It was eerily quiet when Lorelei finally came around, the type of quiet that usually only follows an intense night of questionable life choices or, alternatively, your entire city being wiped off the map. One of the two. She lay there, eyes closed, drawing in long, slow breaths that sounded unnervingly loud in the stillness. If she had thought dropping 45 HP sucked after getting punched by an Orc, it was nothing compared to being down to her last, solitary point following a dragon attack. At this level of fragility, she mused, a harshly worded email could probably finish her off.
The last thing she remembered was getting absolutely bodied by a Dragon, which, no matter how you sliced it, was an odd thing to contemplate after starting your day in your best Garfield PJs. The whimsy of a lasagne-loving cat didn’t prepare you for being reduced to a smear on the ground by several tons of airborne lizard, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that the big ginger fraud had, in some way, let her down.
Lorelei was aware that a number of notifications were pinging around inside her skull like a malfunctioning pachinko machine, but she felt those could wait until she felt less like she was about to spontaneously disassemble. If she tried really hard, Lorelei could pretend she wasn’t lying on the floor of a nail salon, on a bed of broken glass and a few concerningly moist patches that were probably not just spilt acetone, with the world having gone to hell in a handcart outside. She could even, with significant effort, block out the memory of an Orc Electrician wielding an axe towards her.
That Dragon, though . . . well, not so much.
As far as she could tell, she’d only survived because some cosmic, random dice roll had activated a Skill she somehow possessed that randomly assigned her a much smaller portion of the damage the giant flying reptile had intended to dish out. When framed like that, the whole scenario felt remarkably batshit crazy
Groaning, Lorelei managed to roll herself upright, the effort bringing a chorus of complaints from every muscle, bone, and possibly even her spleen, which felt oddly vocal about the whole thing. Finally opening her eyes properly, she was shocked to see that it appeared to still be the afternoon. It seemed to her that a close encounter with a Dragon ought to warrant at least a whole night of unconsciousness, if not an extended stay in whatever passed for purgatory in these strange times.
But, no. Still a wet Tuesday afternoon. Although things were sounding a significantly lot quieter than they did when she’d taken her impromptu nap . . .
However, Lorelei quickly determined that the reason it was suddenly so peaceful wasn’t because everyone had given themselves a cold, hard look and were getting some much-needed post-apocalyptic shuteye. No, it was still a miserably rainy mid-afternoon in the Midlands, just as before all hell broke loose. The only difference was that there wasn’t anyone else about. At least, not anyone alive.
It was utter carnage on the road outside the nail bar, and for inner city Birmingham, that was saying something. Bodies—or rather, parts of them—were strewn across the pavement like grotesque confetti. A few had taken the time to become particularly artistic, arranging themselves in what Lorelei thought might be considered avant-garde decor, splattering up walls in bold crimson splashes. She wondered, in a detached sort of way, what it said about humankind that, within minutes of being granted superhuman powers, the first thing on the collective to-do list was to murder each other violently. Probably nothing good.
“We are a fucking terrible species.”
Gently shaking her head, an action that also dislodged some of the more persistently embedded glass shards from her hair, she moved away from the window and sat at the salon’s counter. The notifications still buzzing like angry wasps in her mind weren’t going to read themselves.
You have defeated [Player: Steve Barnes - Orcish Axeman], Level 1. Your contribution <1%. 11 XP Earned
***Warning*** HP level critical.
Congratulations, Level Up.
Well, that trio of notifications was a bit of a shit sandwich, wasn’t it?
She idly wondered precisely how she had contributed to ‘defeating’ Steve the Sparky Orc. Maybe she’d bruised his knuckles when he punched her? Still, freebies were freebies, and she wasn’t about to argue with whatever cosmic force was doling them out. The win, though, came when she opened the ‘Level Up’ notification.
Instantly, Lorelei felt a rush of vitality, like someone had injected her with a potent blend of caffeine, adrenaline, and possibly a hint of pure sunlight. It wasn’t just the sudden and blessed relief from full-body agony—though that was a highlight—it was the overall sensation of being fitter, happier, and more productive. Although, as that was a Radiohead song, maybe not so much. Wha it was was like a warm hug from your mum after a particularly traumatic breakup, except with less crying and more of an urge to punch something in the face.
“What the fuck happened to me when I levelled up?” she wondered aloud, more to break the oppressive silence than any belief that answers would be forthcoming.
As if prompted by her thoughts, a ticker tape of information scrolled across her vision as though the lower part of her vision had tuned into a news broadcast from a universe that had far too much fun designing RPG interfaces.
Lorelei Norton: Fortuna's Herald
Level 1
Experience 1/100
Health 200/200
Mana 200/200
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Primary Stats
Strength 8
Agility 14
Stamina 12
Intellect 16
Spirit 14
Secondary Stats
Critical Strike 5%
Haste 7%
Mastery 4%
Versatility 3%
Skills
Inventory
N/A
Professions
N/A
Talents
N/A
“Well, that’s just bloody brilliant," Lorelei muttered, staring at the readout hovering in her vision like a sarcastic cloud of doom.
If these stats were anything to go by, she appeared to be as sturdy as a wet paper bag, slightly more agile than a sloth on a sugar rush, but intelligent enough to overthink her own death while it was still happening. Still, she had to admit, the way her health and mana were now filled up was welcome—especially considering she had more or less been a human piñata mere moments ago.
"Okay, let’s break this down," she said, squinting at the list as though it might suddenly reveal something more useful if she stared hard enough. "Strength, 8.” Lorelei flexed her lack of arm muscles. Nope. 8 didn’t seem like it was suggesting anything Herculean. “Agility 14, though? That’s better, right? I might just dodge a slow-moving bicycle. Stamina, 12—yeah, definitely squishy. Intellect, 16. Twice as clever as I am strong. Nice. So, I can write a nice ballad about how utterly buggered I am in great detail whilst being . . . well, buggered to death. And Spirit, 14 . . . nope. No fucking idea there. I can pray really hard?” Her Secondary Stats seemed even more baffling. "Versatility, 3%, which is . . . what, the ability to wear both jeans and a dress?"
Lorelei’s eye twitched as she read over her Skills.
What was next? Well,
"Well, isn’t this all just a bucket of sunshine," she sighed, closing the status screen with a resigned shrug.
As she stood up and looked around the nail salon, the scene that greeted her was nothing short of post-apocalyptic chic. Bottles of nail polish were oozing their contents across the floor in vivid splashes of colour, mingling with shattered glass and what she was reasonably sure was Steve’s severed thumb. The acetone smell was overwhelming. Then there was the more general, eye-watering stench of something burning—something that smelled unsettlingly organic.
A memory suddenly clicked into place. Steve had come into the shop unarmed and then come out with a giant, fuck-off axe. There was no way that particular piece of hardware had been tucked behind the manicure station. Either the salon owner had been running a niche business in lethal weaponry – which, on reflection, was entirely likely - or there was some sort of loot box hiding among the nail clippers and pumice stones. Then, just as she was piecing this together, a soft golden glow appeared in the corner of the store, bathing the otherwise grim interior in a strangely peaceful light. It was the kind of glow that whispered, Hey, I’m here to save your arse, but only if you think to look for me. The universe was apparently big on irony today.
The glow drew her to a large, old-fashioned wooden chest that had no business in a nail salon unless the owner had a severe piracy fetish. Its lid was surprisingly lightweight as it creaked open, and Lorelei gasped as the contents inside were revealed to be. . . . a single coin.
"A coin?" Lorelei said, half incredulous, half resigned. "Seriously? After all this, I get a bloody coin?"
She plucked the small coin from the chest, and the chest promptly vanished with a pop, leaving her holding what felt like the integration equivalent of a participation trophy.
Double-Headed Coin of Fate
Item Type: Weapon (Uncommon)
Required Level: 1
Class Compatibility: Suitable for Fortuna’s Herald
Weapon Type: Magical Artifact
· Damage: 3-5 (Arcane Damage)
· Intellect: +2
· Critical Strike: +1%
Special Ability: Ah, that sucks! Usually, this would have all sorts of cool things it can do. Something seems to have interfered with the random item generator, though, and made it... a pretty mundane double-headed coin. Bad luck!
"Bad luck?" Lorelei spluttered, staring at the weapon in disbelief. "That’s it? That’s the special ability? That Orc had a giant axe and I get this? You’ve got to be kidding me."
The coin was cool to the touch, and the fact that it was a double-headed coin only added to her growing sense of unfairness. The universe wasn’t just kicking her while she was down; it was doing so with steel-toed boots and a wicked grin. As she added the coin to her Inventory, she noted that her Intellect got a modest boost, as did her Critical Strike chance, but it still felt like she’d just been handed the fuzzy end of the weapon lollipop.
She was just about to bemoan the spectacular unfairness of her situation when an insanely loud siren blared to life, nearly splitting her skull in two. It was as if someone had decided that the best way to deliver a message was to blast it through a loudspeaker directly into her brain.
*** Welcome Message Incoming ***