Congratulations! Your Brain has the capacity for evolution!
.
Thanks, I think?
Not sure what the fuck that means. Bane runs past me, and he’s doing his excited terrier tornado move in the living room’s entrance. As I cautiously climb the remaining stairs, I ask Jake if his brain’s capable of evolution too
“Goddamn right it is,” he says, humbly.
At the top of the stairs, I stagger into the living room.
Jake is already there, five or so feet ahead of me, steadying himself with his hands on the back of our couch. Opposite him, the tv is still playing that Mars Volta song, which is building up to what might be the best transition ever when it comes to setting up for the epically macabre second track in their album Deloused in the Comatorium. Jake looks over his shoulder at me. “Any guesses?”
Nothing comes to my mind immediately. “Wanna drink?” I ask.
“On top of the edibles?”
I shrug.
“Yeah, okay.”
Then, as I’m turning right toward the kitchen to pour us a very stiff drink, another notification slaps its way into my awareness.
Start New File…
Avatar: Logan Peterson
What’s that supposed to—holy shit. Body feels weak, brittle, and—what the hell? I squint even though the notifications are already 1040hd level clear.
For your safety, physical system shutdown will begin in five seconds.
Finding a comfortable location is suggested.
Beginning countdown...now:
It takes me a second to process that. I spend another second refusing to listen to the simulacrum sovereign (because I fucking hate being told what to do), and then another second’s wasted turning to see Jake leaping over the couch. In the fourth second, he spins and gives me a What the fuck are you doing look, and I consider that maybe I should listen to whatever it is hacking my goddamn brain and start toward the couch (it’s big enough for, like, five people - for the record). Then it’s second five. I make it all of two steps, before my legs go full-on-fucking Cherry flavored Jell-O. Shit. Quads lose strength, knees buckling. Like all the lactic acid buildup and fatigue after a brutal legs workout. I slam onto the hardwood floor like a fucking 190lb rag doll, and now I can’t even move.
Of course, it’s at this time that the song, Inertiatic Esp by The Mars Volta, comes on, shouting with intense, brilliant anguish. As if this bit of foreboding meta-foreshadow isn’t unsettling enough, Jake’s sardonic cackling at my misery threatens to thrust me into a fucking anxiety assault.
“Cunt,” is all I can manage.
Excluding the squall of mental sensations like utter fucking confusion and suffocating dread, there’s two sensations that I’m experiencing: (1) Like that feeling when you’ve slept on your arm and it devolves into nothing but a hanging slab of meat, (2) This is gonna take an anecdote to even come close to accurate description. It’s like this one time when my old buddy and I decided to try our hand at making edibles: he didn’t know anything about drugs except for what I knew. Not good. Instead of taking Mary Jane’s gateway into drugs, I snuck in through the window of pill-popping, and found mushrooms in the proverbial kitchen. And, well, with mushrooms, splitting an eighth with your buddy is just a casual concert dose. As it turned out, using an eighth of weed to bake magic brownies then splitting the eighth-baked goodies is pretty much full-parapalegic mixed with Gilberd Grapes. Except either of those two could probably find their way into the special olympics and with the way my body feels right now, crawling to my couch—three-ish feet away— is as daunting as dueling a mother fucking storm dragon.
My body feels like a mix of those, retard coordination, and Nothing Else Matters music video type paralyzed. So, basically, I’m just stuck here on the hardwood, wearing a special-spectrum face—slack jawed and vacant-eyed.
Bane’s too-long nails click across the floor, and I’m able to drunk-roll my limp head to the side, just in time for him to start licking my cheek. “Dude, call Bane.”
“Bane,” Jake says, lazily.
Suddenly, another notification appears.
Architecting Avatar
This may take a few moments. Please do not die while architecture is in progress...
That seems pretty fucking stupid. Be kind of hard to kill myself when I can’t even move.
Then it occurs to me. Someone somewhere has to have somehow died in order for this disclaimer to exist. How comforting. “Dude,” I say, slow and stupid.
“Yeah?” Jake responds, equally slow and stupid.
“Don’t kill me, k?”
“Don’t start shit and I won’t have to.”
I’m about to respond when another notification takes over.
Core Belief: Finding Matches
4%...6%...9%...
Core Belief Match Found! Undying
Whoever’s behind this is a cosmic fucking sadist with a seriously cruel sense of humor. Tell the suicidal guy he’s undying, real fucking cool...bro.
“You get that Core Belief thingy?” Jake asks.
“Undying. You?”
“Lucky.”
“What’s so lucky about Undying?”
“No, my Core Belief is Lucky.”
So, cosmic sadist is accurate after all. “You’re not even lucky.”
“I’m Lucky as fuck.”
I sigh, staring up at the ceiling. It’s not pleasant to look at, so I let my head fall to the side again. It crosses my mind that maybe I should mop my fucking floors once in a while. And also, fuck hardwood floors. My eyes fix on a spot of crumbs and tiny dust bunnies. And I can’t look away. It’s honestly starting to drive me fucking nuts, especially since I can’t do anything about it (not that I would if I could, but at least I could actively avoid it). The annoying notification saves me from my neuroses.
Astrological Algorithm: Mapping Birth Chart
This may take a few moments. Please do not die while mapping in progress...
“Hey,” I say to Jake.
“Hey.”
Silence. One or both of us has apparently forgotten how conversations work. I feel like scratching my head out of habitual awkwardness but I still can’t move. I look up. It feels so weird trying to have a conversation while I’m lying behind the couch dying on the hardwood while Jake’s all fucking cozy in the world’s record breakingly sinky couch. Admittedly, it’s only weird because I’m jealous of our positions in life. Forcing my brows to furrow in determination, I use all my strength to look down at my feet. With my neck strained, I try commanding them to shuffle the rest of my body closer to the couch. I make it about an inch or two before I lose focus.
“Hey,” Jake says.
I groan. “Hey.”
More silence. His edible must be hitting him fucking hard. This sounds like one of those, Psst are you asleep, No are you, infinite loop type situations. How cringey. Loops feel too much like the epitome of my entire fucking marriage (good riddance). I hate them. So, I move us past this and ask the question that’s on both our minds. “What do you think this Astrological Algorithm shit is?”
“No idea.”
Ascendant Sign....Cancer
Generating Associated Racial Traits…
Racial Inheritance : Apocryphae
Confession: I know my Ascendant Sign. It’s embarrassing. Not that I know enough about astrology to know my Ascendant Sign, I’ve come to terms with my esoteric (effeminate) side. What’s embarrassing is that I’m a Cancer. I mean, I know the Ascendant is different than a Sun sign, but still, fuck Cancers (okay, there may be a history there, but besides the point). At least Apocryphae sounds kind of interesting. Now if only I knew what the hell it meant.
I sigh. “Did you get a racial inheritance thingy?”
“Yeah. Aviandel. What’d you get?”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Whoa, that’s kind of dope sounding. I wonder what that would entail. Maybe something to do with birds?”
“Maybe, what’s yours?”
“Like,” I pause to sound out the word in my head, “I think it’s called Apocryphae. Isn’t that biblical or something?”
“Maybe? Kind of sounds like Greek to me. But Romans copied a lot of shit the Greeks did, so, I guess maybe Roman Catholic?”
“Oh! Maybe it’s like a copyright dodge? Like, what if it’s, like the equivalent of the Aasimar race in D&D?”
Jake epiphanies. “Isn’t there a bird race in 5e too? Aarakocrian or something? Wait. I don’t know how I feel about being a bird person. So, umm, wow are those drinks coming?”
“How do you think they’re coming?” I say from the floor.
“Afraid you’d say that.” He’s breathing like he just ran a fucking marathon right now. “I don’t think I want to have a beak, Logan.”
“Want a paper bag?”
Another notification arrives to distract us from our banter.
Sun Sign...Aries-Taurus Cusp
Generating Associated Core Class…
10%...17%...22%...
Oh shit. Something is forming in the back of my head. A thought about what might be going on. Race? Class? If there’s gonna be another notification, I think it’ll give me enough information to make a metaphorical Insight check with advantage. Only some of you will get that joke, and if you don’t, that’s okay. It wasn’t meant for you.
Core Class Generation Complete:
As a Cusp you gain access to both the Barbarian and Warrior Class!
Reading my class, shit all starts coming together. For one, irritation. I feel like punching something. Which only serves to further prove my suspicions. “Mother fucker!”
“Let me guess,” Jake laughs, a sound that starts off normal then devolves into something more like a maniacal cackle. “You’re a Barbarian.”
“Yes,” I groan some more. “And I guess because of my cusp I get access to Warrior shit too.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Who cares.” I’m still nowhere close enough to the comfort of my couch either. This sucks. “I wanted to be a fucking wizard or something, damnit. Oh well. What did you get?” Even as I ask the question I know he’s going to answer with…
“Mother fuckin’ Ranger! Goddamn Aragorn up in this apocalypse!”
“Whoa,” I say, cringing. “Who’s to say this is an apocalypse? We don’t know that yet.”
Jake chuckles. “Was that meta or am I insane?”
I get distracted and forget to answer, because Yourtube’s playing Idioteque by Radiohead now. Which is kind of creepy actually. I really wish we could change the song. So not the time for this one. I’m getting in my head again. It makes me wonder aloud. “Wait, where’d your anxiety go? You suddenly seem really fine with this. Whatever it is.”
“Good question.” Jake makes a thinking sound. “Hold please.”
I would imagine that he’s stroking his envy-invoking beard in contemplation, but judging on the fact that he’s sitting still at all—ADHD—it’s safe to assume he’s as paralyzed as I am. Oh look, a spider’s living under our couch. That’s nice, go get em spidey, earn your rent and eat every fly please.
Another notification pulls me into the present situation, something I definitely didn’t ask for.
Moon Sign...Libra
Generating Associated Secondary Class…
Secondary Class? So then, it looks like I’m either somehow in a fucking video game, or maybe it’s like some new Augmented Reality game I bought without knowing? No, not even the biggest tech conglomerates in the world could make me see this shit. Huh. It could also be something to do with simulation theory and maybe, like, a service rep (or I guess someone in tech support would work too?) outside our reality heard that I’m sick of how boring and shitty life is and they’re answering all the prayers I’ve been drafting to send to the help desk. And if that’s the case, then only one thing is important right now... Come on Moon Sign! Libra, my Goddess of Justice, be fair and get me a magic-multiclass.
“Got it,” he chortles.
“Wait, what?” I ask, stirred from my mental meanderings.
“I think I figured out what’s going on. And if I’m right, then it means I’m gonna be such a fucking bad ass. That’s why I’m no longer anxious.”
“Well, clue me in,” I say, before whispering. “Go away spider, no, not this way. Go another way.”
“You okay back there?” Jake asks.
I breathe relief. The spider is going away. In fact, it looks like it’s going to eat a fly. I start watching the hunt. Another notification comes up.
Error 22-42...Avatar Access Denied!
Secondary Class Not Granted
Avatar has not Completed Requisite Quest
My hopes and dreams go somewhere to coil up and die. I stop. Jake is saying something. I’m not really listening. If this really is what I think it is, I’m gonna be fucking stuck as a goddamn mother fucking barbarian. I just feel so misunderstood. I want magic.
Astrological Algorithm Successful!
Who cares. Nothing matters. Life is meaningless. Always has been and always will be. Goddamn. No magic. Oh, look. Another fucking notification.
Generating Quirk
Doomsday Chef
“That one was weird,” Jake says. “I got Audiophile. I wonder what that means. Hey, what’d you get?!”
“Who cares. I’m a Barbarian. But now I’m one that can access a stove.”
“Ah,” Jake says. “So I take it you think you have an idea of what’s happening?”
Base Stat Generation Initiated
Accessing Attributes…
Please do not die! Our avatar attribute software is working diligently to accurately quantify your strengths and weaknesses. We appreciate your patience.
“I’m either in a video game, or this is a shared hallucination,” Jake says confidently.
I sigh. “We didn’t take enough edibles to cause this, and I’ve actually hallucinated--not just psychedelics hallucinated either--and this isn’t that. It could be that we got cast into a video game or something, but then again, no signs of a Jumanji game being played anywhere. So, my guess is that everything happening to us is for one collective reason. I think that we’re all living in a simulated reality, and that our gods or programmers are just deciding finally that humanity is a fucking failure. So they’re ditching the project and shit, and maybe they just wanna make it more entertaining on the way. That’s my guess.”
“Well, shit. If we ever have to form a party we’re naming ourselves the Meta Mice or some shit, dude.”
Avatar Attributes Established
Pre-Apoc Life Report Card
Overall: 7.5/10
STR: 9/10
DEX: 7/10
INT: 8/10
WIS: 9/10
CHA: 8/10
CON: 4/10
Bam! Is all I think to say at first. Then I get over the sorrow for a second and take the W where I can find it.“That’s the giveaway. Somehow our simulated reality just got turned into a fucking RPG!”
“I don’t know if I like where this is going. You have those drinks made yet?”
“I’m a Barbarian. Remember? And also, why the hell do I have a four out of ten in Constitution?”
“Cigarettes?” he asks.
“That’s a really good point, actually.”
Initial Sequence Complete
Please Standby...a local representative will be with you shortly…
Access to all motor functions temporarily enabled.
Suggestion: Now would be a good time to make that drink
Disclaimer: Yes, we listen to your conversations. You are welcome to bitch but ultimately do nothing about it, like you have with Big Tech.)
“You see that one?” I ask, slowly moving my fingers.
“A local representative?”
“Wonder what it means. Maybe, like, our own personal guide through the system’s apocalypse.”
“That’s only if it is actually an apocalypse, dude.”
I regain all movement, and therefore, forget to respond to Jake. Even with all my motor functions technically working, I still feel slow and stupid. As much as I’d love to blame the current circumstances, this sensation’s all on me. Twenty milligrams of THC might not be enough to make me hallucinate everything, but it’s definitely enough for the stupidity. Luckily, I’m an expert mixologist so getting up and making our drinks is no problem. Tequila, tonic, and lime. My hands shake the entire time, from the fear and anxiety, not from my caffeine problem.
As I’m walking the drinks back to Jake, I get a warning.
We have located your local representative, and he will be with you shortly.
Please find a seat.
Not wanting a repeat of last time, I hurry back to the couch, hand Jake his drink, and plop down. I made it. Phew. Daywalker by Machine Gun Kelly & CORPSE is playing. It’s not helping my anxiety levels at all. It’s dark and has sort of a Nine Inch Nails, gothic industrial feeling to it. I take a long swig from my highball. It’s already halfway downed. Fuck. Maybe I should just grab the whole bottle.
The TV suddenly glitches. MGK turns to face the screen, and it’s almost like he’s looking through the fucking TV. Then his face starts morphing into what I’d picture Guillermo Del Toro’s version of Voldemorgue (aka He Who Must Not Be Named [for copyright reasons]) would look like.
The creepy fucking boogeyman’s phasing his too-long ivory fingers through the screen. He grips both sides of the TV, digging in his sharp, rotted fingernails. It’s as if climbing out of a TV is no different than sneaking out a window. His head’s phasing through, now. There’s an effervescent glow in his milky eyes.
“So, like, should we kill him?” I ask, eyes scanning the room for something bashy.
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Your regular scheduled Simulation Stream will return shortly. In the meantime, enjoy a glimpse of Earth-42 through the lens of a Truman Camera set near your favorite protagonist team’s current location.
A simulated man is visible, staggering down 2160 east. Behind his foggy glasses are irises the color of wet sand. He is balding, with pockmarked skin that stretches across round cheeks, and hangs loose from a weak jawline. Snow is falling around him. He wears a t-shirt and blue jeans, even as he hugs his belly and shivers.
He is in a serious discussion with what appears to be his other personalities. Although the speech patterns and enunciation are too poor to decipher everything said, it sounds as though the personalities’ topic of debate is a failed test.
The host identity sways a bit and laughs at something another within them said. Then he stops, tilts his head. He starts making a sound with his lips, which is reminiscent of static television sets and buzzing bees.
The frame around his irises breaks, and the wet sand bleeds out into the rest of his eyes, its color saturating as it does, much like a dust storm in the desert. Suffocating any lifeforms unlucky enough to find themselves without shelter from the storm.
His body freezes, and he collapses to the ground. He is mumbling madly about brains.
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Episode Two Ends. Prescription commercial music floods your auditory senses as an gently fills your visuals:
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