“Congrats! You’re still not dea-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Russell hissed, shoving the device into the crotch of his leggings like he was cramming a squawking parrot into a suitcase. He peeked over the fallen tree he’d claimed as a makeshift sanctuary, his eyes darting through the suffocating green of the jungle. He pushed his scavenged party shades up onto his forehead for a clearer look. Every rustle of a branch or crunch of a leaf sent his pulse into overdrive, but the only thing staring back at him was an endless maze of vines and shadows.
No Mari. No Conrad. Good. Either they’d finally had enough of him, or the jungle truly scared them shitless. Both worked.
His arm, though, was another story. The gash on his bicep — Mari’s parting gift from her license-plate ninja-star bullshit — was still leaking blood. Russell stared at the wound, unsure what to make of it. Knowing he couldn’t do anything about it even if he wanted to, he decided to focus on something more pressing: the smug little device on his arm that wouldn’t shut the hell up.
With a grunt, he yanked it out of his leggings. The screen lit up like it was expecting applause, his avatar — still flipping the bird — stared back at him. Below it, his SPUNK stats blinked in bold, impossible-to-ignore letters:
SWAGGER: 6
POWER: 3
UTILITY: 5
NERVE: 7
KNOW-HOW: 3
The driftwood frame slapped around his avatar felt less like an accolade and more like putting sprinkles on a steaming turd. The shiny little plaque that said LEVEL 2, well that was just the cherry on top of the shit sundae.
Was this seriously all he got for leveling up? A dingy looking frame around his sun-fucked face? As if on cue, the device’s chirpy voice chimed in.
“Welcome to Level 2! Have you been taking advantage of your SPUNK score, playing to your strengths?”
“I figured out your little game, bitch,” Russell hissed, full of venomous vindication. But the device didn’t skip a beat.
“Any gamer will tell you, leveling up is a big-baller move. But Level 2 is more baller than most. Welcome to the progression system, big dawg!”
Russell’s teeth clenched so hard he swore he might’ve cracked a molar. He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Listen, you cringey little shit. One of your dumbass actors brought his headshot to the island. And the other one tried to murder me. With a fucking license plate.”
“The progression system will guide your crafting skills and boost your abilities as you survive the island. See what I mean? This is next-level baller stuff!”
“Stop saying ‘baller’! Fuck you!”
“Now, the progression system is broken down into two primary components: CRAFTING and PERKS."
Russell squinted at the screen, the chipper indifference of the Gamemaster eating at every bit of him. He thought about smashing the screen with a rock, ending the whole charade right there. But even his half-assed KNOW-HOW stat was enough to tell him that’d probably break his wrist in the process. Not exactly a win, no matter how you cut it.
The screen lit up with two new tabs at the top: CRAFTING and PERKS. Both pulsed faintly, daring him to make a choice.
“Fine,” Russell said, scowling as he eyed the PERKS tab. He wasn’t a “gamer” by any stretch, but the idea of “perks” wasn’t totally alien. If the fever-dream insanity from the cave wasn’t just his brain melting down, he’d already had a preview of how these things worked. Might as well get the full picture.
“Let’s see what fresh brand of bullshit you’ve got for me now,” he said, tapping the menu.
The screen shifted, revealing a grid of postcard-sized boxes. Each one featured a cartoon version of Russell in some absurd scenario: clutching sparking wires like a deranged mad scientist, sprinting from a murderous flock of birds, and — because why the hell not — strutting down the beach in a frilly dress. There were dozens of these cartoons, maybe even hundreds. The sheer stupidity of it all might’ve been funny, in any other scenario.
Before Russell could express his frustration at being depicted over and over again as a fool, the device cut in, still drunk on its own enthusiasm.
“PERKS offer passive or one-time bonuses to help you survive on the island. Each Perk provides small, incremental improvements to your overall survivability or temporary advantages in specific situations.”
Russell scrolled through the grid, the animations looping like twisted comic strips that wouldn’t stop mocking him. Each card showed him doing something either psychotic or outright doomed, but not one bothered to explain what perk it represented or what it actually did. Instead, every card came stamped with requirements, like “LEVEL 6” or “UTILITY 7” or sometimes a maddening mix of both.
Locked. All of them locked, gated behind a combination of levels and SPUNK thresholds he didn’t yet meet.
All of them, except one.
At the top of the grid, a card stood out. Brighter, sharper, its colors more vivid than the rest. The one perk he’d already unlocked. He didn’t need the animation to remind him — it was burned into his memory. A cartoon version of himself lay twitching on the ground, surrounded by cheery little ghost-things waving signs that screamed encouragement like DON’T DIE! and GET UP, LOSER! The text beside it was as blunt as the illustration. Russell tapped the card, and it expanded.
HOARSE WHISPERER
You’ve danced on the edge of dehydration so severe it cracked the veil between reality and insanity.
EFFECT: Grants the ability to "hear" cryptic advice, taunts, or insights from inanimate objects and imagined characters during moments of extreme survival.
Russell side-eyed Tumzy, sitting there next to him on the jungle floor. The water bottle’s soulless, painted-on eyes stared blankly into the dense green beyond. Russell huffed. So, the nonsense in the cave had really happened — or at least the device had twisted his near-death experience into some cruel joke.
He shifted his attention back to the screen. At least it had the decency to spell out the one perk he’d managed to unlock. The rest? Just cryptic little cartoons, each one taunting him to guess the special kind of hell he’d have to endure to earn their abilities. Before he could even start deciphering the doodles, the screen flicked over to the CRAFTING tab on its own.
Where the PERKS tab had felt like flipping through a quirky stack of postcards, the CRAFTING tab was something else entirely — cleaner, more streamlined. A grid of colorless thumbnails stretched across the screen, each one showcasing a shadowy silhouette of a tool, weapon, or some other vague object. The shapes were a mixed bag: sharp and stabby, round and pointless-looking, or just plain confusing. A giant question mark hovered in the center of each image, like the universe asking, What in the holy hell is this?
“With CRAFTING, you’ll unlock schematics to create tools, structures, and all sorts of useful items. From the simplest of shelters to advanced technology that once seemed out of reach, there’s a Schematic for everything you could ever want or need. But you’ve got to be the one to make it!”
The more Russell stared at the grid of Schematics, the more it felt like a Youtube front page — just stripped of any excitement or color. Boring as hell. Still, Russell poked at a couple of the thumbnails, each one expanding with his finger-tap. Instead of useful details about what the Schematics could actually do, all he got were more gates: level requirements, SPUNK thresholds, and a whole lot of nope. All of it, locked tight.
But as he scrolled, his scowl began to ease, anger giving way to something more dangerous — curiosity. He glanced over his shoulder, the jungle humming with its usual menace, before turning back to the device, comforted — if only slightly — by the thought that he probably wasn’t about to take a license plate to the neck and he could dive into this system a bit more. The grid taunted him with its endless line-up of silly silhouettes and vague promises, every locked thumbnail a challenge. Like most gates Russell had faced in his life, it wasn’t the barrier that mattered — it was the thrill of figuring out how to hop it and grab whatever was on the other side.
“So,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the device, “I can make shit?”
“As you’ve likely noticed, Schematics and Perks are locked behind levels. With every level you gain, more of each become available. Buuuuut, it’s not just about levels. Your SPUNK score determines what Schematics and Perks are offered to you. Many will remain inaccessible, regardless of your level.”
Russell’s ADHD flared, mind already bouncing between annoyance and intrigue. “Well, that’s fucked up,” he said.
“Surely you agree it’s a fair system! But for those of you who don’t — there’s a catch!”
Russell leaned back against the tree and winced as the grenade in his waistband jabbed his hip. Without thinking, he grabbed it and lobbed it aside. The clunky thing sailed through the air and smacked Tumzy square in the face, toppling the panda bottle like a sad, sloshing bowling pin. For a second, he didn’t care. Then he sighed, picked Tumzy up, and made sure she was sitting comfortably upright in the dirt. Just in case, he thought, still side-eyeing her like she might blink back at him.
“Alright,” he said to the device, brushing dirt off his hands. “Tell me about the catch.”
“You may find crafting Schematics while scavenging the wilds, and you may unlock Perks through actions of EXTREME BADASSERY. These discoveries and feats will be outside of your SPUNK level, expanding your capabilities in ways you would not otherwise be able to access.”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Russell nodded along, as much as he hated it. That explained Hoarse Whisperer, unlocked before he’d even been introduced to this bullshit system. Funny how almost dying counted as an act of “extreme badassery.” Then again, he supposed most badass things came with a high chance of getting mortally wrecked.
The device returned to the SPUNK tab, where Russell’s stats still glared back at him as a stark reminder of just how much he didn’t know about staying alive. Below the numbers, though, something new caught his eye.
1 UNLOCK POINT AVAILABLE
Well well, what's this? Russell had a thing for arbitrary points. As did many people with low KNOW-HOW.
“Every time you level up, you get to unlock a crafting Schematic or Perk fitting of your SPUNK score. Check out what’s available, and make the right choice. Your life may depend on it! Peace, big-dawg!”
A little plus sign flashed next to the LOG menu, letting Russell know the message had been saved. Not that he gave a damn. The system was simple enough, even without Wayne there to guide him into the depths of nerd-dom. Every level, he got to pick something — one new crafting Schematic or one new Perk. Each level unlocked more options, as long as he met the bullshit SPUNK requirements.
Russell scowled at his KNOW-HOW score, then leaned the device toward Tumzy like he was showing off a bad grade on a report card.
“See this? They’re calling me a big dumb fuck,” he said, jabbing at the screen. “But I just figured out this whole progression system, no sweat. And I’m hungover. So who’s the big dumb fuck now? That Gamemaster fuck, that’s who.”
Tumzy’s lifeless eyes stared back, unblinking. Without her or the Gamemaster’s chipper voice chiming in, Russell felt uncomfortably alone. The jungle pressed in on all sides, the shadows deepening as the sun dropped lower, and the whole place felt like it was breathing, alive with unseen movement. He didn’t like that feeling. If he was honest with himself, he almost wished Tumzy would start talking again, just for something to fill the silence. He unscrewed her beret, and her speaker came to life.
“Slurp good, think good!” Tumzy screamed.
“You’re right, Tumzy,” Russell responded, taking a swig of cool water from the panda’s insides. “You’re god damn right.”
He looked back at the gadget on his wrist. Only a few minutes ago, when the device informed him of reaching Level 2, Russell had been ready to tear into it, ready to tell the Gamemaster to shove their prick-pinching crabs, their F-list actors, and their fake dead guys right up their ass. He’d figured out the game and he could no longer be played. But now, with the light fading and the jungle closing in, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe this system was his salvation. He chewed his lip, staring at the unlock point like it might have all the answers.
He swiped back to the PERKS tab. He needed something game-changing. Something that might actually get him off this godforsaken island.
Three new postcards blinked to life, their colors brighter than the rest but still paling next to the glamorous glow of Hoarse Whisperer, his only unlocked perk.
The first postcard showed a cartoon of Russell levitating a few inches off the ground, arms outstretched as a buzzing halo of mosquitoes floated above his head. He looked oddly christ-like — if Christ had been the patron saint of pests and wearing purple mascot bottoms.
ENBLIGHTENED
Others merely adopted malaria, you worn born in it.
EFFECT: Gain an immediate boost in BADASS EXP for every bug bite you have, along with a fun infectious disease!
REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2, NERVE 2
The second postcard played a looping animation of Russell standing over a small pile of rocks, tapping his foot, one eyebrow arched, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and annoyance.
ROCKIN’ OUT
Hell yeah, rocks motherfucker!
EFFECT: Instantly receive a surplus of rocks. Useful for crafting, throwing, or in cases of middle-aged dads, collecting.
REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2
The last postcard showed Russell strolling through the jungle, whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world. Thick, cartoon stink lines trailed off of him, wilting the plants in his wake.
FUNK-BE-GONE
Body odor? More like body acceptance.
EFFECT: Completely neutralizes your ability to smell your own stench, just like that weird guy in the office who believes deodorant is a form of government mind control!
REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2, UTILITY 3
Russell rubbed his face, letting out a long, frustrated groan. Nonsense, wrapped in humiliation. Whether these perks even worked or not (Russell had his doubts), he was tired of being the punchline in the Gamemaster’s comedy routine.
“This is such fucking bullshit,” he said.
Clearly, perks were a way for the Gamemaster to point and laugh while tossing him the occasional bone. Or, in this case, a pile of rocks. Every option was a prank, a reminder that no matter what he did, the game was rigged.
There had to be something better in the CRAFTING tab. Something practical. Something that could actually help. Something that might, just might, get him one step closer to the boat, to rescue, or at the very least, to a stiff drink.
In the CRAFTING tab, three Schematics lit up in the otherwise drab grid, bringing a much-needed splash of color to the bleak, gray layout. He tapped the thumbnails, one after another. A title and a brief description popped up, laying out what was on offer for each.
BASIC SHELTER
DESCRIPTION: A simple, makeshift shelter that provides protection from the elements, or a place to cry yourself to sleep.
REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2
IMPROVISED SPEAR
DESCRIPTION: A rudimentary weapon offering a simple means of self-defense. Can also work as an ass-scratcher.
REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2, POWER 2
CRUDE FIRE STARTER
DESCRIPTION: A basic fire-starting tool, necessary for warmth, cooking, and if you’re cool, lighting cigarettes.
REQUIREMENTS: LEVEL 2
Russell sucked his teeth, shaking his head. Deep down, in the part of his brain ruled by delusional pride, he already believed he could make all of these things without help. That little voice reassured him he was a natural survivalist, capable of building a spear, winning a fistfight with a monkey, and swinging from vines like he’d done it all his life. It was the same voice that got him into trouble back home, but here? It was roaring like a caveman ready to take on the world.
Then came one of those rare moments of introspection — his second today, which might’ve been a record. The last few hours had been a parade of bad decisions, humiliations, and close calls. He was pretty sure a plastic panda had saved his life not even an hour ago. Maybe these so-called gifts weren’t something to sneer at after all.
Still, he wasn’t here to play house. Screw the shelter. He was finding Shoji, tracking down that boat, and getting the hell off this island. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But a glance past the trees painted a different picture. The sun was sinking fast, and the jungle would soon turn into the kind of black that swallowed everything whole. Soon he wouldn’t be able to find his own dick, even if he was holding it.
Russell sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Fine. He needed light. Something he could wave through the jungle and say, Here I am, little naked man. Let’s talk. Light was the answer. Fire. Like some prehistoric man figuring out how to outsmart a saber-tooth tiger, fire would be his salvation.
With a resigned grunt, he jabbed a finger at the Crude Fire Starter Schematic. A confirmation box popped up on the screen.
Unlock Schematic?
YES NO
Russell hesitated, glancing toward Tumzy like she might offer some kind of counsel or at least hurl an insult to push him along. But, as expected, the panda bottle said nothing. So he tapped YES to confirm his choice to unlock the Crude Fire Starter. The grid shifted, the schematic saturating with even more color. Over the image of the tool, a play button appeared.
And then it clicked. There was a reason the CRAFTING menu reminded him of a Youtube front page — because it basically was. Okay, not YouTube exactly, but some funky, island-specific version of it. Every Schematic in the grid wasn’t just a tool or a blueprint or an idea — it was a video. An instructional video, by the look of it. And Russell had just unlocked his first.
He pressed play.
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The video opened with the sound of crashing waves and a cheery ukulele riff — the kind of music you’d expect in a commercial for a tropical getaway. The scene was a beach, not too different from where Russell had woken up, with endless sand and water stretching to the horizon. Standing in front of a weathered workbench was a man in a crisp flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up like he had important work to do. His bandana was faded, his grin wide, chemically white, and toothy — except for the tooth that wasn’t there. Behind him, a jungle loomed, probably the same one Russell was in right now.
“Salutations, survivor!” the man said, his Canadian accent as warm and syrupy as maple taffy. “Name’s Jerry Riggs. Four-time participant of the survival show, Buck Naked in Timbuktu — and, uh, special celebrity guest on the adults-only spinoff, Buck Naked: Beaver’s Bush.”
Jerry’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker in his eyes, like even he wasn’t sure why he’d just said that. He cleared his throat and pressed on. “I’ve built a career outta surviving places no sane person would ever go, and now I’m here to pass some of that wisdom onto you, eh?”
He clapped his hands together and motioned off-screen. “Before we dive in, I wanna give a big ol’ thanks to *BEEEEP* for lettin’ me be part of this incredible survival experience, that is in no way connected with the lying snakes over at Buck Naked in Timbuktu. Remember to—”
A loud *BEEEEP* cut him off mid-sentence as a “REDACTED” sticker slapped over his mouth. The video cut awkwardly to Jerry mid-smile, looking a little rattled but still trying to own the screen.
“Right,” he said, recovering. “Let’s get down to it. When it comes to surviving, there’s no tool more important than a fire starter. Fire’s your best friend, eh? Besides your wife, of course. Fire keeps you warm, scares off the creepy crawlies, and lets you cook whatever mystery meat you can scrounge up.”
He gestured to the items on his workbench: a chunk of blackened stone, a rusty scrap of metal, and a pile of dried leaves. “Here’s what you’ll need: flint, steel, and tinder. And make sure that tinder’s dry, eh? If it ain’t, you’ll be sittin’ there with sparks in your lap and nothin’ to show for it.”
Jerry chuckled, his grin widening as if to say he’d been there before. “Now, some of ya might be thinkin’, ‘Jerry, where the heck am I supposed to find steel on a desert island?’” He swept his hands wide, gesturing at the beach and jungle around him. “Well, this ain’t just any island. It’s got a history, you hear? You’d be amazed what you can find if you poke around. That’s survival, folks: resourcefulness.”
He held up the rusty steel to drive the point home. “Be adventurous. Get creative. And Kathleen, if you’re watching, remember that creativity was one of the things you loved about me.”
Jerry paused, staring off for a beat, before shaking his head and forcing a smile.
“Anyway! Speaking of adventures, let’s talk about the sponsor of today’s video — Cowabunga Credit! Got bad credit? Maybe you’re struggling to pay off that speedboat you bought during a better time in your life. Or maybe your wife left ya after you unknowingly participated in a porno disguised as a survival show — totally misled by the producers, by the way — and now you’re stuck payin’ alimony to a woman you still love. Well, Cowabunga Credit’s got your back!”
He threw up a hang-loose gesture, pinky and thumb out, shaking it like he was trying to summon enthusiasm from the depths of despair. His eyes shimmered with the faintest hint of tears. “Cowabunga Credit. It’s tubular!” he said, the words cracking just slightly at the edges.
Jerry coughed into his hand, setting down the steel like nothing had happened.
“Alright, we’ve got our materials: flint, steel, and tinder. Watch close, eh?”
He picked up the flint and steel, angling them just so. “Hold your steel steady — don’t grip it like you’re choking a chicken. Then take your flint and strike down at a nice angle. Be confident. Sparks’ll fly, and if they don’t... well, you’re probably doin’ it wrong.”
Jerry looked directly into the camera, eyes still watery. “But that’s okay. We all make mistakes.”
Jerry struck the flint against the steel, and sparks showered into the tinder. The leaves began to smoke immediately. He leaned down, blowing gently until a small flame flickered to life.
As the fire grew stronger, Jerry stepped back, holding the flint and steel up for the camera like a proud dad. “And there ya have it, folks. A fire starter. Don’t get much simpler than that. Be resourceful, find the materials that are there for the taking. And check your INVENTORY. Who knows, you might already have what ya need.”
He stepped closer to the camera, his grin faltering for just a second. “Anywho, that’s all I’ve got for ya today. And Kathleen, if you’re still watchin’, I just wanna say... I’m a better man now.”
Behind him, the fire on the workbench started to spread, but Jerry didn’t notice. The ukulele music picked up again as he waved goodbye to the camera. The screen faded to black, leaving only the Schematic for the Crude Fire Starter and a lingering sense that Jerry Riggs might not be okay.
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Russell stared at the screen, trying to process the surreal presentation he’d just watched. In two minutes of Jerry Riggs rambling about fire-starting, Russell had managed to rack up at least a dozen questions, and none of them had to do with striking flint against steel. The main one: Who the fuck is Jerry Riggs?
He’d heard of the survival show Jerry mentioned — Buck Naked in Timbuktu. Big deal back in the day. Ran for over 15 seasons until it imploded spectacularly when a contestant got eaten by a shark. But that porno-sounding spinoff? No clue. Russell didn’t like his pornos themed anyway. Just good ol’ gloryholes, like any self-respecting American.
Was this some kind of reboot of the show? A resurgence, maybe? He doubted it. The vibe was all wrong, and Jerry even said so himself — they weren’t part of that shark-infested shit-show. Then there were the censored parts of the video. Who the hell had Jerry thanked, and why didn’t they want their name mentioned? It was weird — just another layer of what the fuck to toss onto the ever-growing pile of mysteries the island had thrown at him.
But, like most of those questions, the answers didn’t matter. Not really. Armed with the knowledge of how to make fire, Russell was one step closer to getting the hell off this island, and then lawyers could shake out the details of the who and why.
Still, one question nagged at him, something Jerry had mentioned that he couldn’t shake.
What the fuck was his INVENTORY?