Queens at night was alive with different cultures, smells, and sounds, unlike sterile Manhattan. My destination, "The Rusty Mug," was a stale corner within that vibrancy.
My hands were sweaty, my stomach a tight knot. This was the first real test, an action on another human. A hundred disastrous scenarios flashed through my mind. My anxiety is acting up,was this going to be a Rogue-style life-drain? Would Thorne just drop dead, leaving me with a glowing hand and a murder charge? Or would it be some flashy, Ben 10-style transformation? It started when an alien device did what it did…God, I hoped not. The sheer number of unknowns was terrifying. Thorne wasn't just a target; he was my guinea pig.
"Raphael, final check," I thought, my mental voice a little shaky as I stood, "You're sure this is the best way? What if... what if it hurts him?"
"I'm just following the plan," I admitted, a little too quickly. "Your plan."
There was a pause, a thoughtful silence that was unusual for Raphael.
Her words struck me more deeply than any tactical analysis could. She wasn't just a supercomputer; she was my partner. And she was right. This was my choice. My risk.
"Yeah," I thought, my resolve hardening. "Our plan. Let's do it."
I pushed the bar door open and there, in a dimly lit booth, was my target. Dr. Aris Thorne.
I slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, ordered a cheap beer I had no intention of finishing, and became just another piece of the scenery.
Patience. I took a slow sip of the bitter beer, my eyes never leaving Thorne. The minutes crawled by, each one stretching my nerves tighter. Finally, Thorne drained his glass, sighed a heavy, rattling breath, and pushed himself unsteadily from the booth. He began a slow, slightly weaving path toward the back.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was my moment.
I slid off my stool, timing my movement. "[Origin Acquisition] activate," I thought. A faint, almost invisible shimmer of turquoise light coated my right hand.
As Thorne passed, I "stumbled," my body moving with a rehearsed clumsiness. "Whoa, sorry man," I mumbled, my hand brushing against the sleeve of his tweed jacket.
The contact lasted less than a second. There was no flash of green light, no "Joink!" sound effect.
The effect was instantaneous. A mental firehose blasted my soul with a tidal wave of information: blueprints, algorithms, schematics, code—a lifetime of genius. And some of his personal memories... eww, eww, Raphael, delete, delete!
"Thank god I chose you, Raphael," I thought, relieved. "Otherwise, I'd be utterly fucked up."
Thorne just grunted, oblivious, and continued on his way to the restroom, completely unharmed.
I dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar—more than enough for the beer—and walked out, my movements stiff and robotic. I didn't look back.
The cool night air hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled into an alleyway, leaning heavily against the cold brick, gasping for breath. My mind was reeling, settling, reorganizing itself.
Then, the chimes began, one after another in rapid succession.
[Through a specific action, multiple high-tier skills have been acquired!]
[Electrical Engineering (Master) Lvl. 67 has been created!]
[Advanced Programming (Expert) Lvl. 58 has been created!]
[Robotics Design (Expert) Lvl. 52 has been created!]
[Power Systems Management (Adept) Lvl. 45 has been created!]
I stared at the notifications in my mind's eye, bewildered. "Raphael, wait a second. Level 67? Level 58? I thought all new skills started at Level 1. How is this possible?"
The implication was staggering. I didn't just have the knowledge; I had the practiced ease that came with it.
"Raphael, the ROB's limitation was 'mind or might'," I thought, my mind racing as I tried to find the edges of my new reality. "But this was different. You processed raw memory into skills. Could you find a way to bypass that restriction for powers? If we copied someone's power, could you simultaneously process their memories of using it to create a high-level skill from the start?"
She paused for a moment.
'Wh...what is this? 'this strange feeling of being praised as a "good boy." Damn, Raphael is rekindling some of my milf fetishes, I mused, a smirk touching my lips.' Begone, demon, don't corrupt me.'
A slow, triumphant smile spread across my face. The nervousness was gone, replaced by the exhilarating hum of pure potential. I was still broke. I was still physically weak. But I had just stolen the mind of a genius.