Bob was lying awake in bed. He was wrapped up in a sleeping bag, dressed in his mud cloak. He tried taking the cloak off, but the cloth was as gentle as velvet, as smooth as cream; it was literally the most comfortable thing he owned. The irony of Bob choosing to sleep coated by mud was not lost on our hero. But what evils will man not accept in the name of comfort?
Off to the side, he could just make out the arc of George’s shoulders. Bob had bought the dog one of those fluffy dog beds, lined with white wool. A little surprise for the dog.
To say George had liked it was an understatement. The dog had been over the moon when the system first materialized the thing out of the air in the middle of the tent. He'd danced around, barked loudly, dragged Bob over to examine the new bed. In all honesty, Bob had been a little worried the dog might bring the whole tent down on top of them. Somehow Bob didn’t trust the guy who’d put up the thing. Lazy son of a gun that one. I heard he "accidentally" collapsed down a tunnel system just the other day.
George had good reason to be excited. The new bed was far nicer than the one George had had at Bob's apartment. Hey Bob was a millionaire. And yes he still hated spending money, but he wasn’t about to stiff his best friend. He’d picked out the nicest bed he could find: “the super, deluxe, premium, luxury (all words that basically seemed to mean expensive) king’s sized bed for man’s best friend.” And seeing George’s response, Bob figured the money had been well spent. Hell, the dog might as well live in luxury tonight, since chances were they’d both die tomorrow (pessimistic much?).
George had soon drifted off, curled up snuggly in his new bed. Bob had not. And Bob was now watching the dog's low snoring with a special envy. Because, no, Bob couldn't sleep. Instead he stared up at the tent ceiling, unconsciously clenching his teeth. There was just too much knocking around in his head, too many unprocessed emotions, too much bitterness and frustration, so much anger swirling around inside. It wasn't supposed to have gone like this. His right arm felt so alien beside him. He could see the lump of flesh joined to his shoulder, but he had no sensation at all. It might as well have been a weighted chain.
He dreaded the morning. He knew he couldn't escape the fighting. Three's company was coming for him. That's what this world was: one grand battle royale, a war of all versus all; there were no laws, no overwhelming social power to compel every man to respect his neighbor, no leviathan.
Or in lay-speak, the next time George rushed up to someone in his friendly, gregarious way, he might just find himself getting blasted with the full-force of whatever power that person had. He might just find himself killed on sight.
And at the same time, dumb enemies prowled through the plains, monsters who'd hunt down and eat you if they had the slightest opportunity. A happy place, don't you think?
And that's all assuming the system didn't just decide to recycle the earth, because no sentient being had lived up to its impossible expectations. That reminded Bob. He ought to check in on the world quest:
> Quest: D Grade Evolution (World)
>
>
> Reach level 10 and evolve to D grade
>
> Time limit - one week
>
>
> Current highest leveled sentient: 7
>
> Remaining Time: 05:21:19:37
>
>
> Reward: None
>
> Penalty: World Recycling
He gaped at the numbers. Somebody was already level 7? How was that even possible? Bob was still level 1. And yes it was hard to know George's level for sure, but even the slaughter-machine that was the dog couldn't be above 4, could he? Level 7, Bob gulped, that was the same as the reaper-insect that had crippled Bob's arm. And sentient and monster levels were definitely not directly comparable. There was such a gap between them already and it had only been one day... After a week, a month, a year?
> Name: Robert Brown
>
> Race: Human (lesser)
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> Class: Heaven's Fool
>
> Level: 1 (16%)
>
> Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
>
> Rank: E
>
> Wealth: 4,884,100 credits
Robert Brown, lesser human, level 1. Bob felt hopelessly weak. He'd always been weak. It was his destiny, his curse. Luck could only get you so far in the face of strength. In the final reckoning, the strong man always won out.
Bob shivered in the warm tent. It had started to rain. The system weather service has said something about that, hadn't it? 100% accurate weather forecasting. The system had said it was going to rain. And by god, it had started to rain.
Humanity used to have to invent gods to explain the erratic and unpredictable behavior of the skies and now the system would give you a minute-by-minute breakdown of temperature, air pressure, humidity, UV and precipitation. And yet Bob felt just as helpless and afraid as his long-dead ancestors had, cowering before the thunder.
Bob stared at the tent ceiling. The rain pattered down and slid off to either side. They were safe here, weren't they? The ceiling was only a foot above his head. He reached up and touched it. One millimeter of material was all that separated them from that rainstorm, that dark night outside. It was a veil, an illusion; danger and death were just as close as ever. They hadn't escaped, only closed their eyes.
The ceiling started to twitch and tremble. No, it was Bob's hand that was trembling. Stupid Bob. He lowered his hand and tucked it into the sleeping bag. He hadn't been meant for any of this. Nobody had taught him what to do, how to live. Everything was happening so quickly. It was all too much, too much. How could they ask this of him? Of ordinary, old Bob, with his desk in the corner spot, head-down, eyes on the screen, always overlooked and out-of-mind, of Bob the forgettable, of Bob the nobody...
He wasn't cut out for all this. He just wanted to survive. To take things easy. To read a good novel. How he wished he'd got that copy of Jonny the Man. He could use a distraction, an escape. How long these dark nights of the soul are... He didn't want the morning to come, but lying there alone with his thoughts, the rain beating mercilessly down on the tent, it was awful. You can't escape your own mind. It's always there, waiting for you, ready with another dark thought. In the end, a man always defeats himself.
Bob screwed his eyes closed, as hard as he could, like he could blink out the world, harder and harder, so much that it hurt, until he felt his eyes water and he thought his head would explode. And then he opened them again and his eyes happened on George.
The dog's chest rose and fell softly in his steady, night breathing. Bob stretched out a hand and touched George’s head. He just held his hand there, letting a portion of his weight fall on the dog. George didn't wake; he didn't stir, but he just purred to himself quietly. The dog was wrapped up in a neat, little ring, his fluffy tail coming round to tickle the brown nose. He'd really liked that new bed hadn't he?
Bob breathed out deeply, focusing on the warm, soft feeling of George's head beneath his hand. He felt a little better, a shade calmer. Thank you George, he mumbled to himself. Bob had raised the dog all the way from a pup.
Bob had always wanted a dog. He’d always liked dogs. They were just about the most honest creatures on planet earth. They might be simple sure, but in a good way, in a way humans can only imagine and aspire to. Treat them right, love them, care for them, play with them and they’ll love you back, one hundred percent of the time. Somehow it doesn't seem to work that way with humans.
George would turn three this year. Three years they’d been together. Only three years, it felt like forever. And Bob was all George knew. He was all the dog had. And despite that, the dog managed to look so, well, happy. It gave Bob a warm, melting feeling to know that, whatever else he'd failed at, he'd somehow managed to make George happy.
How Bob thanked his lucky stars that they’d both somehow made it out of the initiation and both somehow been transported together to this middle-of-nowhere grassland. George and Bob, Bob and George. That’s how these things were supposed to be. A man and his dog.
And you know, maybe it didn't really matter how things turned out, as long as he and George weren't separated. Bob didn't have to be strong. He didn't have to know what to do. He didn't have to have some magic plan. He just wanted to be there for the dog. You and me, George. You and me. “Good night, boy,” Bob whispered into the night. He snuggled up in his sleeping bag and his cloak. He closed his eyes and somehow managed to fall asleep.
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Bob was shaken awake by, well, the shaking of the tent. Bob sat up. The whole tent was trembling. Even George was awake. Bob could make out his standing outline in the night shadows. The dog started to bark. The dog kept barking. “What is it boy?”
The rain was coming down hard, but through the noise, Bob thought he could make out a rustling, splashing sound. Bob crawled out of bed and crouched beside the dog. My god it was cold outside of the sleeping bag. Bob had nothing on but his mud-cloak over an undershirt, some underwear and socks. He pulled the mud-cloak tighter around himself.
Pop, George’s bed vanished into his storage space. On the verge of danger what was George’s first thought? Secure his new bedding. That made Bob a little happy. The dog really loved that bed.
“George, you want to get my sleeping bag too?” Bob shook the sleeping bag at the dog, who seemed to get the message. The bag popped away as well. “Cheers George.”
“What do you want to do, George?” I mean the dog was the leader of their duo, wasn’t he? The tent rumbled and shook. Something was going on outside and there are no pleasant surprises in this new world of ours.
“Should we go out?” George stopped barking. He stood completely still. It looked like he was listening to something. Bob strained his ears to hear. The rustling sound grew louder and louder. The noise echoed around them. It seemed to be coming from all sides simultaneously.
Bob gave the side of the tent a speculative prod and the fabric seemed to resist, before bouncing back as soon as he removed his finger. Almost like something was pushing on the other side...
“George, don't panic. But I think there’s something outside.” That was when the tent gave.