404: Pants Not Found

At first, there was nothing.

Then—pain.

Not the kind you scream through, not the kind that even lets you form a thought. This was unmaking, like every atom in his body had been politely asked to disassemble and then violently forced to comply.

Jerry barely had time to register the pull—stretching, tearing—before reality collapsed around him.

He was everywhere. He was nowhere. He was being read, categorized, sorted like some bureaucratic god was trying to file him into the proper folder.

Error.

The word flashed through his consciousness, less a message and more a raw, grinding sensation in his neurons.

Entity Not Recognized.

Species Classification: [Null]

Status: [Error] [Uninitiated] [Restricted Access]

Jerry wanted to scream, but he had no mouth. No body. Just awareness—an unbearable, infinite awareness of himself being broken down into raw data and fed into something he couldn’t comprehend.

Attempting Reconciliation…

Attempt Failed.

System Override Detected.

There was a flicker.

A presence. Something else was here. Not the System. Something older. Something deeper.

Processing...

Jerry’s mind fractured, reassembled, fractured again. He felt like he was being forced through a sieve meant for something smaller—a body, a soul, a self condensed and expanded all at once.

Then—a new prompt. Floating in the nothing, clear as a voice in his mind.

Integrate?

Yes | No

(Warning: Selecting NO will result in immediate and permanent termination.)

Well.

That was certainly a choice.

Jerry, or what remained of Jerry, focused on ‘Yes.’ Maybe he willed it. Maybe it was the last desperate instinct of something that really, really didn’t want to be permanently removed from existence.

The moment the selection locked in, the real pain began.

He was ripped apart.

No, rewritten.

He saw himself split into code, into light, into concepts strung together by the will of the universe itself. For a fraction of a fraction of time, he understood. The structure of reality, the underpinnings of the Universe, the grand cosmic web that linked all things together.

And then—SNAP.

Jerry slammed back into himself. Into a body. Into one body, rather than the million scattered across infinity.

His first real thought, clear and sharp as he gasped back into existence, was:

Well, that sucked.

Then he blacked out.

***

When Jerry opened his eyes, he noticed three sudden facts vying for attention in the throbbing mess that had replaced his brain.

Firstly, he wasn’t dead, not if his pulsating headache had any say in the matter. He vaguely remembered reading somewhere that corpses don’t complain about migraines, though no one had ever proven that conclusively.

Secondly, he was no longer in Perky Beans. This would become increasingly apparent as the moments marched on.

And thirdly, he was, for all practical purposes, naked. Most of his clothes had been obliterated from the backside inward, leaving charred and flapping scraps around his hips. The only survivors of this violence were his mostly melted sneakers, which now resembled abstract sculptures of questionable taste, and a single black apron that covered the front of him and absolutely nothing else.

Jerry groaned and sat up, blinking at his surroundings. He was in what appeared to be a starship cargo hold, not because of the towering stacks of odd cargo—though there were plenty of those—but because of the metal placard bolted above the doorway that read:

“Her Majesties' Starship (HMS) Immaculate Virtue, 5th Region of Galactic Fleet, Cargo Hold.”

In plain English.

Or at least, that’s what he assumed. He could read it just fine, but as he stared at the lettering, a slow, crawling unease settled in. The words weren’t in English. They weren’t in any language he had ever seen before. Just a jumble of dashes and dots arranged in patterns that made no earthly sense.

Yet somehow, he understood them perfectly.

His stomach turned.

Below the words was another sign, this one etched onto a red placard:

“Decommissioned by Order of the King.”

The lettering was sharp, uneven, and gouged in deep, less like it had been carefully engraved and more like someone had attacked the metal with a knife.

Just below the ominous red placard, another inscription stood in stark contrast—elegantly carved into a polished wooden plaque, its lettering swirling in elaborate filigree.

Where the official notice was harsh and utilitarian, this was an artist’s flourish, the curves of each letter lovingly etched with care. The rich, dark wood gleamed under the dim cargo hold lights.

“Officially Recommissioned and Recognized by one Jack Whipsteel.”

Directly beneath it, a crumpled, half-ripped purchase order had been haphazardly slapped onto the wall with what looked suspiciously like chewing gum. Jerry squinted at the fine print.

“Payment Rendered: One (1) Highly Dubious Favor, Non-Refundable.”

And finally, at the bottom—clearly stamped over the original name of the Clementine, in bold, utterly self-satisfied lettering—

“The Lady Luckless”

Jerry took a step back, rubbing his temples. He shook off the disorientation and took stock of his surroundings.

Cargo hold. Large. Metallic. Smelled like oil, scorched circuitry, and something vaguely fishy that he really hoped wasn’t an actual fish. Crates were stacked haphazardly around the space, some marked with symbols he didn’t recognize, others labeled in a language that looked suspiciously like someone had pounded on a keyboard in frustration.

Then his eyes caught something else. A porthole.

It was oval-shaped, set into the bulkhead with reinforced metal framing and thick glass—or something like glass, considering he doubted regular Earth glass was up to handling space. The edges of the window were lined with faintly glowing strips, flickering slightly as if the ship wasn’t entirely sure how much power it had to spare.

Jerry pulled himself toward it, hands braced against the cold metal wall as he peered outside.

And there it was—space, but not the deep, empty void he might have expected. No, the ship was still in dock, tethered to a massive orbital station.

The station was immense, stretching out in all directions like some impossible metal city suspended in the stars. Layers upon layers of scaffolding, docking arms, and flashing indicator lights crisscrossed its structure, creating a tangled web of industry. Ships of all sizes were moored at various points—some small and sleek, others colossal, their hulls pockmarked with the scars of interstellar travel. Beyond the station’s artificial glow, space stretched endlessly, dotted with distant stars.

Jerry heard a voice in his head.

“… appears to be confused. Possible side effect of transdimensional displacement. Also, lacking pants.”

He froze. “Hello? Who’s there?”

“Entity is talking to themselves. Clearly exhibiting signs of distress. Possibly unstable.”

The voice was friendly, with just a dash of clinical detachment, and unmistakably carried the nasal intonation of someone who definitely played Dungeons & Dragons… a lot. Jerry felt an irrational stab of envy. He’d always wanted to get into DnD, but life had rudely gotten in the way.

Then he immediately kicked himself for stereotyping a disembodied voice in his head. Was that even a thing? Did people who played DnD actually sound a certain way? Or was he just being judgmental?

…Wait, was it stereotyping if it was true?

Oh no.

Was he just a stereotype? Some kind of walking, talking cliché who judged people based on whatever nonsense pop culture had fed him?

Was he the stereotypical guy who stereotypes people?

Dear god. Now he was stereotyping about stereotyping.

This was spiraling fast.

“Entity stands at approximately five foot eleven. Gangly. Moppy hair.”

He flinched. “I can hear you, you know.”

A long pause. Then, rapid clicking—like someone hammering away at an old keyboard.

“Uh… no you can’t.”

Jerry’s eyes darted around the room. Still empty. Just him, the ominous cargo, and that voice in his head.

“Who are you?”

“You can really hear me, huh? Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.”

Jerry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where am I? And what have you done with my pants?”

He wasn’t sure why his pants were cracking the top three of his concerns, but it felt like the kind of thing that should be addressed.

“I, uh… well, I’m Todd. This really shouldn’t be happening.”

Jerry squinted at the cargo hold. There was no helpful shadowy figure lurking in the corner, no ominous blinking lights, no strange hooded alien whispering cryptic nonsense. Just a bunch of crates and a suspicious lack of exit signs.

“Where…are you? How can I hear you?”

“In my office. Well. Cubicle. It’s… fine. As far as cubicles go.” The voice sighed. “I was hoping for something with a window, but nooo, apparently ‘Todd, you’re new, Todd, you don’t get a window, Todd, you almost deleted an entire species last week.’ Office politics, you know?”

Jerry stared at the ceiling. “Huh?”

“Anyway,” Todd continued, “I don’t know how you can hear me. That’s not supposed to be possible with you people. This is usually a one-way street, so to speak. Hold on, let me check something…”

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on something tucked in his ear. He froze. One of his earbuds was still in.

That’s when he made the very reasonable, very logical decision to yank it out.

“Oh, I wouldn’t—”

Pain detonated behind his eyes like his brain had been hotwired to a car battery and someone had just floored it.

“YOoUch! What the hell?!”

His hands shot away from the earpiece, heart hammering. It wasn’t just in his ear—it was part of it. Tugging at it felt less like pulling out an earbud and more like trying to evict a chunk of his own brain.

“Honestly, you Three-Ds never listen.”

He rubbed his ear gingerly, wincing as his fingers brushed against the earbud. The sensation was… wrong. Not like touching something foreign, something removable, but like pressing on a tooth that had always been there. A new, unwelcome piece of his body.

“Three-Ds?”

“Three-dimensional beings. Flat folk. The 'material universe' types.”

I could hear the disdain in the voice, like someone forced to explain Wi-Fi to a medieval peasant.

“And you’re what, exactly? A fourth-dimensional being whispering sweet nothings into my Bluetooth?”

“Ha! Please.” A scoff. “I’m a Fifth-Level Dimon. Fifth-dimensional. Every properly initiated species knows that. You must be from a freshly integrated one.” A pause. “Not surprising, really—this is a rather backwater section of the universe.”

He sighed, deeply inconvenienced by my very existence.

“Look, my kind handles System directives—implements orders, executes functions, keeps the cosmic gears turning. Your kind? You usually can’t perceive us at all. The fairly advanced 3Ds might see our written notifications. Text prompts. The rest, maybe a vague sense of déjà vu when the System pushes an update. But audio?”

The voice hesitated.

“No. I’ve never heard of this. Hold on while I check something.”

The sound of a keyboard clicking wildly. When Todd spoke again, his voice had the distinct wobble of someone trying to sound casual but internally panicking.

“So, says here your name’s Jerry. But… that’s odd. The rest is kinda blank, which is… odd.”

Jerry blinked. “That’s what’s odd?”

“Normally, we get a bit of a profile here—basic stuff just fills itself in. That’s what the online course said, anyway. But you? No level, no skills, no class. Just a big, steaming pile of nothing.” Todd clicked something rapidly, like he was scrolling through an especially frustrating database. “Never seen the System this… well, empty before.”

A soft ping sounded, and a glowing blue grid flickered into existence in front of Jerry. The text was crisp, clinical, and profoundly unhelpful.

At the top:

Name: Jerry

Below it?

A lineup of completely empty slots.

Race: [—]

Class: [—]

Level: [—]

Skills: [—]

It was an RPG character sheet.

A blank RPG character sheet.

Wait. Am I in a LitRPG?

Jerry had dipped his toes into the genre recently—he’d read So, I Got Isekai’d Into an RPG and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt. But he had never planned on living one.

His eyes scanned the rest of the sheet. More sections:

Achievements: [—]

Guilds: [—]

Factions: [—]

Alliances: [—]

I DID A THING Points: [0]

That last one felt personal.

Jerry exhaled sharply. He had no clue what any of this meant, but it was definitely pointing toward one of two possibilities:

He had completely lost his mind.

He had died, and this was his brain throwing him one last, batshit fever dream before the lights went out.

Neither option was particularly comforting.

But still… not knowing what was going on wasn’t going to stop him from deeply, viscerally hating it.

Maybe this was where people ended up when they died—dumped into some endless void with a guy named Todd, who was now casually flipping through some cosmic ledger like a divine accountant tallying up Jerry’s worth.

Which, apparently, was precisely zero.

Jerry had always suspected the universe had it out for him.

It was nice to finally have documentation to back that up.

There was a pause. The kind of pause that suggested someone had just opened the wrong file and was now staring at a very large, very glowing red error message.

“When, uh… when did you say that your people were officially initiated into the System?”

“Huh? I didn’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Silence. Pregnant silence. About to give birth. Probably to something weird and upsetting.

Then came the frantic clatter of typing. Another pause. Then more typing. And then the longest, most pregnant pause of them all followed by a single word—

“Oh.”

Jerry squinted. “Oh? Is that like a good ‘oh’ or bad ‘oh’?”

Todd made a noncommittal noise. “Hmmm.”

“You are killing me here, Todd.”

“I think I see what happened… and, uh… this isn’t good.”

“What is it? Spit it out.”

Jerry was now very aware that whatever had happened, it was very much happening to him.

The voice on the other end hesitated, as if reconsidering its entire life up to this moment. “Okay. So, uh… bit of a situation.”

“That’s usually what people say before something explodes,” Jerry muttered.

“Not helping,” the voice shot back. “Listen, there was a spike in tachyons in the capacitors, which triggered an alert. And… uh, well, there was a note in the logs I may have skimmed over. Turns out, your species wasn’t supposed to be initiated yet.”

Jerry blinked. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, you shouldn’t be here.”

That was deeply unsettling. “I feel like I’m here.” Jerry patted himself down for confirmation. Yep. Still here.

The voice sighed, as if explaining basic math to a very slow child. “The System flagged a large-scale Event and marked you as ‘Initiated.’ But that’s weird because your species is classified as a lower E-tier civilization. We don’t initiate species until they hit C.”

“So you’re saying your fancy cosmic bureaucracy screwed up and yoinked me off my planet? The ‘System’ messed up?”

A pause. Then, a quiet but deeply defensive, “The System cannot screw up. The System is perfect.”

Jerry ran a hand through his hair, willing himself not to panic. “Sure. Okay. Let’s assume that’s true. Then why am I here?”

Deep breaths. The voice seemed to be talking itself down. “If this happened, then you were meant to be here. But… this is very against the rules. And I, uh… might have clicked bypass warning.”

Jerry felt his stomach drop. “You might have?”

“The System flagged you. And I—oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad. If they find out—oh no.”

There was rapid typing. Too much typing. Nothing good ever came from frantic typing.

Jerry took a step back from absolutely nothing. “Whoa, hey, let’s not do anything hasty—”

“I have to delete you.”

More typing.

“DELETE?!” Jerry flailed. “No need to delete! Let’s just put me back where I came from, yeah? I’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

“Impossible.” The voice was firm.

Jerry braced himself. “Okay. The coffee shop then?”

“The entire city.”

Jerry went numb. He should have reacted more, but his brain seemed to have quietly filed this under ‘things to emotionally process much later.’ “…The whole city?”

The voice had the audacity to sound apologetic. “And from what I can tell, the world might be following soon.”

Jerry stared. “The world?”

“Yeah, so, putting you back? Not an option.” The voice was clicking away at something. “Plus, the System won’t allow it. Your species isn’t Initiated, and Initiated entities can’t be seen by or interact with Uninitiated ones. It’s a whole thing. Big security issue.”

A flashing prompt materialized in front of Jerry’s eyes:

System Override - Administration Tier 15, Intern

Full Entity Deletion

Yes | No

Jerry felt his stomach twist. “Okay, but surely you don’t need to delete me. I won’t tell anyone.”

“No good. Can’t trust a 3D.” A pause. “No offense.”

Jerry reached for the ‘No’ option, but it was locked. Someone else was controlling it.

He grasped at straws. “But the System is infallible, right? It wouldn’t have let you bypass the warning without a reason. Right?”

The voice hesitated.

“…I’m sorry. I just can’t take that chance.”

The “Yes” option was highlighted.

Jerry squeezed his eyes shut.

Then—click. A pause.

“…Huh?”

Jerry cracked one eye open.

A new prompt had appeared.

You are attempting to Delete an Entity. Your access status is set to “Intern.”

Deletion requires administrative approval. Would you like to escalate this report to your senior for review?

Yes | No

Quickly, the “No” was selected, and the prompt vanished.

Jerry’s fear took a backseat to smug satisfaction. “You don’t want anyone to see you messed up.”

A long, deeply uncomfortable silence followed.

“…Listen,” the voice started.

“You mean two seconds ago when you tried to erase me from existence?” Jerry shot back.

“Right, so long ago. Ancient history. Barely remember it. What do you say we, uh, put that behind us and figure this thing out together?”

Jerry did not feel like he had a lot of options here.

“Fine,” he said. “But I want some assurances.”

“Like?”

“How about not deleting me for starters.”

“That’s fair.”

“And explaining what the hell is going on.”

“Okay, okay. One sec. Gonna do a quick upload of your cultural database.”

“Huh—?”

Jerry’s brain itched. It was the only way to describe it. A split-second, firehose-to-the-face wave of information hit him, and then it was gone.

“Ah, there we go,” the voice said, satisfied. “We keep spies on all lower planets—taking notes, keeping records—so when the System eventually integrates you, we can do it as seamlessly as possible.”

Jerry groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’ve got fifth-dimensional aliens on Earth?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Only the fourth and third dimons actually visit lower planets.”

Jerry took a deep breath. “Alright. So. What’s the System? How did I get here? Where is here? And why—” he tugged gently at his earbud, to no avail “—can’t I take this thing out?”

The voice clicked its nonexistent tongue. “Let’s take it one question at a time.”

A pause.

“I’ll start with the easy one. The earpiece. How can I put this in your terms… You guys have a fable about this, don’t you? About a mighty fallen figure… uh, Humpty Dumpy?”

Then, with deep reverence, he added, “Well, the System here has attempted to put you back together again. And that earpiece is now part of you.

“As for where you are…” The voice hesitated. “Well, it looks like the System placed you in what it considered a ‘safe starting point.’”

Before Jerry could process that, the entire ship lurched, throwing him sideways. A deep, gut-twisting vibration rattled through the hull, followed by a deafening clang as something massive disengaged. He staggered to a nearby port window and caught a glimpse outside.

The station was pulling away—no, they were pulling away. The ship was detaching, breaking free from whatever docking mechanism had held it in place. Outside, enormous mechanical arms withdrew, lights flashing red in protest. The hum of engines surged beneath his feet, growing into a deep, bone-shaking roar.

Then came the screech—metal against metal, an ear-splitting grind as if a starship the size of a skyscraper had just yanked itself out of a parking space at light speed. Alarms shrieked. Overhead, red emergency lights flared to life.

And then—because of course things weren’t bad enough—a voice crackled through unseen speakers.

“This is Fleet Admiral Ashana of the Unified Stellar Command. Return this vessel immediately or we will open fire.”

Jerry barely had time to process the “we will open fire” part before another voice—smooth, unbothered, and, unless his ears deceived him, British—came over the open channel.

“Ah. Yes. About that. I'm afraid I can't do that.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. Then, an unmistakable tone of pure fury.

“Whipsteel. Dock this ship. That is a direct order.”

The voice—Jack, apparently—sounded downright cheerful.

“Oh, Ashana, darling. Sorry I didn’t leave a note before I left this morning—bit of a rush, you see. But please, don’t take that to mean I felt nothing for you. I assure you...”

The woman’s response was pure rage. “JACK, I WILL BLOW YOU OUT OF THE FUCKING GALAXY IF YOU DON’T TURN THAT SHIP AROUND RIGHT NOW.”

In the background, frantic voices:

“How is he doing this?”

“He’s bypassed all locks!”

“He has full override access—that’s impossible!”

Jack sighed dramatically. “Sorry, no can do, babe. This ship is mine, after all. Would love to stay and chat, but—” a pause, then a grin audible in his voice, “—can’t. Whipsteel, out.”

The comms cut.

Then—impact.

The ship shuddered violently, throwing Jerry off his feet as a direct hit rocked the hull. He slammed into a crate, barely managing to grab hold before another blast sent the whole room tilting sideways.

Over the intercom, Jack’s voice returned, chipper as ever.

“Alright, chaps, might want to strap in. This is about to get a bit bumpy.”

A second voice—deep, gravelly, and very not amused—cut in. “Jack, yer gonna get us all killed. You can’t seriously be thinking—”

Jack, grinning: “Oh, I very much am. Start the Drive.”

A pause. Then, uncertainly, “But Jack—”

BOOM.

Another hit. Another explosion of inertia. Jerry barely managed to wedge himself between a few crates as the ship jerked sideways, the force pressing him down like gravity had suddenly tripled.

“Do it, blast you!” Whipsteel shouted.

Then—blinding light swallowed everything.

And as the world around him shimmered, distorted, and ripped away, his bare bottom sliding across the cold floor panels, Jerry knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He needed to find some pants.