Chapter 3: Bullied at my Baptism

"If you cannot trust yourself, you cannot even trust your mistrust of yourself." — Alan Watts

A moment of shock and confusion lingers as I read and reread the sticky note from myself, slapped onto the ass of a dollar store angel. But there is a threshold of impossibility and absurdity where surprise begins to have diminishing returns, and this is par for the course at this point.

I still haven’t quite written off the theory that all of this is a byproduct of my brain's neurons firing off in funky ways on their way to paint Higgy’s walls.

Regardless, in the face of everything else so far-- including the fact that I swear the wooden falcon on the ranger mannequin's shoulder is preening itself when I'm not looking-- the idea that a version of myself has left me a note to help me along isn't too ridiculous. I did say I would break this game.

Thinking on it, didn't the first construct say “time has no relevance here”? And one of the example skills of this dude was [Time-exempt]. So, it's possible there's some time-fuckery at play here.

Though, that throws into question the causality of my class choice. I had fully intended to select Mastermind, so if this note is the reason I chose mage, and if I place that note only because I chose mage, how in the hell did this happen? Bit of a paradox there.

I could start thinking about it with my flawed understanding of quantum physics but the orientation-construct has already been incredibly patient with me staring at its ass for the last few minutes and I really don't think I should keep staring lest I begin to theorize about what material Dat Ass is made of.

“Alright I've made my choice.” I say.

It full-body spins to face me head-first. “Wonderful! So, which step do you want to be your first on the way to divinity?”

Paranoia and trust issues have kept me safe, but if you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?

“Mage.”

***

Level-up!

Class change!

Tier 0, [NULL] — Tier 1, [Mage], level 1.

Skill applied: [One-eyed] (passive)

Skill applied: [Perfect memory] (passive)

Skill applied: [Fear resistance] (passive, upgradable)

Spell earned: [Light] (tier 0)

Spell earned: [Minor illusion] (tier 0)

Spell earned: [Magic missile] (tier 1)

Spell earned: [Tripping roots] (tier 1)

***

Apparently level-ups can only happen when you're unconscious, and apparently despite being a soul I do have a physical form.

I know this, because I wake up sore and groggy on a stone floor, drool pooling on my cheek.

I'm woken by the rattling of chains and I shoot to my feet, tripping slightly over whatever loose clothing I'm now garbed in. I see nothing, but the room smells of old mildew, must, and the onset of decomposition– a smell I am unfortunately familiar with. Smacking my lips I come to a conclusion; the floor tasted like slate.

The rattling of chains comes from a specific spot, and turning towards it I still see nothing. Wherever I am is pitch dark. But, the rattling is relatively stationary and not getting closer, and sounds to be a good 10-15 feet away. From the way it doesn't echo, this room isn't too large, and has furniture of some kind within it.

After confirming I’m not in immediate danger, I realize the clever game design. Give a new mage a light spell, then have them wake up in a dark room with some unknown thing in there with them and they'll learn how to cast the spell real quick.

I try to pull up some kind of interface, hitting the mental equivalent of the escape key, or tab, or "I". Nothing works. Then I think about the [Light] spell, and find that I have an instinctual understanding of how to cast it:

The strongest memory of light I have.

I close my eye.

A deep breath in.

A deep breath out.

I hold out my hand and open my eye. Floating above my hand is a pulsing ball of light, switching rhythmically between red and blue.

Incorporeal, ethereal, plainly visible-- yet not really there... Magic.

I take a second to give this moment the weight and respect it deserves. Putting into practice some tools that Dr. Mahayshweren taught me in juvie. I take apart the storm of emotions piece by piece, acknowledge them, and set them aside. The wonder of performing magic, the regret that my strongest memories of light are of police lights, the bottled and hidden hope that I was always meant for something more. Curiosity wins out and I look up towards the rattling chains.

The room vacillates between red and blue, and bathed in that light is a fresh zombie, chained to the wall. She has some sort of injector stabbed into her neck. And it is a she, wearing that kind of medieval labcoat I saw on the Artisan mannequin, but with much more flair.

The room is trashed. It at one point seemed to be a strange arcane laboratory, or a schizophrenic's garage. Tables are overturned, notes are scattered and rotting all over, and glass litters the stone in one corner from shattered tubes and devices.

On one wall, next to a bookcase burned from where some candlestick was knocked over, is a large desk setup with an open book next to a toppled inkwell. Ignoring the safely chained, and strangely silent, undead (lungs ain't working I guess) I step towards the desk.

Approaching the journal, a light reflects from the desk, I look up to see that I've gotten close enough that I, and the light ball in my hand, are reflected in a cracked mirror on the wall above the desk. I see myself for the first time in… a while.

I look at what I'm wearing, and it seems to be a long white robe; wide sleeves, flowing. Classic campy wizard shit, and terrible for fighting in. I look like I'm about to be bullied at my own Baptism. I look up to see if they gave me a hat.

My pasty face stares in that unshakable neutrality I practiced in countless other mirrors. Tight-lipped and focused, a good bit of my face is hidden by my shaggy dirt brown hair, painted in the blue and reds of police lights, a sight too familiar. Defying the shoulder length hair meant to hide it, the gnarled roots of scars still peek out across my right side over the cheekbone. The basic black eyepatch catches anyone's eye, even my own. I look to my real eye, and despite everything, or because everything else, I look scared.

I was 23 when I died.

I feel the wrongness I’ve had identified as a dissociative episode roll over me like a fog, and I turn to assess the room one more time, to make sure I’m not in danger. My movements are delayed, heavy, like input lag in a game. I'm in a game aren't I?

Higgy shot me.

There's nothing moving in the room but me and the zombie. There are no windows. There is a single door, boarded from this side. I look at the zombie.

He took us in, we abandoned them, and he shot me.

I look at the lifeless face of the zombie, her jaw opening and closing. Her eyes are milky and blind, but I swear they're looking at me.

I'm DE—

My arm punches out, my hips turning and my full weight behind it; Like Demarcus taught me. I punch the air and an opalescent lance of pure kinetic force shoots into the zombie's head and splatters it against the wall.

Okay. There are no threats in the room currently. I probably shouldn't have killed the zombie without reading the journal first, for all I know I could have needed her blood for a cure or something, but I'm sort of on a mental breakdown timer here. Can't even appreciate that I just cast [Magic Missile].

I'm safe, no one will see me, nothing can hurt me.

Five minutes. I'm allowed to fall apart for five minutes.

The light winks out as, with permission granted, my legs give out from under me and I fall to my knees. Broken glass digs into my legs so I shift to pull my knees in to hug my chest.

Then, the tears start.

Ugly tears from one busted tear duct and another working overtime to make up for it. Heaving breaths and grabbing onto my hair and nearly tearing it out. I quickly start patting my skull trying to feel for a bullet hole, and nearly retch even when I don’t find one. The retch turns to a moan of grief, crescendoing into a scream of rage.

I lack the vocabulary to articulate the feeling of my shitty, fuckhole of a life where I kicked and scratched for every crumb, every cent, every ounce of respect. All the ass kickings, all the times I had to out-think or out-crazy everyone else. Finding a few people I didn't have to keep my guard so damn high around, a few years of not sleeping with an eye open when I didn't have one to spare. All of it culminating in getting shot by my friend cuz we had to abandon our brothers when I fucked up trying to steal a Cash-For-Gold Mail-in!

Cyclops can't ever catch a break huh?

Not even once?

Fuck it. I'll make my own breaks.

Five minutes are up.

I push myself to my feet, sniffing and wiping my face. I resummon the ball of light and finally look at that journal on the desk.

Most of the pages seem to be torn out or chewed on, save the last few. They read;

The serum doesn't work. Inducing a temporary undeath is not containable. It has a mind of its own.

If anyone else is reading this, cure me if you can, I will give you everything. Otherwise, put me and the test subjects out of our misery.

Be careful what you toy with.

Thank you, cryptic and unhelpful journal.

Well, a little helpful. I now know not to try and make myself temporarily undead, and that there are ‘test subjects’. I kinda feel bad for not even trying to cure her though, feels like one of those optional bonus objectives on a quest that gives ya crazy loot. Plus, what if she was a real person? This “floor” is supposed to be just for me, but I really don't know what's going on.

I just like to pretend I do.

Let's focus on what we can control.

First things first: if I'm going to be fighting, we gotta do something about wearing my Sunday worst. I try rolling up the sleeves and skirt of the robe, but that still leaves me with far too much bulk and loose cloth. I strip the robe off completely and find that I'm wearing brown leather boots that come halfway up my calf, as well as… heart silk boxers.

Either The Great Work has a sense of humor or it decided this was the default underwear for humanity. Beats tighty whities.

With no feasible way to cut and restitch this into something usable, I tie the robe around me like a sash, and give one last look into the broken mirror.

A half naked man in boxers and long boots with a sash and an eyepatch, slinging spells.

This is what a badass looks like.

After giving the room one more search for anything of value, and finding none, I take a sturdy length of wood from the debris littering the floor. Wedging it between the reinforced wooden door and the boards nailing it shut (which, I didn't find a hammer, so how did they nail it shut from this side? Is there a spell to hammer nails?) I lean down on the makeshift pry, and wrench the boards from the wall. Snuffing the light, I take hold of the old iron handle, and crack the door. Dim orange light peeks from the slit in the door. I push myself against the wall, and angle myself to see what there is to see.