I threw Weevul.

I threw Weevul… a lot.

When he curled up into his ball form, he was almost the same size as the radius on my sickle-like combat spur. The ridge between the plates of his exoskeleton even formed a grove for my blade to fit in, turning it into a bizarre Curculian hurling atlatl. I didn’t even need to be that accurate with my throws, either. Those little vanes along his back weren’t just excitement indicators. He could use them to control his spin and his trajectory mid-flight, which made sense seeing as how his pals had launched themselves at me, seemingly at will.

And the little bugger was damn good at it, too.

He made a buzzing noise as he cut through the air, sweeping down and up in gravity defying arcs that would have made a wiffle ball pitcher jealous. And every time he hit one of the blastoblobs, he used the momentum of the slightly delayed explosion to send his alien body spinning right back into my combat spur.

We were in perfect sync, me and Weevul, as we made blastoblob after blastoblob explode in a burst of what looked like the inside of an orange glow stick, scorching the rock and causing the cavern to shudder as dust and pebbles rained down from above.

By the time we had cleared out half of the horde, I received a whole slew of new notifications.

LEVEL UP!

You have leveled up. You are now Level 2. You have gained one stat point.

New Milestone: Fly Off the Handle!

Damn, dude. You’ve just got here, you haven’t even found a workshop yet, and you’ve already fabricated an improvised ranged weapon? That's baller—pun intended. Most of the accused don’t even have time to think about what they might make if they ever find a workshop before they die, and while the components you used are rather questionable and give away your wanton disregard for the safety of a member of your party, I have to give props where they’re due. In fact, I like it so much I’m going to turn it into a custom skill just for you, my favorite Earthmanduck. That's favorite... by default.

New Skill Acquired: Fly Off the Handle!

While technically not a fly, and technically not off the handle exactly, from now on, every time you throw your insect friend off your combat spur, you’ll get just a little better at it. The better you get, the more damage it does, and the more damage it does, the more your chance of living increases.

New Milestone: Top Skill Dragster!

Congratulations, Flap. You are the first accused in your sector to get a custom skill from yours truly. Frankly, I thought it was going to be that Tony guy, but you beat him to the punch. To celebrate you commenting "first" on the proverbial skill thread, I have rewarded you with a Common Loot Cache. Will it have a poison antidote inside? Open it and find out. Or maybe wait until you clear out the rest of the mobs first…

We took Dog’s—because that’s what I decided to call the voice of the simulation, seeing as it’s a backwards version of the loving deity one might expect—advice and cleared out the rest of the blastoblobs. By the time Weevul and I had done all the dirty work, leaving a glowing monocolor Jackson Pollock painting all over the cavern wall, I had reached Level 3 and earned another stat point.

Weevul was still Level 1, obviously, but if all those collisions and explosions had done any damage to his shell, it didn’t show it. Damn thing must be nigh on indestructible.

I had also leveled up my new custom skill to Level 3, and I could tell that my throws were becoming more accurate, relying less on Weevul’s corrections to hit what I was throwing at.

The return was still all him. That I didn’t have any control over.

There had to be some limit to how far he could fly on his own, though. I made a mental note to do some testing once we found ourselves—if we ever found ourselves in a safer area. Right now, I needed to find out what the deal was with those stat points.

“Hey Dumbass,” I said. “What’s the deal with those stat points?”

“I heard it when you thought about it, Flap. You don’t need to repeat yourself. It makes you sound like a broken record.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m gonna ignore that so I can at least pretend Big Brother isn’t always streaming the insides of my head. But for real, what’s the deal with these stat points?”

Dumbass grunted. “Remember how I told you I’m the conduit connecting you to the simulation?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, when you were first graced with the gift of me, your connection was… let’s call it… like the string connecting two soup cans. It doesn’t do much until you pull the line tight. And that’s what happened when you gained a level, you pulled the line tight and now you can actually get some information across, but the range is limited and the technology is unreliable. So… you’re still at soup cans and we need to get you to fiber optic cable. And that’s why levels are important.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

I crossed my arms. “That is wonderful information and all, Dumbass. Very useful even. But you didn’t answer my ducking question.”

“Which was?”

“You’re being a major dumbass, Dumbass,” I grunted through gritted bill. “Weevul, will you please bash my skull in?”

“But Weevul does not want to—”

“Ah!” I grunted. “It’s a damn figure of speech. Don’t really bash my skull in. Though on second thought, maybe I don’t want to take that option off the table yet. Hmmm. What’s the opposite of a safe word?”

Weevul skittered about. “An… unsafe word?”

“Yeah, good thinking.” I nodded. “Maybe we should come up with an unsafe word. How about… snarfblat or… supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?”

No response.

I looked down at Weevul to see him looking more confused than a cyclist at a biker bar. I gave him a smile, patted him on the carapace, and said, “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it, pal.”

I could have sworn I heard him purr.

“Okay, Dumbass. I’m going to ignore that fact that what you just told me doesn’t make any sense seeing as how I can use that Blink skill—”

“They craft certain items with a single strong connection to the simulation. It’s kind of like a cheat code.”

I furrowed my brow. “What?”

“That’s… why you can use the Blink skill. It’s also why loot is important. Seriously, Flap, if you will not keep up, maybe I should drive for a while.”

“No happening again, Dumbass.” I took a deep breath to stifle the rage rising in my chest. “Please answer the ducking question.”

“Which was?”

“Weevul, I changed my ducking mind. Snarf—”

“Fine,” Dumbass relented. “You can’t just strengthen your connection with the sim and hope for the best. Any data—which is what reality is, moron—needs to be quantified. Each species handles the data a little differently, but since you have a Gallic Combat Implant, your data set is broken down into three categories: Strength, Stamina, and Speed.”

“All right.” I smiled. “Now we're getting somewhere. But why not more categories like DnD and Final Fantasy and other role-playing games have?”

“Because…” Dumbass made a guttural groan. “The chickens, not being very bright like some other bird I know, are big fans of the KISS method.”

A sweet, repeating bass line erupted inside my memory. I couldn't help but bob my head to the beat. “Like Detroit Rock City?”

“No, not that KISS. K-I-S-S. Keep it simple stupid. Words you should really take to heart, by the way. And that is an awesome song. We should totally listen to it later.”

“We can do that?”

“Uh, yeah. Billboard Top 100 hits, remember?”

“Right on. Can’t wait.” I said with unfeigned excitement. “So the chickens kept it simple?”

“Yep. They used to have a lot more data points, but the Cluck Collective decided that gave a little too much freedom of choice for its citizens so they boiled it down—ha ha! Sorry, they hard-boiled it down to the main three: Strength, Stamina, and Speed. They’re pretty self explanatory, but do you need me to break it down for your little duck br—”

"Duck off. Hehe." I chucked. “No, I got it. How do I use them?”

“You don’t. Or at least, you can’t use one of them. I already applied one to stamina. Stamina affects your health, and in case you haven’t forgotten, you’re poisoned. We need all the help we can get. As your resident toxicologist, I suggest we hold the last one in reserve.”

“Why?” I started, but then I noticed my health bar had gone all the way back up to full and answered my own damn question. “Because my health regenerated when you applied the stamina point.”

“And Bingo was his name-o!”

“I have to admit, Dumbass, that was very smart of you. Almost like you’re actually trying to help me or something.”

“I have my moments.” Dumbass sighed. “Now let’s get out of here before those blobs reform. I don't know why, but I find the thought of asexual reproduction disgusting. I'd much rather watch the instructional videos the humans make in their spare time. Shit, now that I think about it, I don't think I uploaded any into your brain. I have the entire catalog of educational videos from a website called Por—"

“No thanks. I'm good.” But Dumbass's comment about reproduction reminded me of something else from the blastoblob notification. I pulled it up and a smile spread across my face as I read it. “Not so fast, Dumbass. I want to open up this loot cache first, then I got something else in mind."

"Hmmm... I guess I can allow it."

I found the cache in my inventory and selected it. It appeared on the ground in front of me. It was black and looked kind of like one of those military equipment cases you saw stacked in the background of the bad guy's lair in 80s action movies. I was desperately hoping it would have an antidote, so I held my breath, undid the latches, and lifted the lid. "Great, more ducking chicken feed. And what the hell is this?"

I held up the silver tube and examined the writing on the side. "Nanoparticle..."

"Fabrication Paste," Dumbass finished. "It's no workshop, but it might in handy. It's the Gallic version of duct tape. They use it for field repairs and the like. You can even make rudimentary items with it if you get crafty. Speaking of which, I'm getting an idea now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That scares me, but this stuff ain't half bad. Not what I was hoping for, but I'll take it. Do not use it until we talk it over, okay? Do not."

"Oh, sure. Scout's honor."

I chewed on my bill, considering whether I still wanted to do what I had planned next. After a few seconds of thought, I decided we had stayed fairly safe so far, so I turned to Weevul and said, “What do you say we get some more throwing practice in, pal?”