I groan and pick myself up from where I must have fallen in the hot sand, pushing down on the wet clumps with my...

Powerful?  Muscular... clawed hands...?

Wait.

That can't be right, can it?

I should be, not to sugarcoat it, way the hell out of shape. A sedentary, low-paying job like piloting delivery drones for a Tote-Em-Snax will do that to you, especially when most of your diet needs to be the shit from the heat lamp display and slush dispensers that a convenience store would otherwise throw out. I am – should have been - fat; my roommate, Jules, got lean from getting around on a bike.

Self-deprecating jokes about how "round is a shape" aside, I absolutely should not be as strong as I feel; especially through the brainfogging, hangover-like fatigue pressing me down.

I bring a hand to a belly I could grate cheese off of and can feel core strength I never had, even during a misspent youth avoiding home by flitting between a basketball court, a soccer field, a kenpo dojo - and more arcades and internet cafes than I cared to count.

I rock back to kneeling, then hoist myself up, shaking sand out of long red hair I don't think I should have and three furry red tails I'm sure I shouldn't have, and look up, one clawed hand over my eyes to shield myself from the too-bright rays of a sun more white than golden.

I glance left and regret it, white reflecting off of endless rolling glass-green waves; I smell sea-salt and grasses and coconut and palm, hear the skittering of crabs.  

Pulling my vision to somewhere less blinding, I see above me a lifelike depiction of a unicorn in wood, white and gold paint starting to flake away from it.  Underneath it is several curved spars of stained wood, and a scroll with the word “BUENADVENTURA” under it.

And I snap to attention, taking a deep breath.

The rest of the ship – a small ship, a caravel with ruined triangular sails – lies in ruin, between the sand and the rock of the beach.  Something tore a great and jagged hole in the hull, barrels and crates spilling from it.  The main mast has snapped, what’s left of the sail billowing over the area, providing little shade and less shelter.

Which meant that this isn't Earth.  Hoo-boy.  This isn't even IRL.

The wreck of the Buenadventura is a place in The Wonders of Mundus – one of the five tutorial areas for the virtual world that made up the massive RPG.  The Shores of Awakening.

"Must have fallen asleep with my Helm on after the release party with the guild," I mutter to myself. "My haptics must have gone a little nuts, that’s all."

I bring up my own character sheet - which I can still do, apparently, holding one hand closed while another gestured ‘unrolling’ and making visible an invisible scroll – and look over it, the claw of one strangely delicate hand just under the words I was reading.

"Deedee Yeowoo, Vulpecian Cleric, Pilgrim of Sylphan - that figures," I mutter. "That makes sense."

And yes, my friends ribbed me for picking a Vulpecian. A dude going straight for the 6-foot plus shredded foxgirl was gonna get razzed; I’ve made my peace with that. Given that the options were two furry species, one scaly one, the flying potatoes, the elementals and Boring Old Humans, I wasn't terribly ashamed of going full gumiho.

It's not like it meant anything in the real world, right?

I scroll down to my statistics - and frown.

"Level... one?"

I blink.

"What the hell?! I was one quest away from the new cap last night, what the fuck?"

I scroll up and down, back and forth, and double check my stats and gear.

Deedee's equipment loadout, stats, Boon, Perk and Technique choices were correct for first level - max Vigor, max Spirit, and Resolve tossed straight into a dumpster (I was playing a support role, not tanking blows meant for my friends, and wanted more casts of healing and haste spells more than I wanted the extra HP).  My perk selections were all centered around mobility, healing, and attacks of opportunity.

But all of it was first level.  A starter build.

My friends in the guild – in Free Company Dungeon Crawling And Chill - were high-level raiders, fighting in high level dungeon raids against dragons or kraken or the Twelve Divine Beasts. 

On Valiant difficulty. For fun. 

I couldn’t think of a reason why I’d get nerfed this badly – which meant something was wrong.

I try to log out - to send a support ticket.

Emphasis on “try.”

"You know, I've seen enough anime that I should have known where this was going," I say.  “First day after the expansion drops and I wake up like this, I should have known I was in an isekai story.”

I laugh.  Once. But only because the alternative to laughing is worse.

Say what you will about busting your ass for a convenience store, at least it’s safe. I was now in a world with dragons and monsters, where an adventurer - where I - was expected to get together with a mercenary company for Crown-sanctioned murder as my day-job.

Which was why I might be hyperventilating a little as I check my equipment.

First off, my clothes. I had handwraps, legwraps, sandals and - I winced - chestwraps of cloth in Sylphan's faded sky blue, with a light jacket in saffron. A talismanic armor set - not great against physical blows, that was my job to parry, but theoretically proof against magical attacks.

God, things were going to throw Elfshot and fireballs and lightning at me. Fantastic. 

Breathe, Jake.

I saw my backpack a little further up the beach, among the scattered barrels from the wounded belly of the Buenadventura. My stuff hadn't scattered to the four winds yet, thank God.

Possibly literally. Part of me suspects that Sylphan wouldn't let His winds scatter my stuff, if I was one of His favored Clerics here - a thought that only sort of bothers my Jewish sensibilities.

It's a regular backpack, not a Marvelous Merchant's Pack - not yet; I do recall that you get that from the quest line with Tayeb (you know, the Jovial Merchant), so I'm less bothered by the loss than I could be.

Right.

I rifle through my pack. It's all starter equipment for a Cleric going down the Monk subclass tree. Not ideal, but not terrible.

Apparently snapping your fingers and saying a catchphrase doesn't start a transformation sequence, so I spend some time equipping myself. First, I find the prayer beads marked with the tail of Sylphan (useful for focusing your spells and also acting as a ward), then grab my staff and lash a glaive blade to it.

I'm, at least, no longer unarmed on the Shores of Awakening.

I test its heft, whipping it around a bit, the movements coming back to me as they did when I was guided by the haptics of the Neurohelm. Then I experimentally throw a punch, and my voice, in a kiai.

"HUT!"

It feels good. Proper, even; solid and graceful, and this body apparently knows how to follow through with a set of dance steps I didn't realize I had absorbed from playing Deedee with the haptics on. It feels right, feels reassuring.

And I'm not entirely sure why.

So I go back to my stuff, cataloging out loud.

"Bedroll, tent, waterskins, potions... incense, perfumes and almond oil?"

Oh, God, that's right, my 'Lay On Hands' perk during extended rests means exactly that: laying on hands. Magically supercharged massage therapy.

"That's not gonna get awkward at all, nope nope nope," I say as I rummage through the rest of my stuff to distract myself.

I just find:

• another icon to Sylphan,
• a blank scroll and some charcoal, and
• a very light purse, containing:
  • a few copper coins,
    • Each marked with a sheaf of wheat.

Then I hear screaming.

My ears twitch, swiveling towards the sound (and that's WEIRD, even if it's HELPFUL) - a feminine scream, hitting that soprano note.

I find myself bounding towards the sound of the fight before I can stop myself - and with a start, I realize that no, I'm actually bounding. I'm bouncing around like I've got wires strapped to me, vaulting using the butt of my glaive, Sylphan's winds rushing around me, lifting me up.

I can't help it; I laugh and whoop at a physical sensation I've never before, one my fat ass would never be able to do IRL.

Right before my back starts complaining that my chest isn't properly strapped down and the whiplash hurts.

I have just enough time to wonder why I didn't put more points into her Agility before I trip.

This tastes familiar, I think to myself as I pull myself up - and promise myself not to run full-tilt like that until I have...

"Call it a more visible means of supporting myself," I mutter.

Then I hear another scream - another scream, from the same throat, that then pitches down into a valkyrie's battlecry.

And realize what it means.

That's another Adventurer - another player.

Whatever brought me into this world didn't stop with me.