M1911 and Inventory
Arthur Sterling stared at the list until the glowing letters seemed to burn into his retinas, the faint blue light reflecting in his wide eyes.
A cheat! A real, honest-to-god System!
The excitement was a physical heat in his chest, a roaring fire that made him forget the dull throb in his skull for a moment.
He had been dropped into a world of high-speed chases and international heists, but now he had a way to navigate the chaos.
He knew this world wasn't just about fast cars and beautiful women.
As the Fast & Furious timeline progressed, the stakes would shift from simple street racing to high-stakes global espionage.
Arthur's mind raced, recalling the shadows lurking in the future of this world.
He thought of the "God's Eye" satellite system, the cybernetically enhanced soldiers, and the private armies equipped with technology that could level small countries.
In his current state—a broke mechanic with below-average physical stats—he was little more than a gnat caught in a hurricane.
But the Proficiency System changed the entire equation.
If I can turn every action into a skill, I can become more than just a background character. I can be the one holding the wheel.
He remembered the system's mention of a "private space" during the initial activation.
Closing his eyes, he focused his will inward, trying to "feel" the dimensions of this hidden pocket.
Soon, he sensed an indistinct void bound to his consciousness.
It was a small, silent area—roughly one cubic meter in size—like an invisible locker floating in the ether of his mind.
Time to test the limits, he thought, his heart racing with a different kind of adrenaline.
He reached out and grabbed a worn cushion from the sofa, then snatched up a few scattered automotive magazines from the coffee table.
He visualized the storage void and willed the items to enter it.
In a blink, they were gone.
His hands were empty, and the space on the sofa where the cushion had been was now a glaring void.
With another thought, he willed the cushion back into reality.
It appeared instantly, dropping onto his lap with a soft thump.
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. This was better than any magic trick.
Arthur stood up, his legs feeling a bit more stable now.
He began to pace the small apartment, his eyes scanning for anything else that might be useful.
He moved toward the small bedroom, which was as sparse as the rest of the flat.
Under the bed sat a heavy, locked metal box. Arthur pulled it out, the metal screeching against the floorboards.
If I'm living in the world of Dominic Toretto, a wrench won't be enough to keep me safe.
He fumbled for a hidden key in the bedside drawer and clicked the lock open.
Inside, wrapped in an oil-stained cloth, lay a piece of heavy, cold steel: an M1911 semi-automatic pistol.
"Ding! Host detected holding a firearm. [Firearms Proficiency] skill has been automatically generated."
"Current [Firearms Proficiency] skill level is Lv0. 100 Experience Points are required to level up."
Arthur's fingers traced the cold slide of the weapon.
The previous Arthur Sterling must have kept this for protection in a neighborhood that wasn't exactly known for its safety.
The United States was a place where the Second Amendment was a way of life, and in a city like Los Angeles, safety was never a guarantee.
Between the complex social dynamics and the looming presence of street gangs, a man living on his own needed an equalizer.
Arthur picked up the Colt M1911, feeling its significant weight.
He was a bit of a military buff in his previous life, and he recognized the legendary silhouette of the century-old design immediately.
Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a modern civilian model chambered in 9mm.
While it lacked the legendary stopping power of the original .45 ACP, it was far more manageable for a novice.
Plus, 9mm ammunition was ubiquitous and affordable—essential for a man on a mechanic's budget.
In the drawer, he found two loaded magazines and three additional boxes, each containing fifty rounds.
A gun is still a gun, he thought, gripping the textured handle.
He suppressed the urge to find a quiet alley to test the trigger; his head was still spinning from the concussion.
Instead, he focused his mind on his new storage void.
The M1911, the magazines, and the ammunition vanished instantly into the private space.
He felt a massive wave of relief. He was no longer defenseless.