[https://i.imgur.com/4S9HIs8.png]
I was working on my homemade Ninja Warrior course when the world ended.
It was pretty sweet, too.
The course I mean—not the end of the world. That was dog shit.
Vert walls, rope climbs—the whole nine.
Anyways, I was screwing some planks into a quarter pipe when the message appeared in my vision.
Greetings, Earth! I am pleased to inform you that your application has been approved after the mandatory 10,000 cycle waiting period. Welcome to the Integrated Universe! As a client of Integration Assistance Services, your pre-Integration phase will feature the best preparatory instruction in the Universe! Phase One will consist of an I.A.S. specialty—the Tower Climb! The Tower Climb is the perfect metaphorical representation of the climb in power you shall all experience with the aid of my organization and myself!
Well, not all of you.
Historical data among adjacent species suggests an attrition rate of 97.374% over the duration of the Climb. But fret not! Those of you that survive will no doubt enter Phase Two of the Integration with all the tools necessary to avoid servitude or death.
Most likely…
But I’m a big believer in positive affirmation. Be the Integration you want to be. It all starts with you!
Yes, you!
What the fuck?, was all I could think as the stream of text continued to fill my vision. An honest-to-God System Apocalypse!?
Okay, I’m seeing a lot of you screaming, crying, praying to your God, gods, deities—what have you. But let me clear the metaphysical air right now by assuring you…nobody is listening.
Scratch that—I am listening. But guidelines stipulate a strict [NoDIP] until at least the Third Floor. Ah, my apologies, that is an industry term. [NoDIP] stands for our No Divine Intervention Policy.
Now, I understand that certain human aural codification often elicits feelings of anger and un-togetherness. As a result, I have enabled the [MMF]—the Mature Morphemes Filter. All single syllable words of an aggressive nature have been disabled and replaced with an aurally-pleasing BEEP—just like your favorite scripted television dramas!
Ahh, isn’t that better?
I won’t keep you all much longer. The tutorial demons are already on their way!
One thing before I go—do take this Integration quite seriously. We only have a few scant years before the coming [Claimants], and it would behoove you all to get as powerful as your single-plane forms can possibly get!
Think of this Integration as your Rocky montage—hey there, Stallone, huge fan! One more little aside—I know I just went over the [NoDIP], but if anyone touches Stallone, I may or may not be able to control my Tribulations…the Rocky franchise was a masterpiece of scripted drama and must be protected at all costs.
And with those formalities out of the way, let the training montage…BEGIN!
That was the weirdest introduction to a System Apocalypse I had ever seen. Nothing I read had prepared me for that. But I did know my shit and was eager to get a leg up on the rest of the world. How many people could possibly be aware of what a System Apocalypse was anyway?
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Status,” I said out loud.
I waited expectedly for a blue box to fill my vision or some sort of prompt giving me instructions on how to proceed.
Nothing…
“Stats.”
Nada.
“Character Sheet.”
Zilch.
I snorted in annoyance. Wasn’t there some sort of tutorial or something? Then it hit me!
“Tutorial!”
Bupkiss.
“Guide.”
“Help.”
“Class selection.”
“…”
“What the BEEP!” I shouted hopelessly. I jerked in surprise as a terrible rendition of TV censoring overlaid across the word “fuck.” What the fuck was this System thinking…?
I pushed it from my mind. How the hell did I pull up my Status? Thinking or speaking some combination of words had always worked in every book I’d read.
Fine, I wouldn’t let that get me down. If I couldn’t figure out the stats and classes, then I’d at least arm up. Next to me was a nail gun, and I hefted that with a smile. Yeah, that’ll do. I had jerry-rigged the contact safety for shits and giggles so that it would fire at range—unlike a stock nail gun. Looking around, I spotted a hammer and looped it in my belt. Ranged and melee weapons—perfect. I briefly considered crafting some homemade armor. There was plenty of plywood and duct tape lying around that I could probably MacGyver into some basic monster protection. But on some further consideration, I discarded the idea. My best attribute was my speed and agility. Weighing myself down with shitty armor would be counterproductive.
Plus, if classes ended up being based on your actions, I didn’t want to get saddled with some weak-ass construction class or something. I wanted to be a fucking ninja!
With hammer and nail gun in hand, I started for the street. Most people would be freaking-the-fuck-out and have no idea what a System Apocalypse even was. That would give me the first mover’s advantage. I’d find some rinky-dink level-one mobs and get to leveling.
I left my backyard and immediately turned back to get some food and water from inside. Rookie mistake, Dirk, I scolded. Never walk out into an Apocalypse without provisions!
When I hit the street, though, I stopped dead in my tracks. Are you fucking kidding me?
Every person and their mom were gathering outside their homes, conversing with their neighbors, and generally just handling this Apocalypse with grace and calm.
It made no fucking sense…
I couldn’t even remember a System Apocalypse novel that didn’t start with bedlam and murder. And yet—defying all expectations—the entire suburb was congregated in wholesome togetherness.
If this were a novel, someone would just start murderhoboing everyone to kick the party off. But when I looked around, it was mostly mothers, children, and the elderly.
Plus, I spotted a few guns amongst the neighbors.
The nail gun in my hand suddenly felt like a child’s toy. Maybe I could break into a gun shop or a Walmart or something…
My thoughts were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream echoing from down the street. It was twilight, and the sun was just barely peeking above the horizon, making visibility a rough prospect. I squinted to pierce the burgeoning darkness and spotted a wave of movement racing up the suburban street toward me.
“What the BEEP is that?” a voice shouted behind me. I turned to see an older gentleman with a .22 rifle in his hands. He had it pointed up, his gun safety impeccable.
Not that it mattered—the rifle would barely penetrate a cow’s hide.
“I’d start firing,” I said with a nod towards the incoming whatever-they-were. It wouldn’t do any good, but I wanted to see what was what, and the range on my nail gun was shit.
He gave me a condescending look that would have seen him slapped silly in the joint and waved towards the ever-increasing movement. “Them’s kids down there. Some sort of early Thanksgiving parade or—”
The terrified screams of people being torn apart echoed toward us.
“Helluva parade,” I replied, backing away down the street.
I had briefly entertained the idea of taking the rifle from the old man—it would work against humans, if nothing else—but decided to see how things played out.
The old man squinted in confusion as the screams became louder. People began to stampede toward us, fleeing from whatever was making its inexorable way down the street.
“What in the seven BEEP…” he muttered, putting the stock to his shoulder.
I gave myself a 3-count before I high-tailed it the fuck outta here. Come on, old man. Grow some balls…
As if in answer to my prayer, the old man realized that this wasn’t no fucking kid’s parade. He took aim, breathed in, and pulled the trigger. I watched as the bullet embedded in a creature near the front of the pack. The creature staggered but otherwise didn’t miss a beat.
The creatures in question weren’t overly large—maybe two or three feet in height, with little vestigial-looking wings flapping on their backs as they loped towards us. But their skin had a stony texture to it, and their teeth and claws appeared to be razor sharp.
They’re imps, I realized.
I watched for a moment more, weighing the options in my head.
Option 1, shoot the old man in the back with the nail gun. I heavily considered it—not because I was some sadistic fuck that enjoyed murdering people, but because I knew that in most System Apocalypses, killing your fellow humans usually came with experience and rewards. Plus, it seemed like he was about to feed himself to the imps no matter what I said. On the flipside, about half of those stories also incorporated some sort of mark, brand, or other identifiers that indicated you were a person-killer. I didn’t want to start out my Apocalypse ostracized or hunted by others.
I would have enough problems as it was.
Option 2, leave the old man to die and let his corpse slow the incoming imps by a few seconds as they tear it apart. That option sounded like the winner.
Without a proper weapon or any spells to speak of, it was time to exercise the better part of valor. So I turned and booked it. I made it a few steps before my conscience got the better of me and I paused. “Better get moving, old man,” I called over my shoulder.
Then I hauled ass out of there. If there was one thing I was good at, it was running.
The question was… run where?