Bob was crumbled up into a ball, his head between his knees, as George circled his master, nosing around and flapping his tail at Bob's face. It wasn't fair. Bob was feeling set up. Mighty set up. Surely, surely, it couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d begged the heavens for fireball. He had prayed for fireball more sincerely than he ever had for the abstract ideals of world peace or mutual understanding.

But no, Bob was granted the "power" of mud manipulation, while his dog (his dog!) was gifted the sought-after fireball. And if the injustice ended there, Bob might have made his peace and done his best to be happy for his canine friend. But oh no, there was plenty more injustice to go around. Bob had spent the greater part of an hour desperately trying to cast the simplest of mud spells, all to no avail. And George, the dog, had traipsed up, zero practice, zero, and nonchalantly spat out the equivalent of a flamethrower.

He was being set up. There were no two ways about. Someone in high places was having a good laugh just about now. And if George could use his spells, then chances were everyone else could too. No, Bob alone, poor Boor, couldn't use his ability. Bob alone, poor Bob, would be helpless against a small child or a white rabbit with their unlocked abilities. Long story short: Bob was going to die.

George's warm breath panted into Bob's ear; the dog had shoved his snout through Bob's defensive position and was tapping his wet nose against different parts of Bob's face. The maneuver was extremely ticklish and Bob quickly uncurled himself. He gave the dog an annoyed look, but George's shrugged off any unpleasant intent with an amicable bark. Bob caved and wrapped his arms around the dog. "Thank you George. I probably needed that."

Yes Bob was going to die unless... George protected him. George with his fireball ability. Bob remembered imagining how he would nobly protecting his dog from the harsh new post-system world. Funny how these things work out. For the present, however, Bob was the weak and impotent princess who required a big, strong golden magician to keep him safe and warm.

"Fireball huh?" Bob said with undisguised envy. Was it fireball or fire breath? Bob stood and examined the triangular patch of burnt grass. That was when Bob finally processed the full destructive power of George’s attack.

Bob stepped over to still smoking area and bent down, fishing out a pebble from the scorched earth. "Ouch." It was hot. He probably should have expected that. He wrapped his hand in a fold of his cloak and tried again. The stone looked, he couldn’t find another word for it, half-melted. Its natural lines were warped. What temperature did a flame need to reach before it could affect stone? Bob gawked at the fluffy golden animal brushing against his legs.

So much for a long training montage with gradual snail-pace improvement, George obviously had no need for that. Honestly, what the hell. George's ability could bring down an elephant. Maybe even a tank. Bob threw the pebble towards the heavens above. It was a symbolic gesture. And one that George immediately misinterpreted, assuming some stick had been thrown for his benefit. The dog bounced off in the direction of the throw. Bob just sighed.

The burned area continued to give off a slight haze even after a few minutes. If it hadn’t just rained, Bob reckoned George’s playful act would have burned down the whole prairie-land. They'd have to be careful about using the dog's ability in the wrong place or at the wrong time.

Bob's mud ability, on the other hand, could be safely practiced in all environments and climates. Maybe mud manipulation was one of those high upfront cost, high future payout skills. An optimistic and unconvincing voice protested. Fire breath—that, he gestured at the devastated landscape, has got to be near peak output. Long game is all that really matters. Well, unless you get yourself killed, like 80+% of earth’s sentients already had.

Come on. Bob had a unique class. Surely he should had correspondingly unique and powerful abilities. A nice argument, but breaking down immediately given that his class description explicitly told him it would assign random abilities. Randomness in general did not tend to pick the rarest and best of outcomes as every lottery player can attest.

George returned, wagging his tail, with a stick in his mouth. What? Bob hadn’t thrown a stick. The dog must have just found one lying around. It was quite a nice stick too. Light brown with a good weight to it, smooth and just the perfect length for throwing. Bob smiled at that dog. “I can’t stay angry at you, George.” The dog barked, dropping the stick. Bob half-suspected the dog just barked whenever you said his name, but Bob chose to make the more charitable interpretation.

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“So your ability is fire breath, huh? And this red satchel must be your companion object.” Bob unfashioned the toggles and opened the bag. It was completely empty.

“Do you know what it does, George?” An unhelpfully cryptic bark was the only response.

“Don’t tell me it’s just a fashion accessory is it? I mean it looks well made and all.” The strapping system was particularly cunning, looping around the dog’s lower back in a way that didn’t seem to impede his movements in the slightest.

“Well don’t sweat it, boy. It looks great on you.” It wasn't like Bob's cloak did anything special either.

Bob couldn't stay angry at George. The dog exuded love, friendliness and cheer. But Bob was still angry at himself, at the system and at the setup. Angry and a little afraid. He was in a magical world of blood and death, but he had no powers. He couldn't defend himself. He didn't want to think what would happen if they ran into something dangerous. That thought got him restless and somehow wary of staying in one place.

"George, fancy a walk?" The dog barked. "I'll take that for a yes." No surprise there, Bob had never seen the dog turn down a walk before. Bob set off at a quick trot, heading downwards; their bathroom was situated on the shoulder of a hill about two-thirds of the way to the top. Bob marched downhill, George taking a freer and more creative route. There was plenty to interest a dog in the wide grasslands.

Motion eased the hunted feeling in Bob's stomach. He'd always enjoyed long walks. Something about nature and just moving the body. It brought him out of his head and let him get a bit more perspective. He ran a hand through the tall grasses, watching the stems bend under his fingers and then spring back. The landscape was eerily empty. There was no buzz of little insects or the distinctive rustle of a rabbit or a fox squeezing through the grasses. There were no birds in the sky. They were terribly alone.

Bob walked and walked and thought about everything that had happened to him. He hadn't really had time to process it all. He'd been jumping from one task to the next. He breathed out and let his mind wander.

The old world was over wasn't it? He'd never wake up, groggy eyed, roll out of his bed and cycle into the office of the Slackback Turtle. He'd never sit staring at a blue screen, pressing a little transparent ruler into the monitor as he measured out the dimensions of turtle icons. He'd never get a chance to talk on the phone with his friend Nate again. Nate who'd been training to be a doctor. A good man and a better friend. In the before anyway. Who knew what had happened to him now?

All Bob had known. His routines and small hopes, his vacation plans, his bank account, his whole world was lost beyond recovery. He thought about the initiation challenges. And surprisingly, he found a quiet pride in what he'd accomplished.

Bob certainly hadn't dominated them. If anything, he'd underestimated each and every one. His final grade of A was the definition of a fluke. And sure some of his decisions might have been a tad embarrassing, upon further reflection. He couldn't grasp what he'd been thinking when he resubmitted the same answer on the combination puzzle. But on the whole, he thought he'd done his best. He hadn't been crippled by fear, or frozen by the sudden ordeal. He'd overcome. 82% of sentient life on earth couldn't say the same.

And yes, if possible, the stakes had been raised since returning to earth. A bomb was ticking down over all their heads. World Recycling had to mean death for the lowly creatures who crawled along the world's surface. Not to mention, he was utterly powerless, mud manipulation notwithstanding, and surrounded by powerful potential enemies. Strange then, Bob grinned, somehow his spirits were high and he was even a little hopeful. George probably had a lot to do with that. Bob really loved that dog. He was a right sucker for the animal.

"George," Bob called out, wanting to express a little bit of that warm feeling the dog invoked inside him. Bob looked left and then right and then behind him. "Where has that dratted dog run off to now?" Bob picked up his pace and started scanning the horizons. The tall grasses really obscured visibility.

Bob was started to get a little worried. Would George know his way back to the bathroom? What if something had happened to him? Why had Bob taken his eyes off his friend? "George, George." He cupped his hand and shouted the dog's name.

An answering bark from Bob's left got him to turn around. He turned around and made out three figures stationed about forty paces away. Of course, George was standing in their midst. And the company was staring in Bob's direction. He should have ditched that confounded dog and gone on his own way. Or not, either way, no backing out now. George was too friendly for his own good (read for Bob's own good).

Bob stuck a worried half-smile on his face and slowly plodded towards the group.

"What are you so worried about? Maybe they're good friendly people. You could use some allies. Not to mention someone to talk to."

"Yeah, sure, because that has been the pattern over the last few days: good, friendly people. Maybe they are mad, serial-killers and you are walking to your death."

"Guess we'll find out."