.

"50 Engineering exp gained."

"Thanks, that's it for today. I'll take care of the rest," Wade said as he rose from the ground. Standing a shade over two meters tall, he had short black hair and was clad in a gray-blue stained shirt, blue work trousers and matching work boots.

"Where did you even get that Behemoth? I thought Militech only sold to corporations," I asked, rinsing my hands.

"Pretty simple. We looted it after accepting a contract from a small corporation in Seattle that specializes in em weapons. They needed us to eliminate a group of Raffen who were terrorizing their supply and trade routes. So we did the job and kept the two most damaged trucks for ourselves, returning the rest. They didn't even complain," Wade chuckled, recounting the tale.

"What do you mean they didn't complain? They're corpos; they always complain," I responded.

"Well, the Raffen used explosives to take out the first two trucks. They deployed a magnet to halt the explosives on the moving truck and then detonated them. They had enough firepower to breach the steel plating and shred all the lines and cables inside. Repairing one of those monsters takes about two months, so the corporation didn't find it cost-effective to fix them, which is why we're here," he explained.

"Even so, they'd normally find something to complain about. But where are Hans, Erik, and Yuriko?" I inquired as he wrapped up his story.

"Well, perhaps they had a good day or were simply happy to reclaim their possessions. Erik is the closest; he's stationed by the radio tower in a cargo container. Yuriko, too, is nearby, nestled inside an old news van, while Hans…well, he's as paranoid as ever, shifting his location daily. He'll track you down when he needs you." Wade replied.

As I made my way toward the center, I passed the food truck. After indulging in a meal and quenching my thirst, I resumed my search for his container. As I strolled past the outdoor cinema, I detected a sound emanating from within. Circling the container, I discovered it ajar, revealing a bald man inside who resembled a fusion of a Viking and an gun nut. He stood a bit under two meters tall, sporting a wild, untamed rust-brown beard, clad in a black tank top, dark biker pants, and heavy boots. The interior of the container was mostly bare. The walls were adorned with an array of weapons, from sniper rifles to a crossbow languishing in the corner. In the center was a narrow table on which a heavy machine gun lay disassembled. One corner harbored a barrel teeming with firearms, while the other housed numerous ammunition cases.

"Now, which should I modify first: the barrel, the shell ejection, the magazine capacity, or the cooling system? … Why not tackle them all and seek some targets to test it on? Yes, let's go for all of them," he muttered, his eyes gleaming with excitement and a broad grin stretching across his face.

As I looked more intently at the table, it became clear to me that the table before me were weapons cases, stacked one upon another. Each case bore the distinctive labels of Techtronika and Tsunami. Unsure whether to interrupt him as he reassembles the gun, I choose instead to quietly observe his work.

"50 Engineering exp gained."

"How long are you planning to stand there, Kassy? Take the Unity, M221 Saratoga, and the D5 Copperhead from the barrel and dismantle them," he said, still engrossed in his own work.

As I approached the barrel, I realization that it housed more than just firearms; an impressive array of knives, swords—both Western and Eastern—and blunt weapons formed an outer layer, concealing the guns within.

I lifted the weapons and laid them out on the table, searching for the necessary tools until Erik waved, producing a set from seemingly nowhere. Once I had disassembled all three firearms, I examined their components, noting several damaged pieces within. Just as I was about to inquire about replacement parts, Erik pulled out a box and a gun maintenance kit. "The parts in here should fit. Remove the damaged components, clean and oil the rest, and then reassemble the guns. Afterward, you'll need to test them, so make sure they go back together in the right order."

"Who still uses swords and such in this day and age?" I asked, fingers deftly reassembling the weapons. "They're often employed by those fast enough to evade bullets and those in the need of silence. Or by wannabe posers. They rarely fail as long as you're not up against a thermal blade or a tank; then you're either foolish or just plain unlucky."

"150 Engineering exp gained. Skill level up"

"Okay, I'm finished." I remarked, checking the shell ejection. "Great, follow me to the range. And grab a case of ammo." He replied, hoisting the HMG onto his shoulder and scooping up a hefty case labeled "Heavy."

I clutched the guns in one hand and the ammo case in the other as I followed him out of the container. We veered left toward the fence, passing by other clan members who seemed unbothered by the guns. As we reached the fence and traced it to the left, we soon found ourselves at a makeshift open gate leading out of the camp.

As I stepped through it, I was met by the sight of a sand-covered slope rising before me, dotted with a few scorched cars, on their sides were metal sheats marked as targets along the road. We came to a halt about fifty meters away from the nearest car, beside an Archer Hella EC-V i660, as an off-roader equipped with a crystal dome system and fortified with reinforced steel plates.

"Here are the targets. Let's see if you can still shoot as well as you used to or if your amnesia has made you forget those muscle memories," Erik said as he carefully placed the HMG on the car's hatch. Leaning the Copperhead and the Saratoga against the vehicle, I opened the ammunition case, grabbed a magazine, and loaded the Unity.

How does one shoot a pistol? I had never fired a real gun, only a toy. My confusion must have been evident on my face; I had no clue about handling a firearm. "First, spread your legs a bit; stand mostly straight, hold the gun with both hands, and aim at the target," Erik instructed.

I tried to adopt the stance as he described and aimed at the target. "Now unlock the safety and fire at the center a few times."

Firing for the first time in two lives, and missing the target entirely, left me torn between laughter and tears. Shaking off the moment, I adjusted my stance and aimed a little lower. Barely grazing the outer edges of the target, I tried again. As I began to acclimate to the recoil, I found my aim improving, hitting the edges of the target more consistently until the magazine was empty.

"4 out of 12. Not great, but it's your first time pulling the trigger. Give it another shot with the Copperhead."

"100 Handgun exp gained. Skill unlocked."

I slid the Unity into one of my jacket pockets, then took out the Copperhead, loading it with a steady hand, removing the safety, and setting it to single shot. Steeling myself, I aimed once more at the target. As I stood there, a thought flickered in my mind, prompting me to crouch slightly. I squeezed the trigger, firing in short bursts until the magazine was empty.

"200 Assault exp gained. Skill unlocked."

"18 out of 30. An improvement, though largely a matter of beginners' luck. Now, the Saratoga"

Still firing from my crouched stance, I unleash the entire magazine in full auto.

"150 Assault exp gained. Skill level up."

While there is no knowledge infusion into my brain it still feels like something is guiding me as I shoot.

"10 out of 40. That's because you failed to check the firing mode before pulling the trigger. Now give the Unity another try, but this time crouch, draw, and empty the magazine," he instructed regarding my shooting technique.

Setting the SMG aside alongside the rifle, I reloaded the pistol and tucked it back into my pocket. Crouching low and focusing on the target, I swiftly drew the Unity and unleashed its full magazine at the mark.

"200 Handgun exp gained. Skill level up"

"11 out of 12. Good, now use the rifle in burst mode until you achieve seventy percent accuracy per magazine."

"Why not target the ones farther away?" I queried, emptying another magazine.

"Because before you can hit a target a hundred meters out, you need to reliably hit one at fifty," Erik replied as I continued to squeeze the trigger. After ten magazines, I finally hit the mark.

"500 Assault exp gained. Assault skill level up"

"Again with the SMG, this time in burst mode and while standing. Take a moment after each magazine to reflect on what you could improve. Then aim for the hundred-meter target. But before you do any of that, stop shooting and replace the metal sheet on the target; they're in the burnt-out car," he said before strolling back into the camp.

As I walked toward the car, I regarded the target—or what was left of the metal sheet. It swayed with the wind, as if it might crumple under each gust. Retrieving one of the metal sheets from the charred remains of the car, I positioned it in the holding mechanism in front of the old target. After emptying another eight magazines into the new target, I finally nailed the accuracy.

"350 Assault exp gained. Skill level up."

Switching to burst mode, I unleashed a flurry of shots at the hundred-meter target, landing no more than five hits with the first magazine, seven with the second, until I finally reached the last magazine with a total of eighteen hits.

"Do I want to gun down people from afar, or is it preferable to cut them up close and personal? Honestly, I don't quite grasp the obsession some have with their firearms; the notion of shooting someone down and taking what's theirs feels utterly bizarre. In days gone by, one had to train for years to slay someone with a bow or a sword. The advantages are being at a distance, affording you the chance to flee if you miss, but the downside is that your foes also wield guns and might shoot you in the back. Why can't the world revert to the Middle Ages, where people simply smashed each other's heads to pieces?" Setting down the slightly glowing Saratoga, I stared at the remains of the two targets and mumbled to myself.

"400 Assault exp gained."

"That's because it's far cheaper to train a man for a month, hand him a rifle, and send him to his doom than to spend a year honing his skills with a sword, only to send him to the same fate. And that's not even considering the armor both would require," Erik replied, drawing near with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, a blade at his waist, and a greatsword strapped to his back.

Before I realized it, I stepped toward him, seized the bow along with an arrow, turned to face the target, stood tall, pulled back the string, and let the arrow fly. It soared directly into the center and lodged there.

"100 Marksman exp gained. Skill unlocked"

"Why does it feel so effortless with the bow? That dream about the scene in For Honor returns to mind. In my past life, I occasionally wielded a bow, particularly when I was younger, but not enough to have this sense of familiarity." I pondered this quietly, my words a mere whisper to myself as I fixed my gaze on the target.

"Everyone has their own strengths and weaknesses. Yours, I suspect, lies in rapid-fire weapons. Despite your improvement, you've expended more ammunition than an entire squad of four would require to achieve the level of accuracy you now possess. You were skilled with the pistol and will likely excel as a sniper, but as a standard infantryman? Not so much," he chuckled before continuing. "With the bow, you're truly… what's the word… more at ease than with the Copperhead. So go ahead and experiment with the rest of the quiver to see where it leads you."

As I equipped the quiver and aimed at the target, I let fly half of the arrows in quick succession. Most found their mark near the center, though a few strayed. Switching to the hundred-meter target, I released the remaining arrows. Of the fifteen, two struck the center; seven hit the target, and six missed entirely.

"250 Marksman exp gained. Skill level up"

Why is it that I find it easier to shoot a bow than to wield a gun? It seems illogical. It should be the opposite, yet the bow feels like an extension of my very being, and the journey to correct my flaws as I hone my skills with it feels distinct from the more mechanical nature of firearms training.

"Some people, when they discover a natural talent, seem to excel at it for no apparent reason. Others might even recall how to do it after suffering memory loss from an accident," Erik remarked, noting my skeptical gaze fixed on the targets.

"Now, do you still want to shoot a bit longer, or are we calling it a day?"

I lifted my gaze to the sky, catching sight of the setting sun, and suddenly realized my stomach was growling. "I think that's enough for today. Do you need help moving the guns back inside?" I replied blushing as I gathered the arrows from the targets.

"No, I still need to test the modified HMG, so I'm going to take the guns and try them out on some targets in the badlands. You should head back to camp, grab something to eat, and spend some time with the family. Do it before you find yourself all alone, far from home, with no way back," Erik replied, his gaze lingering on the sky, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

"Oh, and before I forget, you can have the bow. You're the only one in the family who knows how to use it, so it's better off with you than gathering dust in a corner." I thanked him and slung the bow diagonally across my shoulder.

Back at the camp, I grabbed some food and settled down next to Jessica and Cathrin. It wouldn't change anything to keep avoiding them because I felt guilty about the transmigration.

"Did you learn anything more about the mercs?" I prompt, struggling to navigate the delicate 'Hey, I'm not your daughter or granddaughter, so please don't confuse me with her. She's gone' conversation.

"Not much. Someone sold your bike in Heywood to a car fixer this morning and then vanished into Downtown. Why do you ask? Do you remember anything?" Cathrin's voice lifted with a glimmer of hope.

"No, I still don't recall anything from before I woke up yesterday, but I'm at a loss for what else to tell you." It took some time for me to steady myself enough to say it.

"I'm sorry. It's just… confusing to see her and know that beneath her skin—beneath your skin—is a different person. Maybe it'll get easier with time, but right now, seeing you feels like a walking reminder of my failure as a parent," Jessica replied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I can't imagine what she might say about it, but I would argue that you did everything within your power to shield her from harm," I stated before continuing. "Perhaps it would be best for me to leave the clan for a time, to give us all a chance to adjust to our new reality."

"No!" "Absolutely not!" they both cried out in response to my suggestion.

"I don't mean immediately. I'm thinking more along the lines of after we uncover why a band of mercenaries ambushed me."

"Oh, well… That could take weeks, maybe even months. Particularly if they're on a contract. We'll have to track down their fixer and somehow persuade him to reveal who his client was," Cathrin replied.

"I understand that. But truthfully, I'm at a loss for words when it comes to speaking with anyone. It's like standing face-to-face with someone, and when they finish speaking, you find yourself utterly tongue-tied, no matter how hard you try."

"You really resemble the person you used to be. She too struggled with conversation, always lingering on the outskirts of groups rather than joining them. There's nothing wrong with having difficulty in social situations, but as long as you're willing to change, you can," Jessica said gently.

"But how can I change? It's not as if I can just flip a switch in my mind and suddenly become a charismatic person."

"Well, for that, you would first need to understand what you enjoy, and then find someone who shares those interests with you. Did you find any joy in what you did over the past couple of days?" Cathrin suggested.

"I enjoyed helping Thomas with the signal—more accurately, I loved the kids' cheers when their show appeared on screen. So, it's really about helping others. I don't particularly dislike repairing things, but it's not really my forte. You know what I mean, right? Other than that, I found pleasure in handling the bow, and to a lesser extent, the pistol."

"So you're into helping and weapons—that pretty much defines a merc," Jessica replied, her expression clouded with dissatisfaction.

"If you observe the life within a nomad clan, you'll see we're not so different from a mercenary outfit. We take on jobs from fixers and tackle their problems head-on," Cathrin explained.

Honestly, I'm at a loss about what I truly want. Being a merc seems like it could offer an intriguing experience, yet the thought of chasing down some stranger just for a paycheck doesn't sit well with me. When it comes to scavs, Raffens, and their ilk, I wouldn't think twice about taking them out. Who wouldn't, after all?

The nomad life also has its allure; the chance to discover a whole new world. I'd never be alone, always surrounded by family. The only drawback I can foresee involves any corporations that might take issue with nomads encroaching on their territory.

"I still think it's best for me to step away for a while. It would give you time to sort things out and allow me to explore life beyond the clan," I said. "If that's your wish, then once we've dealt with the merc situation, you can go. But for now, let's eat before it gets any colder," Cathrin advised.

After they finished their meal, Jessica and Cathrin exchanged good nights and walked away into the night.

As soon as they were out of sight, the twins came bounding towards me and settled themselves on the opposite side of the table. "Can you really not remember anything at all?" Lynne asked, her expression tinged with sadness.

"No, I can't. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it," I replied.

"Then can we please spend the night in your camper? We want to be with you," Lyra said, her voice quiet but laced with hope.

Their eyes met mine, pleading without words: "Please do it. Please do it."

"Of course, you can sleep with me in my camper. Do you need anything for the sleepover?"

They exchanged glances, then shook their heads in response. 'What am I forgetting? Ah, the water.' We got up and made our way to the food truck first to grab a couple of water bottles. Once we reached my camper, they slipped inside and launched themselves onto the bed, eagerly fumbling with a panel on the side.

Before I could caution them to stop, they popped open the panel and retrieved a small box.

"Here, this is yours. You once showed us where you hid your valuables. You also let us use your laptop whenever we want," Lynne said, a barely perceptible smirk playing at the corners of her lips as she handed me the box.

"You can use it whenever you like, but not for too long—remember, you still need to sleep. And thanks for reminding me about the stash," I said as they powered up the laptop.

Settling onto the bed, I placed the box in my lap. Examining the box carefully, I searched for an opening mechanism but found none; it was an unassuming plastic box, seamless and ordinary. "Do you know how to open this?" I asked the twins, still fiddling with it.

"You said you need a password via your cyberdeck or something like that. We were searching online when you told us," Lyra replied, her attention fixed on the screen.

If that's the case, I should return the box to the stash. Reassembling the box and panel, I turned to the twins, who were engrossed in the glow of the laptop as though their entire world lay within the screen. "What are you looking for?" I inquired.

"We want to find out what happens in the next episode of the red-haired ninja prankster. The last episode ended on such a cliffhanger! The villain's monologue just went on forever," Lynne exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Doesn't that make watching the next episode less thrilling? Or do you both just want to spoiler to the other kids?" I mused, a faint smile creeping onto my face.

They flushed at my question. "N-No, we'd never do that!" they both stammered.

"I'm not well-versed in spoilers, but I do know that watching the show with others is far more enjoyable than knowing what happens ahead of time. So how about you close the laptop, and get some sleep? That way, you'll be one day closer to the next episode?" I suggested.

They exchanged wistful glances, then, with a shared resolve, shut the laptop. "If we're sleeping, then so are you!" Lyra shouted as she and Lynne pounced on me, tackling me to the bed.

They nestled into my embrace, overwhelmed, as silent tears streamed down their faces. "I'm sorry I'm not her. But give me some time, and maybe I'll become a little like her," I whispered, guilt washing over me as I held them close. We remained like that for several minutes until the gentle rhythm of their breathing told me they had drifted off to sleep. There was no point in staying awake like this, so I closed my eyes. Just before I succumbed to sleep, I thought I heard the arrival of two notifications.