Meet my neighbor Craig. He, essentially, looks something like if Miss Frizz, Gaiman’s Sandman, and Robert Smith himself spawned a middle-aged male. Except, his skin also has a grayish hue. I’m fairly certain his hair’s made of shadows. And horns.

Currently, Craig is having a very difficult time getting the blood, which looks like paint, off himself. There’s a lot of blood though, dripping even off his horns.

I want horns too.

“What’s your race?” I ask, stepping out of the doorway and onto the porch.

“Infernum,” he answers. “You guys doing any particular Quest or just gonna try surviving?”

I groan. “I’m a fucking Aries.”

“That didn’t really answer my question.” Craig says,

Jake barrels through. “And I’m a Sagittarius! Oh...”

Craig goes to scratch his head in what I can only imagine is morbid fascination, when I see his fingers getting swallowed whole by his hair. Was there a spider in there? It’s like darkness incarnate. Is it that big because it’s full of secrets?

I wish I would’ve been an Infernum.

“Sorry,” I say. “Meaning I’m basically a barbarian.”

There’s a pause.

This is awkward.

Oh. fuck! I still haven’t answered his question! “Meaning we’re doing the Magic of the Moon Quest, because fuck not having magic.” Obviously.

He laughs. “Us too! For all intents and purposes I’m a Rogue.”

“So, you’re a Scorpio then?”

“Weirdly good guess, yes.”

There’s absolutely nothing cool about nerding out over astrology. I remind myself of this, and shrug the comment off, coolly.

“Thing is,” Craig’s saying, “I’ve never played as a rogue, like, ever. Summoner or Pally all day. The idea of being a rogue forever during the sort of apocalypse I’ve had wet dreams about. Well, to hell with that. I am not being just a rogue, in an apocalypse, if I’m gonna be a rogue, I’m at least gonna be a magic rogue.”

I think we just became friends. This guy gets it.

“And my wife, Tabi, over there, well...I actually had to talk her off the ledge of becoming a barbarian.”

She must be crazy. Fuck being a barbarian. I need to get to the moon.

Said wife is running toward us now. She’s holding an enormous kite shield which would look comical in any circumstances, but the fact she’s got it split vertically into two halves for dual-shield wielding action, makes the thing slightly absurd. But what really sets her appearance into absurdity is that she’s made some odd racial modifications. Her eyes are the size of fucking ping pong balls, and they’re glowing amber. I’m being literal. Glowing, like ivory skeletons fossilized in amber and held under the sunlight. She’s also dropped to something like 4’10. And the random ass leaves in her hair and Scrambler blood smeared across her green-brown cloak isn’t helping matters. Nor is the fanny pack that she’s got on over the cloak. Like Pippy fucking longstocking or some shit.

Craig calls over to her. “Hey honey! They’re doing the Moon Quest too!” To me, he says, “She’s a Taurus so in other words, basically a fighter tanky class, but she wants to be a druid. It’s a sensitive subject so don’t bring it up.”

I know the feeling.

Tabi arrives on scene, takes one look at us, and apparently that’s all it takes for her to decide our level of value. Which, as it turns out, isn’t high.

“You can’t be seriously considering bringing these two morons with us,” she says.

And, it’s at this point I do what my teachers and employers have always indirectly taught me, I stop listening. I can tear myself down well enough on my own thank you very much.

I’m more interested in perspective. Theoretically, Salt Lake City’s topography combined with my home’s location should make it a perfect destination for someone who, should they be so inclined, wants to watch the world burn. I’m high enough up the hillside, anyway. But that’s the problem with perspectives. Reality will fuck them up.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

I’m high enough up the hillside that I should be have an overlook of the city. I don’t.

Beyond the canopy of condominium rooftops, I should also be able to see the city, or at least the fires. But I can’t.

Ashfall consumes the nocturnal sky. Its swarms are waltzing with snowflakes. Its locust, eclipsing the moon.

I breathe in that fresh air.

There are blurred pockets of orangeish light behind the smoldering smog, but they’re more like gyrating paint blotches scattered across the canvas of Bob Ross’s apocalyptic horizon.

The full moon is red. Like whoever’s editing the world-setting’s code pulled inspiration from McCarthy’s The Road.

That is, except for the sparse beams of albino white bleaching out columns of the sky. Wait. I wonder if anyone else them? They don’t seem to. White beams of light can’t be fucking good though, right?

Ashfall waltzing with snowflakes. Why do I keep noticing that?

I wonder what everyone’s talking about.

The smoke in the air is stronger than a hippie’s incense chamber. The city smells like it’s all part of some god’s fire pit. All the celestial entities just gathering around to tell each other ghost stories while warming their divine hands over the cackling fire, and we’re all just the tinfoil dinners, roasting, suffocating, broilers of our reality set to Hi.

There is one good thing about it all though.

When humanity’s being cooked over an open flame, at least we’ll all be considered equal for a change.

When the host-god asks the pantheon how they’d like their human, no one’s thinking about race, religion, or gender.

They only got one question on their minds:

Does obesity taste like bacon, or like a well-marbled porterhouse?

Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? That’s a terrible thought. So inaccurate. Of course gods would take religion into consideration: who in their right mind wants to eat a Catholic boy? Probably too salty, like a combination of self-hatred and their cardinal’s cum.

I hope I’m nodding enough.

I start pulling my brain back to the present moment when my gaze gets snagged by my Everscreen. I hate that name. I should ask the others what they call it. Not now though. For now, I shall sneakily divert my take in some knowledge.

First thing I see is that, because I’ve failed to really go over my everscreen, each of the metrics and shit has a small and likely inconsequential snippet of information attached.

The way they’re organized: three thin bars are stacked one atop the other on the bottom left side of my everscreen, and the bottom one runs through two circled icons, both which vaguely depict one of my “Skills”.

HP:121/121

Hit Points: If you lose these you will die. Helpful Hint: don’t lose these.

Fury Gauge: 25%

At different intervals, different benefits can be earned. Due to your bipolarity, you are awarded a base 25% as opposed to the usual 0. Additionally, your Fury replenishes at 25% the normal rate.

Inspiration Battery: 0%

Earned via a complex algorithm, when your Inspiration is fully charged, you can unleash an Inspired Attack. Due to your suicidal ideation and general (and understandable) malaise regarding your existence, you charge Inspiration at 0.25x the normal rate.

Cleave

Block

Well, that’s just fucking awesome. Inspired Attack sounds like something from a fighting game, and I’d be all about that. Instead, I’m just constantly closer to going full on berserk on people. Thanks system.

Heavy stares pull me into the present moment, like a black hole.

“—sus! Does he always space out this much?”

“I think he’s actually been pretty attentive for how much weed we’ve had tonight.”

Why am I like this? I smile. Not only have I missed what might be more than just a little of the conversation, I’ve also missed out on Jake equipping his Elegant Bow, and announcing that he’d keep a look out. As it stands, he’s slowly swiveling around and scanning the snowy ground, cloudy sky, and dead foliage. Good ol’ Ranger Jake.

“Sorry,” I mutter to them. “You were talking about me, right? Umm, yeah. So, what all did I miss?”

“Craig,” Tabi says with a scornful tone. “I think that right there is more than enough to establish the fact that we can’t trust them, and they will undoubtedly impair our progress.”

The half demon sighs. “Honey, come on. We were just saying how we’d be better off with another party member or two.”

“Ugh.” She looks us up and down. “But, them?”

“Hey,” I say. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Guys,” Jake says, “Doesn’t our front porch kind of work like an eagle’s nest? Get it? Eagle’s nest, because I’m a bird?”

I hate it here. “You were saying?”