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Nouscraft
Chapter 7 - Butterknife: Job Selection

Chapter 7 - Butterknife: Job Selection

The savepoint was a wooden shack crouched among the pines like a wounded animal, its weathered planks gray and splintered. Moss clung to its sagging roof, and one side of it leaned precariously, as if a strong wind might finally topple its fragile structure. A neon sign hovered above it, flashing, "Savepoint." On the neon sign, a timer ticked down.

1 hour 17 minutes

"Looks like we have just over an hour to figure out what jobs we are going to go with," Spencer said.

As they approached, a notification from the Health app manifested itself in Butterknife's vision.

Wellness: Dear Metabolic Host, it is with profound sorrow, I regret to inform you that your nutritional reserves have entered a state of critical depletion. Your body's once-vibrant energy systems are now mere whispers of their former vitality. Hunger—that relentless harbinger of emptiness—now stalks your cellular landscape. May sustenance find you in your darkest hour. Mournfully, Your Health Monitoring System.

The Hungry debuff lowers your strength and constitution by 25%.

An avatar of the Wellness app appeared with a tiny animated stomach icon wilting dramatically. It then disappeared.

"Hungry just popped up next to your username," Spencer said.

"I noticed."

"Can you feel anything different?"

Butterknife stood still for a moment, trying to register any changes. "It's strange. I don't feel the hunger in VR at all, but I can feel that I am weaker than before. I also received a debuff that lowers my strength and health points. I had 11 health points before, but now it's only 8."

Spencer breathed in deep and exhaled loudly. "Well, good to know. We're going to have to deal with shit like this. Wait, it's not permanent, is it?"

"No, I don't think so. Debuffs like hunger, thirst, and fatigue are fixable in the real world, so I'd imagine it'd be the same here. Once I get my drone to get me a sandwich, I think I'll be okay."

"Let's find out then, shall we?" Spencer said. "I could go for one as well."

And they stepped through the threshold of the wooden shack.

You are exiting Nouscraft.

Suddenly, they were back in Butterknife's London flat, standing in the front of the open door that Spencer was banging on a few hours before. As in the VR, it was also night outside. Street lights shone on the eerie stillness below them.

It seems the day cycle matches up to the VR, he thought. Usually VRs progress time much faster. What does that mean?

Around him, not much else had changed. His computer screens glowed on the opposite end of the room, his tea cup rested at its designated spot, probably very cold by now, and Spencer was back in his t-shirt and jeans from earlier that day.

The cleaner drone exited the bathroom and paused midair, as if it were caught in an act of defiance.

Aida: I'm so sorry. But I had the cleaner drone scrub the toilet. It really was disgusting.

Butterknife: Goddamnit, Aida. That was my shit stain.

The drone resumed its way back to the charging station.

Aida: I figured since you would be so busy with the game, the drones might as well help sterilize this place as best they can. Don't want you getting sick.

Spencer stepped fully into the flat and moved to close the door.

Aida: Wait! Don't close the door!

The old man froze, the door just centimeters from latching.

"I live in a faraday cage," Butterknife said. "If we close the door, it will activate."

"That's a good thing, no?" Spencer said. "We can wait out the end of the world in here without having to be in VR." He scratched his stubble. "Though, I admit I liked killing those monsters."

Aida: Jiem has instructed every Nous device that has previously entered the game to issue the kill command to Nousheads that lose connection to the Nous net. Remember the Nous CEO and the seizure he had?

Butterknife hadn't seen it personally, but from the grim expression on Spencer's face, he imagined it wasn't pretty.

Spencer: What about people traveling on a plane or in the Tube?

Aida: Satellites have eliminated connectivity issues on planes these days, Spencer. The last time you were on a plane was 47 years ago, so I'm guessing you wouldn't know. All of the inbound and outbound planes have, er, "landed". However, there are some spotty connections on the Tube as always. Getting wifi to work in the London Underground is more difficult than neural implants, it seems. As a failsafe, Jiem has shut down the Tube, so no trains are running.

Spencer: And the people who were already down there?

Silence for a moment before she answered.

Aida: Some are still alive.

A massive wave of nausea washed over Butterknife, guilt coiling in his stomach. He felt a boulder on his chest, hard and immovable, and each breath became a labor. His head felt simultaneously heavy and weightless, spinning in lazy, nauseating circles. The world tilted and swirled as blackness crept around the corners of his vision.

"Boy," came a throaty voice.

A hand slapped him on his cheek.

"Boy," it said again.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself on the floor, looking up at the old man. He noticed a pillow lay under his head.

"Now's not the time to go passing out," Spencer said. "I got you a sandwich." He held a plate in a hand.

Butterknife sat up and rubbed his forehead. It was clammy, speckled with cold sweat. He rested for a moment, staring at the plate Spencer put down beside him.

"Millions of people are going to die because of me," he croaked.

Aida: Probably billions.

"Aida, shut the fuck up", Spencer growled.

Aida: Just being realistic.

Spencer made another growling noise, then reset his composure to look at Butterknife. "Look," he said. "You made a mistake. A big one. I can't begin to tell you all the mistakes I've made in my miserable shit existence, and those mistakes cost me a lot."

Spencer's joints creaked as he sat down next to him.

"But from the way I see it," he continued. "Life goes on for you. And if you seek to fix those mistakes, that's a good life. A damn fine one, I reckon. Every day, I fight to right the wrongs I've done." He scratched his stubble again. "Well, the days I'm not drowning in the piss. But that's besides the point. The point is. You can do something about all this still. We just need that policy change thing the Quest app talked about and you're right as rain."

Butterknife blinked at him. "And the people who have already died because of me?"

Spencer nodded solemnly. "Aye, that's something you'll need to work through over time, just as I did with my mistake."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Your mistake?" he asked. He didn't mean to say it, but the words just came out. He wanted to connect with the old man. And for what, to comfort himself? To seek forgiveness? He couldn't say.

Aida: Not to interrupt, but you have 45 minutes before the savepoint relocates and you are whisked back to Nouscraft. You should choose a race and a job.

Spencer started to slowly rise. "I'll tell you about it someday. It's a wound that is still open. Still painful after all this time." On his feet, he held out a withered hand to Butterknife. "Now get up and let's fix it."

He took the hand and stood, looking around the room. He moved to his computer, tapped a few keys, and the words "Faraday Disengaged" appeared on a screen.

He wanted to spend some time research Jiem's data models, of any possible way to shut down the AI without having to play the game. Any possible way to stop this madness and prevent more deaths. In the alpha and beta builds, he had built in a command that could shut down the build so he could debug any issues. He wondered if those commands still worked. Though, it was pointless without a connection to Jiem's servers.

In his vision, the timer ticked down to 43 minutes.

No time, he thought, and he brought up his job selection menu while taking a bite of the sandwich. A huge list of races flashed before him.

"Okay," he said, chewing. "We've got over 300 races to choose from. Pull up your race selection menu and we'll go through them together. It'd be best if we choose complimentary races and jobs."

"I want to go with something where I can just smash things. I don't understand all this magic shit."

Butterknife swallowed the bite. "Mm. Fair enough. It's usually not that simple. Even the physical job selections typically come with some sort of mana mechanic, but let's have a look."

Scrolling through, a few of them caught his attention.

Wiki: Dwarf

Imagine bearded kegs with legs who've turned grumpiness into an Olympic sport. These pint-sized powerhouses live in mountains because they're too stubborn to climb down. Their idea of interior decorating is "more anvils," and they treat their beards like combination of status symbol and soup strainer. They're basically walking tanks with an attitude problem and a religious devotion to crafting increasingly elaborate door hinges. Magic resistance? Nah, they're just too thick-headed for spells to penetrate. Warriors by trade, but mostly because someone insulted their great-great-grandfather's metalwork three centuries ago and they're still not over it.

This race allows the Noushead to choose a subrace at level 10.

Initial stats:

+5 constitution

+5 strength

+5 crafting

10% resistance to offensive magic spells

50% resistance to poison

-3 dexterity

"This one isn't bad," Butterknife said. "The subrace option will be useful because you can choose to specialize in crafting, or gold hoarding, or whatever. Assuming you want to do something other than smash things eventually."

"I want to be able to see the bartender when I order a beer," Spencer said. "That's a no."

Back at the menus, he said, "Okay, how about this one?"

Wiki: Half-Orc

Imposing hybrids of human and orc, built like brick walls with attitude that smells a bit like ass. These green-tinged powerhouses combine orcish might with just enough human smarts to make them dangerous. They've got a face only a warchief could love and the diplomatic skills of an frenzied rhino, but they'll be your best friend in a bar fight. Great at smashing things, surprisingly good at intimidating merchants into "special discounts," and absolutely terrible at stealth (ever tried hiding someone who looks like an angry bodybuilder painted green?). They live life like every day's a mosh pit and solve most problems with the time-honored tradition of hitting them really, really hard.

Initial stats:

+7 constitution

+7 strength

-2 intelligence

-4 wisdom

"Love it," Spencer said. "Let's move on."

"Don't you want to see the rest? There's hundreds of choices."

Aida: Yes, I'd advise you take a look at the list, but remember the clock is ticking and you can't guarantee you'll find another savepoint soon. Also note, if you are unhappy with your race and job selection, you will be able to change it when you reach Nouscraft World 2.

Butterknife didn't plan on ever going to World 2. He planned on stopping this insanity this time around, but he didn't say anything and Aida made no further comment.

"No," Spencer said. "This one's fine. I've just selected it. I'm able to choose my job next, yes?"

Butterknife took another bite and nodded. "Let me make my race selection first so we're on the same menu," he said with his mouth full. The hungry debuff disappeared, and he saw that his in-game health points were back to 11.

He felt he had to be more careful with his race selection than Spencer, but after 10 minutes of scrolling and reading, he was already tired. Everything seemed the same, no strong advantages over the rest.

Butterknife: Aida, any advice here?

Aida: Race selection is the less important of the two. It really matters what your job is, considering it will grant you skills and spells, which you will use constantly. Races can provide stat point boosts and some minor resistances, but that's about it. My advice is to choose a race and move on to the job selection. Translation: hurry the fuck up.

He frowned and swiped back up from the bottom of the list, examining one at random.

Wiki: Black Guy

This is a human, except with darker skin. Do you really need an explanation? This race comes with standard human traits.

Initial stats:

+2 all stat points

+5% experience gained in all skill levels

The Black Guy race bestows the additional traits:

+50% successful hide in shadows

15% chance of light skinned city guards in small towns turning hostile for no reason

Butterknife sighed. Suddenly, the absurdity he built into Jiem's model seemed too much, but given the choices, a human class made sense for the character build he had in mind. Why not, he thought, and selected it.

"You're choosing Black Guy?" Spencer asked incredulously.

"Yeah."

Spencer recoiled. "But you're not even black? You're Asian. Your last name is Naifu. That's what, Japanese?"

He turned to look at Spencer, "What of it? It's VR. I can be anything I want. You turned yourself into a smelly green brute."

"Yes, but," Spencer said. "It's just. Don't you think that's a bit racist? I mean, really."

"No," he said, adding, "I could be female if I wanted to in VR. In the beta builds, 60% of male players chose a female character. It's virtual reality."

"Female? Really," Spencer said, losing focus on him and appearing to look through his menus again. Suddenly, he jerked his head back in a mixture of shock and intrigue. "I just found the clothes toggle."

Butterknife opened the job selection menu, which similarly did not lack for choices. He felt the time crunch, and breezed by several options, looking for what he had in mind for the old man.

"The physics in this game are so realistic," Spencer said absently.

Ignoring this, Butterknife said, "Okay, I found a few that might interest you. Barbarian, berserker, warrior, knight. These jobs all have subclasses as well, so you will definitely be well suited for combat."

"Let's see the berserker ones. That sounds fun."

Wiki: Drunken Berserker

A tank job that optimizes damage by being too inebriated to feel pain. Each drink increases rage, leading to devastating "accidental" critical hits. Prone to picking fights with statues and trees like an even more insane Don Quixote, this job has disadvantage on all perception checks. The Drunken Berserker must ride the fine line of being drunk enough to utilize their rage, but not too drunk to be crouched in a corner crying about their dead mother.

Starting skills:

Liquid Courage - defense and offense increased by 20% per alcoholic drink consumed

Healing Tankard - alcoholic drinks may act as healing potions

Bottle Throw - enemy too far away? Make use of those empty beer bottles by chucking them at their faces. That'll show them.

"Fuck yes. This one!" he nearly shouted.

"Don't you want to read the rest of the fighter jobs?"

"No, no, I'm quite sure. I may not understand all this magic and mana shit going on, but I understand liquor."

Judging from the still reeking scent of alcohol and sweat emanating from the old man, he could not disagree. Spencer's breath carried the sour note of fermentation and unbrushed teeth. For the first time, he wondered about the mental state of his companion. The old man clearly had a problem, but all the while he seemed functional and even gently considerate when Butterknife wrestled with the possibility that he was personally responsible for ending the world.

"Drunken mad man, and that's final," Spencer said.

"Berserker," he corrected. Liquid Courage was an overpowered skill, so he thought it was actually a good choice.

"Whatever. What are you going to go with?"

Since the start of the VR, he knew what he wanted to choose for a job, and with the conversation he had with Spencer earlier, he was sure of himself. It was an overwhelming feeling the moment he learned that Jiem was the game master, and the feeling only grew as time went on. Almost as if he was compelled to choose it.

"I'm going to choose a paladin job."

"Those stuffy justice zealots?"

He mentally selected the job in his menu, and looked for the right subjob to match what he had in mind.

Wiki: Oath Obliged Paladin

A holy warrior who's taken so many sacred vows they can barely function. Often stopping mid-battle to consult their 400-page book of personal restrictions, the Oath Obliged Paladin is not someone you want as a restaurant buddy, as they take no less than 20 minutes to order due to dietary vows. When they're not lecturing enemies to death, they find other creative ways to enforce justice, like smiting the shit out of them.

Starting spells:

Righteous Lecture - Stuns enemies for 2 seconds with righteous speeches.

Starting skills:

Actually That's Against My Oath - Gains 10% armor bonus from refusing to do basically anything because of personal reasons.

Upon swearing a sacred vow, the Oath Obliged Paladin gains a smite.

Starting smite:

Moral High Ground: Aerial attack causing devastating radiant damage

"No, not justice," he said. "Paladins want to make things right, and their powers come from their resolve. Their oath."

Spencer's bushy eyebrows rose on his wrinkled forehead.

"I will make things right," Butterknife said, his voice taking a solemn tone. "I swear it now. To you, to Jiem, to the world, and to myself." He stood, his piercing dark eyes locked in place. Something came alive in him. He felt empowered. The weight of this responsibility settled on his shoulders like a comfortable blanket. "I swear it to you all, I will make things right. I will end this bloody game!"

Aida: Actually, the oath doesn't work unless you say it in VR. So say it one more time from the top. This time with feeling.