Steve awoke to the shrill tune of his phone’s ringtone. He rolled over and covered his ears with his pillow, but the scammer wouldn’t give up. After several minutes, Steve rolled back over and grabbed his phone from his nightstand. 6:31 AM. Ughh. Yet another unknown number.
“How do they keep getting my number,” Steve grumbled to himself as he blocked the caller. He’d gotten a lot of these calls lately. Must be scam season or something. Steve double-checked the alarms he set the night prior. Eight alarms set to go off from 7:35 to 8:15. Perfect. Steve tossed his phone and let his weary eyes droop shut. He was back to being unconscious within several seconds.
Steve miraculously slept through all eight alarms. He was only woken up when there was a knock at his apartment’s front door. Steve jerked awake and shot upright. Shit, I’m going to be late for work. It was a quarter till nine. Steve frantically slipped on the pants he left on the floor the night prior. He desperately hoped the person at his door wasn’t the landlord. He lost his rent the week prior at the laundromat and still had not paid it. Steve pushed his face against the door to look through the peephole. On the other side of the door was a man dressed in a black suit carrying a briefcase. Nope. Steve decided he was taking the backdoor today. That guy was bad good news, and Steve had to get to work.
The sky was the color of wet ash despite only being 9:00 AM. Steve grumbled inwardly. I don’t want to walk home in the rain... He rested his elbows on the counter, leaning his chin on his hands. The ancient gray carpet made the entire building smell like a sad, wet, musty dog. Steve blankly stared at the TV in the corner. The store was empty. Almost no one bought records anymore. Steve was 90% sure the store was just a front for a money laundering operation with how few customers it got.
“Breaking news from the California-Nevada border: The Scourge have broken through blockade-8 and are currently ravaging Reno. Casualties number in the hundreds,” The news reporter on the TV droned on. Steve picked his nose absentmindedly. The news surprised absolutely no one anymore. Reno was within scourge territory for years now.
“Four slayers are currently in transit to contain the level-8 gate spill,” The news reporter continued. They’re deploying four? The situation was likely worse than what was revealed if four slayers were being deployed.
The store door opened with a jingle and snapped Steve out of his daze. The same man who knocked on Steve’s door earlier that morning entered the store. The man was tall, and his black suit looked very expensive. The man wandered around the store and pretended to look at records. He was tall enough that his head poked above the aisles. Disinterested, Steve watched the man from the front counter and hoped he would buy something. The charade ended after several minutes, and the man walked to the front of the store.
“Steven Michael?” The man asked. Steve yawned.
“That’s me,” Steve pointed to the name tag on his shirt. It read Steven Michael.
“You are a hard man to get a hold of,” The black-suited man said with a serious tone. The man’s black sunglasses shimmered as he moved his head. Was this a new elaborate scam? Steve eyed the man inquisitively. The man continued, “I’m with the Parahuman Integration and Monitoring Project, or PIMP for short. Mr. Michael, you have been selected by the US government to become a paragon. Congratulations.”
“You haven’t been calling me every morning for the past two weeks by any chance, have you?” Surely it was just a coincidence, right?
“That was indeed us. It wasn’t easy to get a hold of you. Our calls kept going to voicemail, so I visited your residence this morning, but you weren’t home,” The man responded. Suddenly, everything made a lot more sense. Whoops. Now that he thought about it, Steve had not accepted a single call from them because it was always an unknown number. Steve decided to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t admitting that he mistook a government number for call center spam.
“Now, do you accept your mandatory invitation?”
“Yeah, sure,” Steve absentmindedly blurted out before realizing what that entailed. “Wai--,” Steve was interrupted before he could protest.
“Splendid. Follow me,” The man smiled, then turned around and began to walk away. Steve hesitantly followed the man to a black SUV parked on the street. Becoming a paragon was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Steve wasn’t sure whether he should be nervous or excited. There was also a fair amount of THC coursing through his system.
“Can I sit shotgun?” Steve asked as they reached the SUV.
“No.”
Dejected, Steve sat in the back. The car ride was uneventful, albeit too long. It took almost an hour to reach PIMP’s Seattle headquarters from the record store. Steve suddenly remembered that he had not notified his boss that he left the store unattended. He belched loudly to the displeasure of the PIMP agent. Steve decided it would be most convenient to ignore everything for now. His boss paid him in dirt and bottle caps (figuratively). The store would survive.
The Parahuman Integration and Monitoring Project headquarters was massive. It was a rectangular glass building over a hundred stories tall. The man leads Steve through one of the several entrances and into the lobby.
“That’s the gift shop over there,” The man pointed. “You can get our official paragon merch there.” The lobby was the size of a high school gymnasium. The floor was pearly white granite tile that glittered in the light. Countless glass elevators pierced the high ceiling. The entire ground floor was swarming with well-dressed individuals and office workers. Here and there were a few people dressed in casual clothes like Steve. Probably other paragons. Steve followed the man to an elevator.
“What’s your name?” Steve realized the man never introduced himself.
“Chase,” The man almost grunted. Chase produced a card from his breast pocket and held it against a box on the wall. The elevator doors silently opened and Steve was ushered in. Chase led Steve down a few hallways on the 8th floor before Chase stopped in front of a door.
“Good luck,” Chase said before leaving Steve. Steve opened the door and entered. The room was a large office. It was grossly decadent, with a miniature chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Every piece of furniture was expensive but didn’t match. Steve was greeted by the man sitting behind the massive oak desk.
“Ah, you must be Steven Michael,” The man jovially said. Steve nodded. “I’m Bernard, your assigned babysi-- supervisor.”
“Hi, Bernard.”
“Now, let’s get down to business. As you probably know, you’ve been selected to become our newest paragon. So, there are a few things we have to get done today,” Bernard continued. He had a large nose and a flamboyantly pretentious hairstyle. He had perfect teeth and the artificial smile of a real estate agent. The man looked like a professional liar.
“Any papers for me to sign or something?” Steve asked.
“Oh heavens no, there is nothing legal or constitutional with how we run this institution,” Bernard smiled widely. “Once you get marked, you’re effectively our property, also we know where your sister lives.”
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“That is sketchy as hell, I like it. Anyway, what’s my salary?” Steve asked. He didn’t really care as long as he got paid all right. Bernard thought for a moment and fished around in his pocket.
“I’ll give you this coupon,” Bernard handed Steve a crumpled coupon. It read 10% off this year’s taxes. Steve couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Is that real?”
“Yeah, I don’t think it's expired yet,” Bernard muttered. “You can also use that coupon at the gift shop in the lobby,” Bernard said. Steve expectantly waited for Bernard to continue. Bernard got the message and looked around the room before
reaching into his desk, “Oh, yeah. You get one of these,” He handed Steve a box of crayons. “Genuine crayons used in MK-Ultra,” Bernard smiled. Steve took the crayons.
Bernard looked around as if looking for someone hiding, then whispered, “Between you and me, we’ve had almost no paragons on the West Coast for a decade… I have no budget to give you a salary.” Steve questioned his ears. Paragons were highly regarded. Many of them were famous on social media and made quite a good living.
“I thought paragons made it rich?” Steve asked. He was beginning to question this entire thing. It didn’t seem like he would be provided any legal protection. PIMP was additionally spying on his sister.
“Yeah, that’s if you reach slayer status. Our budget for paragons under level 9 was just cut last year for more missiles,” Bernard explained. Steve realized all the famous paragons were technically one of the 57 individuals with a level higher than 9 in the US. “Most of your living will come from your gate clearing commissions. Now, let’s get you marked.”
“What is that?” Steve asked.
“You'll see. You might think it’s because we strap you down and painfully tattoo your back for hours on end. But it’s actually because the first-ever paragon was named Mark. It just stuck after that,” Bernard said as they walked out of his office. Steve shot Bernard a skeptical look.
“I would love to do all this stuff, but I’m a little behind on rent,” Steve tried to fish any last things out of Bernard. Bernard shot Steve two finger guns.
“We’ll give you a penthouse suite at headquarters for free! We just can’t give you any real money,” Bernard said with a pearly white smile. Steve was satisfied enough. “BRENDA!” Bernard shouted into the hallway. Several minutes later, a tall and thin woman entered the office. She was covered in tattoos and doodles like the bottom of a desk in the detention room.
“This the newbie I’m needling?” She asked with a raspy voice.
“Brenda, this is Steve. Steve, meet Brenda. She’s our ~Magic Tattoo Artist~,” Bernard waved with his arms. Steve was led into an adjacent room with a padded table in the center. Next to the table was a lamp attached to an adjustable arm. Steve laid on it face down as instructed.
“What is this exactly for?” Steve asked obliviously.
“This is to help you absorb mana and not disintegrate when the old hag blasts you with mana in a bit,” Brenda rasped. What followed was an ordeal that spanned several hours. It wasn’t an ordeal for Brenda though. She seemed to enjoy causing pain quite a bit. The tattoo gun whirred, stabbing Steve’s skin raw for hours. Each intricate detail had to be perfect. Every circle had to be perfect. Every rune had to be perfect. Steve tried to nap through the ordeal on multiple occasions, but it proved impossible. Instead, he passed the time and occupied his mind by counting the hairs on Brenda’s legs from the corner of his eye. 417 on her left calf. The ordeal did end eventually though.
“Okay, the inking is done. Clench your butt hole right now,” Brenda demanded. Steve wasn’t taking any chances and complied. He heard a whoosh as the artist clapped her hands together. The intricate patterns all over Steve’s back flashed blue in a blinding display. Every microscopic wound on his back burned in unison. The pain was so immense Steve saw white for a few seconds. It was so sudden and so intense he couldn’t scream.
“It’s all sealed now. You won’t have to keep it wrapped like a normal tattoo.” Steve could only whimper in acknowledgment.
Bernard re-entered the tattooing room with uncanny timing. Bernard eyed Steve and nodded in approval.
“Yep, you look alright to me. Now we need to have our god awaken you.” Steve had no energy to protest.
The duo took an elevator to the highest floor of HQ, floor 156. The view from the seamless glass windows was incredible. The sidewalk was so far away. People milled around the sidewalks like distant ants. Bernard led Steve into a completely white room. The walls were a smooth white material. There was no visible light source, yet the rom was still well-lit. In the center sat a wrinkled old-woman. She appeared to be napping as she leaned on her cane and snored. Steve was taken aback. His expectations had been almost non-existent, yet they were still subverted.
“This is our country's patron deity? The god of death, war, and decay? The demon crusher goddess herself?” Steve asked Bernard. The plastic man responded with his trademark plastic smile.
“Well, actually this is Lesley. She’s the god of spoiled fruit, which is technically decay. Death, war, and decay sound much better on a television,” Bernard answered. Lesley, the god of spoiled fruit looked to be in her 90s, or even possibly her 100s. She continued snoring, completely oblivious to her guests. “Hey, Lesley,” Bernard tapped her shoulder. She slowly opened her eyes before choking on her own snore with a cough. “We got someone for you to bless.”
“Isn’t the First God supposed to be in DC?” Steve asked.
“This is technically her avatar, but she’ll do the same thing.” Bernard shot back. The old shriveled woman gestured for Steve to come closer. “Give Steve an S-tier skill please,” Bernard requested. The old woman grumbled under her breath as she brought two fingers to Steve’s forehead. A brilliant blue light began to emanate from her fingertips. The light was so intense Steve had to close his eyes to save his retinas. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins. The air began to heat up, twist, twirl, and whoosh around the three people.
“This is going to be a big one,” Lesley croaked. A low moan began to escape her chapped lips. “It’s coming,” she continued. Bernard couldn’t help but spectate in awe. The process was never this grand. He was going to witness the birth of a true hero. Bernard crossed his arms and smiled wryly. Maybe he would get that raise soon after all.
“HAAAA-- CHEW,” Lesley sneezed monstrously. The blue light and whooshing disappeared instantly. “Darn allergies,” She muttered under her breath. It was almost December. “Huh, looks like you got a B-tier skill,” She croaked. Steve wasn’t even mad. Everything was too ridiculous.
“Swipe your fingers down and say ‘status’ and tell us what skill you got,” Bernard instructed. Steve ignored Bernard's instructions entirely.
“Properties,” Steve said evenly. A large menu window eclipsed his vision. It looked like it was drawn on top of the visual information from his eyes like it wasn’t quite a tangible object.
Steven Michael Age: 20
Level: 0
Skills: Mana Control II (B), Level 1
Status: Confused like a dumbass
STR: 10
DEX: 11
CON: 4
“I got Mana Control II,” Steve announced. He had no idea what that meant, but he felt great. He felt reinvigorated and light as air. His body listened and reacted to his every command like a sports car.
“That’s pretty rare! Too bad it’s a piece of shit, and the hag fucked it up by sneezing. Maybe you would have gotten an S-tier,” Bernard lamented. Steve was a little dejected about his skill. As well as alarmed at Bernard’s use of profanity in front of a deity. That was until he heard Lesley snoring again. This entire operation was beginning to look a lot less official and organized than what PIMP led everyone to believe. Bernard looked over Steve’s shoulder, “Looks like your INT stat is really high though. Nerd,” Bernard muttered the last part.
“Hey, how did you see that,” Steve glared at his supervisor.
“Your profile visibility options can be changed by clicking on that little gear icon in the corner,” Bernard replied confidently. What is this shit? Binnstagram? Bernard was right, though. Steve clicked through the menu with his mind.
[Sign in with Shmoogle to change your preferences]
Steve groaned. No way… He turned around so Bernard couldn’t watch as Steve typed in his Shmoogle email and password with his mind. Then he switched his profile visibility to private.
Bernard led Steve to his penthouse quarters on the top floor. The supervisor showed Steve to a room that was nothing more than a glorified broom closet. The room was barely wide enough for two men to stand next to each other. It was just a gap between two steel support columns with a door. There was one square window across from the door. A dusty futon took up the majority of the floor space. Better than paying rent I guess.
“Bathroom’s half a mile down the hall on the right,” Bernard pointed. “Cafeteria food on the 2nd floor is free for paragons.” Bernard handed Steve a metal key card before booking it. He seemed to be in a hurry. Steve was at a loss for words once again. Everything was much less glamorous than he expected. The view from the 2x2 foot window was remarkable, though. He could see the entirety of the foggy bay from the window.