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The Effects of A Gamer Chapter 2
🕑 Added 2025-07-02 17:19:43 +0000 UTC(Just to be Frank, i may make mistakes in this story and will be called out for it on the simple premise of not remembering that there was so and so perk in chapter 20 that made the current situation obsolete and stuff. I don't know how gamer writers do it but i am sure i wont remember everything. Just saying.)
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Ian Phillips had woken up like every other day—shower, teeth brushed, heading out the door to another mundane day at his office job. The morning sun was just breaking through the clouds when he stepped onto the sidewalk, his mind already drifting to the day's meetings and deadlines. The familiar weight of his messenger bag hung from his shoulder, and the scent of fresh coffee from the corner shop mingled with the crisp morning air. It was a perfectly ordinary moment in a perfectly ordinary life.
He never saw it coming.
A truck—literally on fire, horn blaring madly—came hurtling down the street like a bat out of hell. People screamed, their voices piercing the morning calm like shattered glass. Ian turned, his coffee slipping from suddenly numb fingers. The world slowed to a crawl, each millisecond stretching into eternity. He could see every detail with horrifying clarity—the driver's panicked face, the flames licking at the engine compartment, the way the sunlight glinted off the chrome grille rushing toward him.
"Oh sh—" was all he managed before impact. The words died in his throat as metal met flesh. A blinding flash of pain exploded across his consciousness, then—mercifully—nothing.
Once more Truck-kun had mercilessly claimed another victim.
Darkness. Complete and absolute. No light, no sound, no sensation. Just a void where consciousness should be. No tunnel of light, no life flashing before his eyes—just nothingness stretching into infinity.
Then, consciousness slammed back into him like a physical force, every nerve ending firing simultaneously. Ian's eyes snapped open, but everything was wrong. The ceiling above him wasn't his familiar off-white with the water stain that resembled Australia. The bed beneath him felt different—harder, lumpier, the sheets rough against his skin. And when he stumbled to the bathroom, heart pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, the face staring back from the mirror wasn't his own.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the cracked tile walls. His hands frantically touched the unfamiliar face—younger, with sharper features, dark hair instead of his sandy brown, and piercing blue eyes where his had been hazel. The skin felt strange under his fingertips, as if he were touching someone else through his own nerves. A stranger's face responding to his touch.
He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it against his skin momentarily grounding him. He hoped this was some bizarre dream, some stress-induced hallucination that would fade with enough sensory input, but the strange reflection remained, water dripping from features that weren't his. Stumbling back to the bedroom of the small, dingy apartment, his nostrils filled with the musty scent of old carpet and stale air, he noticed a wallet on the nightstand and rifled through it with trembling hands.
The ID card inside showed the face from the mirror: "Arthur Morrigan, 25." The address matched this apartment. There was a security guard certification, a few dollars, and not much else. The plastic felt real between his fingers, the embossed lettering catching on his thumb as he ran it over the surface.
"This isn't possible," he muttered, sitting heavily on the bed, which creaked in protest. The sound was so mundane, so real, that it made the impossibility of his situation even more terrifying. "I'm... I'm Arthur now? But I remember being Ian. I remember everything..."
His mind raced like a hamster on a wheel, going nowhere but unable to stop. Was he the same Arthur from the photo but with Ian's memories transplanted? Or was he Ian's consciousness inhabiting Arthur's body? The existential implications made his head spin, a nauseating vertigo that had nothing to do with physical movement.
"Fuck, this is not the time for a philosophical crisis," he growled, pressing his palms against his temples, feeling the pulse of blood vessels beneath the skin.
First things first—did Arthur have family? He closed his eyes, trying to access memories that weren't originally his but somehow now resided in his brain, like files downloaded to a new computer.
Images flashed behind his closed eyelids, as vivid as if he were watching a movie: A stern-faced man in expensive clothes, his cologne a suffocating cloud of sandalwood and ambition. A woman with a tight smile that never reached her eyes, diamond earrings catching the light as she turned away. A modest house that became a mansion, the smell of fresh paint and new furniture. A mother and sister, both gone in an accident—the scent of burning metal and gasoline, screams that haunted nightmares. Then the uncle—James Morrigan—taking in his orphaned nephew, his large hand heavy on a young boy's shoulder.
"Uncle James," Arthur whispered, the name bitter on his tongue like a pill dissolving too slowly.
The memories turned darker, shadows stretching across his mind. James Morrigan was not a gentle man. Having made his millions in space mining, he demanded excellence from his ward—excellence Arthur could never quite deliver. The sting of disappointment hung in the air after every report card, every athletic competition, every business discussion. Good grades, a few athletic achievements, business acumen—nothing was ever enough. The constant refrain: "Is this really the best you can do?" still echoed in his ears.
When Arthur failed to get into the prestigious business program James had selected, his uncle had tried to force him into military service "to make a man of him." The argument had been explosive, words like shrapnel tearing into flesh. Arthur had run away instead, the slam of the front door still reverberating in his memory, and the last message he'd received was James washing his hands of him, sending a paltry 1,000 dollars with a note: "This is all you'll ever get from me. Make something of yourself or don't—I no longer care."
Since then, Arthur had bounced between odd jobs—security gigs, a stint in the National Guard, manual labor. Currently, he worked security at a construction site, barely making enough to afford this shabby apartment. The constant struggle of living paycheck to paycheck, the gnawing anxiety of never having enough, the loneliness of having no one to call when things got tough—all these feelings were suddenly his, memories of a life he hadn't lived until now.
But all of that paled in comparison to the other revelations bombarding his mind, cascading through his consciousness like a waterfall.
Humanity reaching for the stars. The discovery of Prothean ruins on Mars, scientists in hazmat suits reverently touching alien artifacts. Element zero, glowing blue in containment fields. Mass relays, enormous structures spinning in the void. The First Contact War with the turians, the sound of alien weapons firing, the smell of blood and fear. The Citadel Council, vast and imposing, alien faces looking down from on high.
"Holy shit," Arthur breathed, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin, the chill raising goosebumps on his arms. "I'm in the Mass Effect universe."
The implications hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.
"The Reapers. The fucking Reapers are going to make me into human soup." The words came out as a horrified whisper, his throat constricting around them.
He stumbled to the window, pulling back the blinds to confirm what his new memories already told him, dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streamed in. The New York skyline wasn't the one he remembered from his life as Ian. Sleek skyscrapers with curved, organic designs reached higher than should be possible, their surfaces gleaming in the morning light. Flying vehicles—actual fucking flying cars—zipped between buildings in orderly lanes, the distant hum of their engines creating a constant background noise.
"What year is it?" he muttered, fumbling for the datapad on the nightstand. The device lit up at his touch, the screen cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, displaying the date: April 17, 2160.
Arthur's breath caught in his throat, a small gasp of realization. Twenty-three years before the events of the first game. Before Eden Prime. Before Shepard became a Spectre. Before the Reapers revealed themselves. The weight of future history pressed down on him, knowledge of disasters yet to come.
"I have time," he whispered, his mind racing with possibilities, heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope. "Holy shit, I have time to prepare. But fucking how? I got nothing…." His voice cracked on the last word, the enormity of his situation threatening to crush him.
Just as fresh panic threatened to overwhelm him, a translucent blue screen materialized in the air before his eyes, casting an ethereal glow across his face and illuminating the dust particles floating in the air.
Welcome to the Gamer version 2.0
Arthur froze, then nearly jumped for joy, a burst of wild laughter escaping his lips. "I'm saved!" The relief was so intense it made him dizzy, his knees nearly buckling.
Welcome user-909387938830. Loading starter Traits…
The screen expanded, displaying information in neat, organized panels, the text crisp and clear against the blue background:
Name: Arthur Morrigan
Alpha Class: The Gamer
Level: 5
TRAITS:
[Gamer's Mind]: Immunity to panic, fear, or mental interference. Cold calculation under pressure.
[Gamer's Body]: Heals via rest or potions; stats govern physical and mental performance.
[Interface HUD]: Sees XP gains, skill trees, threat levels, quest prompts, relationship meters.
[Class System]: Can multi-class between Soldier, Vanguard, Engineer, Adept, or create hybrid builds.
[Choice Echo]: Arthur's decisions ripple across the galaxy more strongly than others'. Even minor choices can diverge reality from canon.
ATTRIBUTES:
Strength: 5/50 - Average physical power. You can hold your own in basic combat and carry standard gear.
Dexterity: 5/50 - Decent reflexes and agility. You can dodge incoming fire and handle firearms with acceptable accuracy.
Endurance: 5/50 - Solid stamina and health. You can sprint, fight, and take a few hits before retreating.
Intelligence: 5/50 - Quick, observant mind. You process information like a tactician and interface well with technology.
Willpower: 5/50 - Mentally steady. You can resist panic, minor psychic interference, and mental stress.
Charisma: 5/50 - Able to talk your way through most situations and persuade when needed.
Luck: 5/50 - Even fortune. Sometimes things break your way, sometimes they don't.
You have 10 free points.
"This is... incredible," Arthur murmured, scanning the information, his eyes darting across the floating display. A gamer system in the Mass Effect universe? The possibilities were staggering, stretching out before him like an unexplored galaxy.
He quickly opened the class system, revealing detailed descriptions of his options, each one accompanied by a small animated icon:
☠️ Soldier – Combat Specialist
Style: Guns, grenades, battlefield resilience
Stat Boosts: +5 Strength, +5 Endurance
Bonus Perk: Adrenaline Rush – Briefly slows time for perfect shots
Weapon Proficiency: All standard weapons (ARs, shotguns, snipers, pistols)
Armor Proficiency: Heavy
Role: Frontline damage, durability, raw power
🧠 Adept – Biotic Specialist
Style: Gravity manipulation, area control, mind over matter
Stat Boosts: +5 Willpower, +5 Intelligence
Bonus Perk: Warp Field – Disrupts barriers, armor, and organics
Biotic Powers: Throw, Pull, Singularity, Warp, Shockwave
Armor Proficiency: Light
Role: Biotic control, AoE damage, crowd disruption
🔧 Engineer – Tech Master
Style: Drones, sabotage, hacking, trap setting
Stat Boosts: +5 Intelligence, +5 Dexterity
Bonus Perk: Combat Drone – Deploys an AI-controlled drone
Tech Powers: Overload, Incinerate, Cryo Blast, AI Hacking
Armor Proficiency: Light
Role: Control support, anti-shield/anti-synthetic, gadgets
🎯 Infiltrator – Stealth Sniper & Hacker
Style: Stealth, sharpshooting, precision kills
Stat Boosts: +5 Dexterity, +5 Intelligence
Bonus Perk: Tactical Cloak – Grants temporary invisibility and crit bonus
Powers: Incinerate, Cryo Ammo, Tactical Cloak, Sabotage
Armor Proficiency: Medium
Role: Stealth assassin, critical strikes, recon specialist
💥 Vanguard – Biotic Brawler
Style: High-risk, close-range biotic shock trooper
Stat Boosts: +5 Strength, +5 Willpower
Bonus Perk: Biotic Charge – Slam into enemies at high speed
Powers: Pull, Charge, Shockwave, Nova
Armor Proficiency: Medium
Role: Melee + biotic burst, frontline duelist, disruptor
Arthur considered his options carefully, his mind weighing the pros and cons of each class, imagining himself in different combat scenarios. The Adept was tempting with its powerful biotic abilities, the purple glow of mass effect fields dancing across his imagination. The Engineer offered versatility and technical superiority that could be invaluable. But in his gut, he knew what he needed most.
"Soldier," he decided firmly, his voice steady with newfound resolve. "I need to know how to handle weapons, and I need to be tough enough to survive whatever's coming." The practicality of combat training, the reliability of guns and armor—these were foundations he could build upon.
The interface flashed with confirmation, a pleasant chime sounding as knowledge and muscle memory flooded into his mind—how to field strip an assault rifle, the weight and balance of different weapons, proper shooting stance, tactical movement patterns, grenade trajectories. His mind filled with combat scenarios, threat assessments, tactical analyses. He felt his body changing too, muscles becoming more defined, fat melting away, reflexes sharpening. His posture straightened unconsciously, shoulders squaring, chin lifting.
Arthur's attributes updated instantly as the Soldier class took effect, the numbers shifting before his eyes:
Strength: 10/50 - Noticeably stronger than most. You can handle heavier weapons, punch harder, and carry more gear.
Dexterity: 5/50 - Your reflexes and aim remain baseline. Competent, but not yet masterful.
Endurance: 10/50 - Significantly increased stamina and health. You can fight longer and take more punishment.
Intelligence: 5/50 - Your mind remains quick and alert, processing information efficiently at a basic level.
Willpower: 5/50 - Mental fortitude is stable. Biotic potential remains average.
Charisma: 5/50 - Socially functional and reasonably persuasive.
Luck: 5/50 - Standard fortune, neither blessed nor cursed.
"Five points left," Arthur muttered, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He considered his options, the possibilities branching out before him. "All into Luck. In this universe, I'm going to need every break I can get." He thought of the countless near-misses in the games, the narrow escapes, the razor-thin margins between victory and defeat.
The interface updated again with a soft ping:
Luck: 10/50 - Your luck has noticeably improved. Better loot, higher critical hit chances, and more frequent "good breaks" in various situations. The universe has started to favor you.
The blue screen suddenly glowed gold, pulsing with energy that bathed the dingy apartment in warm light, and two choices appeared:
[Gacha Trait] or [Gacha Item]
"Trait," Arthur said immediately, not even needing to think about it. A virtual wheel appeared, spinning rapidly with dozens of possible traits flashing by too quickly to read, a blur of text and colors. Finally, it slowed and stopped on:
[Singularity Core]
"You are the storm. Not a wielder of biotics—but their source."
Your biotic strength surpasses even the most powerful Asari Matriarchs, Krogan Battlemasters, or Reaper-enhanced Vanguards. You are a walking black hole.
Biotic abilities scale beyond the stat cap of Willpower (can exceed 50).
Your Singularity can absorb other biotic powers and evolve.
Barrier generation is passive and regenerates in combat.
You can eventually develop original biotic powers.
"Holy shit," Arthur whispered as his body began to glow—first bright blue, like the gentle radiance of element zero, then shifting to a deep, unsettling purple that cast eerie shadows across the walls. He felt power surging through him, crackling along his nervous system, threatening to explode outward. The air around him began to distort, small objects lifting from surfaces, the very atmosphere seeming to bend. With instincts he didn't know he possessed, he pulled the energy inward, containing it before it could destroy the apartment, feeling it settle into his core like a miniature star.
The glow faded, but he could still feel it thrumming beneath his skin, a constant vibration just below perception, a subtle resonance in his bones and blood, a constant reminder of the incredible power now at his disposal. Power that, without training, might be as dangerous to him as to his enemies. The air smelled faintly of ozone, and his skin tingled with residual energy.
"Okay," he breathed, trying to center himself, inhaling deeply and feeling the power respond to his breath. "I'm Arthur Morrigan. I'm in the Mass Effect universe. I have the Gamer system. And I'm apparently now a biotic powerhouse. Now what?" His thoughts whirled with possibilities, plans forming and dissolving as he considered his next move.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment.
Arthur tensed, then cautiously approached the door, his newly enhanced body moving with unconscious grace. He peered through the peephole, heart pounding against his ribs. Two people in Systems Alliance uniforms stood outside—a grizzled-looking soldier with a weathered face and a stern expression, his uniform bearing the marks of combat experience, and a woman with long dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, her posture ramrod straight, eyes scanning the hallway with professional vigilance.
Taking a deep breath, feeling the biotic energy respond to his tension, Arthur opened the door, the hinges creaking slightly.
"Arthur Morrigan?" the woman asked, her voice clipped and professional, with a subtle accent he couldn't quite place. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in every detail of his appearance.
"Yes?" He tried to keep his voice steady, conscious of the power humming just beneath his skin, wondering if they could somehow sense it.
"Lieutenant Commander Sarah Ellison, Systems Alliance Navy," she said, flashing an ID, the holographic verification glinting in the hallway light. "This is Sergeant Major Kovacs. We need you to come with us." Her tone left no room for argument.
The Only thing he could think of was one word. "Shit!"
Arthur found himself hustled into an unmarked Alliance shuttle, his hastily packed duffel bag tossed unceremoniously into a storage compartment. Lieutenant Commander Ellison sat across from him, her posture military-perfect even in the shuttle's uncomfortable seats. Sergeant Major Kovacs took position by the door, his weathered face revealing nothing as the shuttle's engines hummed to life.
"Am I in trouble?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the cabin like a heavy blanket.
Ellison glanced up from her datapad. "No, Mr. Morrigan. You're not in trouble."
That was apparently all the explanation he was going to get. Arthur nodded, settling back into his seat. Strangely, he felt no anxiety, no racing heart, no sweaty palms—just a cool, analytical calm washing over him. The Gamer's Mind trait was working overtime, keeping his emotions in check when any reasonable person would be freaking out.
If they're lying, I can always blast my way out, he thought, feeling the biotic energy humming just beneath his skin like a coiled serpent. The mental image of unleashing his newfound power—making Hiroshima look like a wet fart—brought a small smile to his face. He quickly suppressed it, not wanting to appear unhinged to his military escorts.
The shuttle ride lasted nearly an hour, taking them to what appeared to be a nondescript military compound outside the city. From the air, Arthur could see it was larger than it initially seemed, with several buildings arranged in a careful pattern and a landing pad where three other shuttles were already docked.
"This way," Ellison directed as they disembarked, leading him through a series of security checkpoints. Each one required biometric scans—fingerprints, retinal patterns, even a DNA swab. Arthur submitted to them all without complaint, his pulse remaining steady where others might have panicked.
Thank you, Gamer's Mind, he thought as a medical officer drew blood from his arm. Otherwise I'd be losing my shit right about now.
"Physical assessment next," announced a crisp-voiced doctor, leading Arthur into what looked like a high-tech gym. "Strip to your underwear, please."
For the next two hours, they put him through his paces—running on treadmills, lifting weights, flexibility tests, reaction time measurements. Arthur performed well above average on every test, his newly enhanced Soldier physique easily handling the challenges. The medical staff exchanged surprised glances when he completed the endurance run without breaking a sweat, his breathing still even and controlled.
"Remarkable cardiovascular efficiency," one doctor murmured, making notes on her datapad. "Muscle density is 18% above baseline for his demographic."
Arthur kept his expression neutral. If they only knew.
After the physical tests came cognitive assessments—pattern recognition, spatial reasoning, memory recall. Again, Arthur performed exceptionally well, though he deliberately missed a few questions to avoid appearing superhuman. The Gamer system had enhanced his mental processing without making it obvious.
Finally, they led him to a small waiting room with uncomfortable plastic chairs and told him to sit tight. Arthur settled in, watching the minutes tick by on a wall-mounted clock. Forty-three minutes later, the door opened.
A stern-faced woman in an Alliance uniform entered, carrying two thick files. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a single strand out of place, and her eyes were sharp with intelligence and suspicion.
"Mr. Morrigan," she said, taking the seat across from him. "I'm Commander Hayes. I have some questions for you."
She opened the first file—his medical results—and scanned them with a raised eyebrow.
"Your physical condition is... interesting," she began, her tone suggesting 'interesting' wasn't necessarily a compliment. "According to your financial records, you've been living paycheck to paycheck for the past three years. Your nutrition should be suboptimal. Yet your muscle mass, bone density, and overall health indicators suggest someone with access to premium nutrition and regular training."
She looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Care to explain?"
Arthur shrugged, keeping his expression casual. "I exercise. Bodyweight stuff mostly—pushups, pullups. Running in the park. You don't need fancy equipment to stay in shape."
"And your diet?"
"I'm careful with what I eat. Beans and rice are cheap and nutritious. I supplement with multivitamins when I can afford them."
Commander Hayes didn't look convinced, but she moved on, opening the second file—his background.
"You were raised by your uncle after your parents died. Military background?"
"National Guard for a year. Didn't re-up."
"Why not?"
Arthur considered his answer carefully, drawing on Arthur's memories. "Wasn't a good fit. I prefer working alone."
She made a note, then continued questioning him about his work history, his skills, his political views. Arthur answered everything truthfully—or at least, truthfully according to the memories he'd inherited from the original Arthur. The interrogation lasted nearly an hour, with Hayes probing for inconsistencies or signs of deception.
Finally, she closed both files and stood. "Follow me."
Arthur was led down a long corridor to a large briefing room. Inside, nine other people—five men and four women—were already seated. They ranged in age from mid-twenties to early forties, and all had the alert, watchful look of people accustomed to assessing threats. Law enforcement, Arthur guessed, maybe with a couple of military types mixed in.
He took an empty seat, nodding politely to the others. Some nodded back; others remained stoic, their eyes revealing nothing.
A few minutes later, a uniformed soldier stepped into the room. "Attention!" he barked, and everyone instinctively rose to their feet—everyone except Arthur, who was a half-second behind, having to consciously remind himself of military protocol.
A distinguished-looking general entered, his uniform adorned with an impressive array of medals and commendations. The insignia identified him as General Ramirez, a name Arthur didn't recognize from the games.
"At ease," Ramirez said, his voice carrying the weight of decades of command. "Please, be seated."
Once everyone had settled, the general activated a holographic display at the front of the room. The familiar shape of the Citadel materialized, slowly rotating to showcase its massive ward arms.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Ramirez began, "I'll get straight to the point. You've been selected from a worldwide pool of candidates in law enforcement, private security, civilian enforcement and military service. Some of you may be wondering why you're here."
Understatement of the century, Arthur thought.
"Three years ago, humanity made first contact with alien life. It wasn't the peaceful meeting our scientists had hoped for." The hologram shifted to show turian ships engaging with human vessels—footage from the First Contact War. "But we've since established diplomatic relations with the Citadel Council, the governing body that oversees much of the galaxy."
The image changed again, showing the Council chambers with representatives of the asari, salarians, and turians.
"As part of our ongoing integration into the galactic community, the Council has requested human personnel to join C-Sec—Citadel Security Services. This organization is responsible for maintaining law and order on the Citadel, a space station that serves as the political center of Council space."
Arthur felt a jolt of excitement. C-Sec? He was going to the Citadel? This was better than he could have hoped for—a front-row seat to the political heart of the galaxy, decades before the Reaper invasion.
"You ten have been selected as the first human C-Sec officers," Ramirez continued. "This is both an honor and a tremendous responsibility. You will be ambassadors for humanity, working alongside alien species to uphold the law in a multicultural environment unlike anything on Earth."
The general's expression grew more serious. "Make no mistake—this will be challenging. You'll face prejudice, cultural misunderstandings, and potentially dangerous situations. The Citadel is home to millions of beings from dozens of species. Some will welcome you; others will resent your presence."
He paused, looking each of them in the eye. "But this is a historic opportunity. You'll be at the forefront of humanity's integration into the galactic community. The relationships you build, the impressions you make—these will shape how other species view humanity for generations to come."
Arthur glanced around at the others. Some looked excited, others apprehensive. A woman to his right was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, while a grizzled man near the front maintained a poker face that would have impressed the most hardened gambler.
"Training begins tomorrow," Ramirez announced. "You'll spend two weeks here learning about Citadel law, alien biology, cultural protocols, and diplomatic procedures. After that, you'll ship out to the Citadel for on-site orientation with C-Sec."
He gestured to a row of datapads on a side table. "Those contain your preliminary reading materials. I suggest you start tonight. Commander Hayes will show you to your quarters."
Arthur scooped up his datapad and headed down the corridor toward his assigned quarters, passing several of his fellow recruits along the way. Some nodded in acknowledgment; others were too absorbed in their own thoughts to notice him. The reality of the situation was still sinking in for everyone—they were going to be the first humans in C-Sec, working alongside aliens on the galactic capital station.
I've hit the jackpot, Arthur thought, struggling to contain his excitement. The Citadel—years before Shepard, before Saren, before everything goes to hell. Perfect positioning to prepare for the Reapers.
His assigned room was spartan but functional—a single bed with military corners, a desk, a small bathroom, and a locker for personal effects. Standard Alliance temporary housing, designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Arthur tossed his duffel onto the bed and settled into the desk chair, powering up the datapad.
The screen illuminated with a C-Sec emblem, rotating slowly before dissolving into a welcome message:
CITADEL SECURITY SERVICES
HUMAN INTEGRATION PROGRAM
CONFIDENTIAL - SYSTEMS ALLIANCE CLEARANCE LEVEL 3
Welcome, Recruit. This datapad contains essential information for your transition to C-Sec service. Begin with Module 1: Citadel Law Fundamentals.
Arthur tapped the first module, and a torrent of information filled the screen—the history of the Citadel, its governance structure, the evolution of its legal system, and hundreds of statutes and regulations. It was dense, technical, and overwhelming—exactly what you'd expect from a law enforcement training program.
"Two weeks to cram all this," he muttered, scrolling through the massive document. "At least I've got Gamer's Mind to help with retention."
He leaned back, contemplating his situation. His plan was simple: blend in during training, avoid drawing too much attention, and use his time on the Citadel to quietly prepare for the coming Reaper invasion. With his Soldier class and biotic potential, he had the foundation for becoming incredibly powerful—but he needed to be careful. Growing too strong too quickly would raise questions he couldn't answer.
Just keep a low profile, pass the training, get to the Citadel, and then—
His thoughts were interrupted by a series of chimes as translucent blue windows materialized in the air before him, casting their ethereal glow across his face.
Congratulations! You've unlocked multiple traits based on your current activity and mission parameters!
Arthur's eyes widened as he read the notifications, his pulse quickening with each new trait that appeared.
[Galactic Scholar] – Level 1/10
"Your mind is wired into the very bones of Citadel law. You don't just follow the rules—you weaponize them."
+25% success chance on legal appeals, bureaucratic interactions, and administrative bypasses.
Unlocks [Legal Exploit I]: Once per mission, you can bypass a checkpoint, arrest, or restriction using obscure law.
Gain a passive bonus to reputation with legal officials, diplomats, and political agents.
🔸 At max level: You could dismantle an entire government legally, turn Reaper signals into court evidence, or invoke laws no species remembers being passed.
Arthur barely had time to process this before another trait appeared:
[Xenobiologist (Advanced Trait)] – Level 1/10
"You instinctively recognize anatomy, biology, and evolutionary weaknesses of all known organic species."
Reveals weak points on most alien species in combat (e.g., Turian air sacs, Salarian neural clusters, Krogan scar tissue).
Grants +10% effectiveness on first-aid, toxins, and species-specific buffs/debuffs.
Unlocks [Anatomical Scan I]: When scanning a living target, view vital stats, weak zones, and current biological state.
🔸 At max level: You can paralyze a Krogan with a single touch, clone an Asari's nervous system, or engineer antidotes to synthetic-organic viruses.
The traits continued to appear one after another:
[Cultural Chameleon] – Level 1/10
"You walk through alien societies like one of their own. No gesture, phrase, or nuance escapes you."
+15% diplomacy success chance with all Citadel species.
Gain access to culture-specific dialogue and flirtation options (including rare or taboo ones).
Immune to accidental offense in formal alien interactions.
🔸 At max level: You'll be able to walk into a Krogan Rite of Passage, pray with a Hanar, and drink tea with a Batarian noble—all in the same hour without offending a soul.
[Protocol Sync] – Level 1/10
"Your speech, posture, vocabulary, and etiquette adapt on the fly to match the cultural and political standards of your company."
+10 rapport bonus in all formal interactions and first impressions.
Auto-calibrates your body language and tone to match the listener's background.
Unlocks [Context Filter I]: Your HUD highlights social cues, posture mistakes, and etiquette violations before you commit them.
🔸 At max level: You can mimic an Asari ambassador's poise, decode Elcor poetic undertones, or bluff your way into Spectre-only events.
[Codex Archive] – Level 1/10
"Your HUD now contains a living, dynamic codex of every major Citadel race, culture, and protocol."
Access instant, voice-activated information on any major species, law, history, or cultural rule.
Unlocks [Social Scan I]: Scan any NPC to receive summary data: race, status, cultural affiliations, political alignment, and taboos.
🔸 At max level: You'll gain real-time counters to social manipulation, counter-lies, political scheming—and even Reaper-altered truth warping.
Arthur stared at the floating windows, a mix of excitement and alarm washing over him. The traits were incredible—game-changing advantages that would make his mission infinitely easier. But they had appeared out of nowhere, triggered simply by his assignment to C-Sec training. If the system was this generous with traits, what else might it throw at him?
"Holy shit," he whispered, glancing nervously at the door to make sure no one was watching. "This is insane."
Just as he thought things couldn't get more overwhelming, another window appeared:
MISSION: C-Sec Integration Training
STATUS: In Progress
OBJECTIVE: Successfully complete Alliance training for C-Sec assignment
REWARD: 500 XP, Increased Alliance Reputation, C-Sec Credentials
CURRENT LEVEL: 5 (1000 XP needed for next level)
"Fuck," Arthur cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. This was both amazing and terrifying. The system was turning his life into a literal video game, complete with missions, XP rewards, and specialized traits. He knew the system was broken but Damn! On one hand, it gave him a clear path forward and tools to succeed. On the other, it made him feel like he was being pushed along a predetermined track.
"OP protagonist, huh?" he muttered with a humorless laugh as he began flipping through the pad. "More like 'dancing monkey for some cosmic game master.'"
Comments
James (Silencian)
Did choosing a class cost five of his initial points? I didn't see anywhere saying it would. But after choosing he claims to have five left. Certainly understandable through context but could do with putting a point cost line to choose class in the system assuming I didn't miss it
Britanna
From what I understand for gamer fics authors have a separate word or excel where they keep track of all the stats and equipment etc. If you have trouble remembering stuff this might help keep track of things
