Jeff eagerly selects the musketeer game from the Chronivac's menu and finds himself drawn into a world quite different from his own. As he presses "start," his vision blurs and then pixelates, dissolving the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. The sensation is oddly pleasant, like being enveloped in a gust of warm wind. Moments later, he rematerializes in a dense forest with tall trees and leafy underbrush. The atmosphere exudes the earthy scent of damp soil and the chirping of birds overhead name the world he's entered: 15th century France.
His excitement momentarily turns to disappointment as he examines himself. His T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers are ludicrously out of place in this setting. Jeff half expects to be clad in period attire but still sees his own reflection on the screen of the small plain device in his hand—its display as simple as a mobile phone.
A line on the screen reads: "Transform into: D’Artagnan."
Intrigued, Jeff taps the option. As soon as he confirms, a tingling spreads from his fingertips to his toes. He watches in awe as his everyday clothes start to shift. The fabric feels like it's liquefying before it re-solidifies—a slow metamorphosis.
His T-shirt lengthens, the fabric deepening in color to a muted but rich blue as it transforms into a fine tunic with billowy sleeves. Intricate silver embroidery creeps across the chest in the form of a fleur-de-lis, stitched by unseen hands.
The process flows into his jeans next, which morph into a pair of snug breeches, a soft but durable material that adjusts to fit perfectly around his legs. The sneakers disappear, replaced by the feeling of supple leather boots climbing up to his knees, wrapping themselves snugly with the satisfying click of buckles taking their place.
But it’s not just his attire that transforms. Jeff feels a subtle stretch and shifting in his core as his torso becomes more defined, robust musculature filling out where adolescent lank had been. His arms, too, bulk up slightly, acquiring a firmness he never had before. The air seems somehow more breathable, and his vision sharpens with an almost predatory clarity, as if unlocking a buried instinct.
His hair, which had been tousled and unkempt, lengthens past his ears. It feels lighter, styled by magic into soft waves deftly held back by an elegant feathered hat that appears atop his head.
His stance, his whole demeanor takes a marked turn towards confident readiness—this was D’Artagnan, a man of purpose and flair, ready for any adventure.
Mesmerized by the transformation, he stops to study his reflection in the glassy surface of a nearby stream. He grins at the musketeer staring back at him, the character he chose to become. With a twirl of the scabbard now firmly at his side, Jeff—now D'Artagnan—ventures further into the game, eager to discover what this new world holds.
Jeff makes his way to the clearing, brushing away the lush foliage, dew-dropped leaves brushing against his sleeves. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth grows louder, and soon, three figures cut through the morning fog, riding at a steady canter.
Athos, the eldest and most stoic, rides a chestnut stallion. His features are sharp, his expression serious yet noble. His attire is elegant, even for a musketeer; a deep burgundy doublet trimmed with gold, his cape flowing behind him like a wave of velvet. His eyes are piercing and wise, framed by a face slightly weathered by experience.
Porthos, towering and broad, radiates jovial strength, his laugh easily carrying even through the echo of the woodlands. His tunic is a warm ochre, the fabric stretched comfortably across his brawny chest. A hat jauntily perched on his head, adorned with an oversized plume, adds to his larger-than-life presence. His mustache wiggles as he grins widely, clearly expecting merriment in any encounter.
Aramis, with his dark hair tucked neatly under a tricorne hat, embodies grace and mystery. His attire is immaculate, a finely tailored black surcoat with silver embellishments that glint subtly in the dappled sunlight. A slight curve to his lips hints at the charm he wields effortlessly, paired with an air of intellectual introspection.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos calls, his voice deep and resonant.
"Indeed, our young Gascon arrives just as the sun greets the morn," Porthos adds, with an infectious enthusiasm.
"May the day favor us with fine companionship and wine aplenty," Aramis quips, ever ready with a poetic turn of phrase.
The trio dismounts gracefully from their horses, approaching Jeff—or D’Artagnan, as they see him—with warmth and camaraderie. Their greetings are genuine, their stances exhibiting the ease of long-standing friendship.
Yet, they don’t fail to notice the small device that Jeff is still holding. Athos arches an eyebrow, a curious tilt to his head betraying his interest, though he says nothing.
"What curious artifact do you hold?" Aramis inquires, his voice carrying both polite interest and subtle beckoning for a tale. "It resembles neither compass nor relic of faith."
"Some contraption from the wizard’s workshop, perhaps?" Porthos guesses with an amused chuckle.
Jeff hesitates, momentarily caught off guard by how real they all feel, despite knowing they are mere characters in a predetermined story. "Ah... this? It’s... complicated," he falters, searching for words that make sense in this context.
Returning their expectant looks, he realizes—though vibrant and lively—they are bound by lines of code. "It’s—well, it’s a sort of tool," he ventures, letting his words hang ambiguously. "Not of any danger, I assure you."