I’ve waited my entire life for this moment.

I shouldn’t savor it. I try to tell myself that.

But I do. Because, it’s the little things, and fuck it why not. These guys are only level one Scramblers, so I might as well take advantage of that, seeing as how it’s been made pretty fucking clear that they’ll just evolve and get stronger and who knows possibly wield weapons of their own and shit, and once that happens I probably won’t get all that many fun fights. So yeah, fuck it why not.

Except, there’s a problem with my change in materials. About seventy fucking pounds worth of a problem actually.

I’m juking, ducking, weaving. So I’d like to believe. I look more drunken oaf trying to dance with a dead body. Mostly the sword’s just resting on the ground, lifting occasionally. I doh-see-doh swing it up and through mom’s neck. Fire hose of blood later and she’s dead.

Two left.

God this thing’s heavy.

They’re right ahead of me, and Letterman Jacket’s undead fingers just shed skin across my cheek.

I side step quick, too close to papa zombie. He gets way too mouthy, so I put all my weight into heaving the sword off the ground and upward chop dad’s legs off.

Momentum’s a thing. I stumble to the side and drop my big sword back down. I swear this shouldn’t be so heavy. I mean, I’m not the strongest dude in the world but I do lift. Just, goddamn. My wrists hurt, and did I pinch a nerve or some shit?

Letterman Jacket is falling at me, moldy-milk mouth wide open.

I do something smart and try out the Block Skill. Cleave worked just fine, so I figure this should too. Sure enough, my sword swings my arms immediately upward in a sorta windmill motion, until I’ve got it inverted. The skill pushes Letterman back a couple feet, causing him to stumble, and fall, dealing some negligible damage.

Mando’s on him, sending Gust to keep him prone. And I’m trying to figure out why the hell I got a sword I can’t actually wield. Was the system just trying to fuck with me? Then something occurs to me. Strength requirements.

Me, being the responsible man I am, stops in the middle of the street to check his Items, while everyone else around me is busy fighting zombies.

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Big Sword

Strength Req: 23

(Your Strength: 22)

You do not meet the Strength requirements to effectively wield this Weapon.

And, sure enough. There it is. In bright red fucking letters. I do not meet the Strength Requirements to effectively wield this sword. Fantastic.

It gets worse. I’m only one fucking augmentation point away, meaning I could have been effectively wielding this sword if I hadn’t been so effectively stoned that I couldn’t effectively allocate my goddamn fucking stats. Goddamnit.

Oh. Guess I’m pissed.

Fury Meter: 100%

The meter transforms into a visible bar. Almost reminds me of old fighting game. Looks like a test tube of molten lava, and to the left of it is the word RAGE!!! There’s one of those, like, old comic book POW boxes around it, pulsing yellow and red.

I half expect to be thrown into rage without my consent, but thankfully that doesn’t happen. I have a choice in whether to act on my emotions. I might be a dumb barbarian, but even I’m not stupid enough to waste a Rage on this fool.

Letterman Jacket’s still laying on his back, being gusted into the asphalt by Mando. I haul, heave, and drag my sword on over to my lowly foe (emphasis on drag). Nearing him, I’m about to overhead lumberjack this dude down the middle, when I feel a tugging at my ankle, followed by something sharp.

I look down and goddamnit, it’s the fucking zombie pug. I lift my leg, and try shaking it off, but the wheezer won’t let go. So I play hackey-sack, and sorta kick him up and forward over my shoulder, and shout, “Mando, Nibble!”

Trying not to think about my fate.

Mando stops gusting and catches the zombie pug by its ear, then flaps his wings and rises higher and higher until I’m wondering where the hell he went. Then I hear wheezing, and barking, and it’s getting louder, and oh shit, that’s brutal.

I step to the side and the zombie pug splats on the ground by my side, spraying me with blood and bone and…I hope that’s not fecal matter.

My ankle’s throbbing from the bite wound. Starting to think about my fate. Fuck.

Letterman’s up again.

I give my Big Sword one all-out side swing and sever him in half. Like father like son. Then I cringingly step around the lake of blood that's flooding out around his severed upper half. Avoiding his waving arms and starvation eyes, then stab him through the face like I’m trying to break grounds on new land.

There’s a loud bell, and a series of notifications inconsiderately (of my life and surroundings) pops up… dead center of my field of vision.