Splinter - Point Zero

My head was splitting as if a dozen hungover dwarves had thrown an artistic forging championship inside my skull. Every heartbeat echoed in my temples like a muffled alarm bell, and there was such a distinct taste of copper and rot in my mouth that it felt like I had been snacking on old coins the night before. I tried to open my eyes. The first attempt failed—my eyelashes were glued together by something thick and dried. Probably blood. Or dirt. Judging by the stench hitting my nostrils, I was somewhere between a public latrine and a dump for rotten fish. Forcing my eyelids apart with difficulty, I stared up at a gray, indifferent sky overcast with leaden clouds. It was dripping. A fine, nasty drizzle settled on my face. I was lying on cold, uneven stones heavily coated in slippery slime, in a narrow alley between two leaning brick walls. Where am I? — this thought flashed through my mind first, but immediately hit a brick wall. The attempt to remember anything at all triggered another flash of pain. Ragged, disjointed images flickered in my consciousness. A glowing rectangle in my hand... what was it called? A smartphone? A smooth black road with metal boxes on wheels rushing along it... Cars. A name. My name. I think my name was Denis. I clung to that name like a drowning man to a straw. Denis. A grown man who had a job, an apartment, some plans for the weekend. And then... emptiness. Darkness. And now here I am, lying in a puddle of unknown origin and smelling so bad that even stray dogs would be disgusted to approach me. I tried to lean on my hands and sit up. And immediately stared at my limbs in horror. These were not my hands. Instead of my usual broad palms with shortly clipped nails, I saw skinny rakes with protruding joints, smeared with soot and dirt. The wrists were so thin it seemed they could be snapped with two fingers. The sleeves of some rags that served as my shirt hung in dirty tatters. A cold sweat broke over me. I frantically felt my face, chest, and legs. No beer belly, none of my usual mass. The ribs stuck out so much you could study anatomy on them, and the legs in torn, squelching shoes looked more like matchsticks. The body of a teenager. An emaciated, beaten-down teenager. "What the hell..." I rasped. The voice turned out to be alien too: cracking, hoarse, with unfamiliar intonations. And at that moment, a melodic, slightly mechanical, yet absolutely clear female voice rang out in my head. «Initiation complete. Greetings, User. Analysis of host's condition: critical. Diagnosis: mild concussion, extreme malnutrition, dehydration, avitaminosis, fleas (three species). Prognosis: death from hypothermia or starvation within the next 24 hours if you continue to sit in a puddle and stare into space.» I froze, stopping my breath. Looked around. No one. The alley was empty, except for a fat rat running past at the far end. "Who's there?" I asked hoarsely. «I am the Unified Computing Assistant. Just EVA for you. Embedded into your neural network to ensure survival and adaptation in a new environment. And judging by your appearance, I’ve got quite the job ahead of me. You look like you've been chewed up and spat out by a cow suffering from indigestion.» "I've gone crazy," I concluded, closing my eyes. "I'm in a coma, having hallucinations. Great. Denis, wake up, it's time for work." «Denis is temporarily unavailable. More precisely, Denis is now you. And you are not in a coma, User. You are in physical reality, in a world that differs greatly from your native one. If you don't start moving right now, your hallucination will end in very realistic rigor mortis.» The voice in my head sounded so mocking and confident that it was impossible to ignore. I somehow rolled onto all fours, feeling the world around me tilt menacingly. "Alright, Eva. Let's assume you're real," I muttered, digging my dirty fingers into the rough brickwork to pull myself up. "And where are we?" A translucent interface suddenly flared before my eyes. The text hung right in the air, not obstructing the view but drawing attention. Location: Lower City, Leatherworkers' Quarter slums. Name: Unknown (local nickname — Splinter). Age: Physiologically about 14-15 years old. Level: 0 Attributes: · Strength: 2 (You are weaker than an average goose) · Agility: 4 (You might run away from a goose, if you're lucky) · Endurance: 1 (The goose will catch you and peck you to death) · Intelligence: 10 (Your only advantage over the goose) "Splinter? Seriously?" I grimaced after reading the status. "And why a goose?" «Because comparing you to a human would be too flattering in your case. Your weight is at a critical mark. Your bicep volume is tending towards negative values. I recommend finding food before the wind blows us into the neighboring barony.» Only now did I realize how incredibly hungry I was. My stomach wasn't just rumbling; it was twisting into a painful knot, demanding any kind of food. I leaned my back against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Okay, stop. I need to think logically. If this sarcastic Eva is to be believed, I'm an isekai protagonist. The consciousness of an adult guy from the twenty-first century (of which I only remember that my name was Denis, plus some fragments about gadgets and cars) ended up in the body of a homeless weakling in some parallel world. Noise drifted from the far end of the alley. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the creak of springs, the shouts of street vendors. I slowly trudged toward the sound, trying not to step in the deepest puddles. The world that opened up to me around the corner looked like the set of a historical film. The narrow street was packed with people. Women in long, dirt-stained skirts and bonnets were hauling baskets of vegetables. Men in worn camisoles and tricorn hats were arguing at the entrance to a tavern. A wooden carriage drawn by a pair of horses dashed by, splashing mud from under its wheels. The coachman, his wig askew, angrily cracked his whip at a daydreaming boy.