Tiny rows of letters floated in Tristan's eyesight.
[======]
[Tristan Hayes (Tristan Gemello)]
[Current identity: Criminal. Second identity: Pop-star.]
[Pop-star rank: Adolescent Star.]
[Criminal rank: Made Man.]
[Pop-star Points: 540]
[Criminal Points: 15860]
[===Attributes===]
[Appearance: 250]
[Charisma: 240]
[Fearsomeness: 436]
[Strength: 223]
[Dexterity: 228]
[Toughness: 144]
[===Skills===]
...
Tristan didn't read farther. He had to tap twice to hit the 'strength' button—the first time landed on toughness.
Tap, tap, slide of a bar—the resulting number wasn't even, but Tristan didn't have the time to care.
[Ding!]
[Strength attribute increased from 223 to 679.]
[Ding!]
'It looks like all that incredible strength is too much for my body. I should put points into toughness and dexterity, too. But first things first.'
Tristan pushed his aches aside and went to open the truck's car. From inside, gagged and tied up, Martinez looked at him with huge eyes.
Tristan smirked at the sight. The man was a potential ally, but watching him suffer after all the condescending remarks toward Tristan was still very satisfying.
"Maybe I should move you to the safehouse like that, hm, Martinez? You don't like that? It would certainly teach you to act with more respect, though."
Martinez mumbled something in his gag. Despite everything, he refused to plead, but he at least lowered his head in submission.
[Ding!]
[You have earned respect of a person of high skill. Reward: your PP increased by 500!]
With a sigh, Tristan pulled out his knife and began cutting Martinez's ropes, until the man could shrug them off and get out of the trunk.
Then he pulled out his gag, coughed a little, and said,
"Ha—I mean, Mr. Hayes, we must get moving. I heard these two reporting their position to their boss. If he doesn't hear from them soon, more people will come here. Your cousin told you about my, um, proposal already, right?"
"Yes, he told me everything. We can talk in more detail later. More people will be here soon, because of this." Tristan gestured at the crime scene.
There were no cameras this deep in the garage—they were only put near the entrance, clearly to save money—but someone was bound to come to check the alarm noise.
"Let's get ourselves a vehicle for now," Tristan muttered, approaching the nearest not broken machine.
It was a boring gray semi-truck, perfect for his purposes. Tristan opened his status panel again and began tapping.
[Ding!]
[Lockpicking skill increased from 1 to 1001.].
It was easier to put a round number into a skill than to measure.
'More is better. Just in case.'
Tristan was low on tools, after all. But he had a knife and his keyring. He took the ring, easily straightened it with his strength, and used it as a poor, makeshift lockpick.
The lock on the semi-truck's door fell in moments. Tristan's skill let him work with the experience of a professional.
Hot-wiring the car didn't take long, either. Now Tristan knew how to do it.
"You will drive," Tristan told Martinez. "I need to make some calls in the meantime."