As they ushered me out of my quarters, my mind was a whirl of disoriented thoughts, still echoing with the shrill cries of my girlfriend from the dream. My heart pounded in time with the rhythm of my disjointed thoughts, struggling to make sense of the waking nightmare I was living. We began our trek through a labyrinth of hallways, each turn more disorienting than the last.
The cold, impersonal architecture mirrored its inhabitants. Sharp, angular walls composed of an unyielding metal stretched on, their austere surfaces reflecting the stark, fluorescent lights that hung overhead. Corridors blended into each other, their sterile sameness disorienting. I barely noticed the details, the crispness of reality blurring into an unsettling haze.
The parade finally halted at a room, markedly different from the previous sterile halls. The door gave way to a chamber, the centerpiece of which was a grand table, polished and gleaming under the intrusive lights Anticipation hung thick in the air, pressing down like a physical weight. It mirrored the quickening pulse in my veins, adding another layer to the labyrinth of anxiety winding its way through my thoughts.
As I stepped into the room, my gaze was immediately drawn to the walls. They were adorned with a series of art pieces, a nice change from the harsh sterility of the rest of the building. However, the scenes they depicted were a carnival of violence and grandeur - gladiators in fierce combat, their faces contorted with exertion and fury, their bodies twisted in grotesque ballets of death.
Each artwork displayed raw emotion and brutal combat, subjects frozen in their deadly dance. The strokes of paint were vivid, almost violently so, eternally capturing the frenzy of battle. And as my eyes moved from one painting to the next, I could almost hear the roars of the crowd, feel the rush of adrenaline, the fear, the determination, the will to survive.
My eyes finally rested on the last painting, a grand melee depicted in cruel detail. Amid the chaos of battle, one figure stood triumphant, the center of a macabre tableau. This warrior was a titan among men, a cleaver clasped in his right hand. The weapon was an extension of his savagery, cruel and unforgiving. Its blade, broad and unyielding, bore the stains of countless battles. Its edge was jagged, like a sawtooth, promising pain and death to those unfortunate enough to meet it.
In his left hand, he held a gruesome trophy - a severed head, its face twisted in an eternal scream of agony. The lifeless eyes were wide, the lips parted in a silent cry. It was a chilling testament to the merciless nature of the battles that were fought here, a reminder of the cruel fate that awaited those who dared to enter the arena.
As the implications of the guards' words began to sink in, I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. I was next and I was scared. What was I even next for? The unknown gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, another shadow to join the specters already haunting my thoughts. I had to face it, move forward. For my girlfriend, our child, for the life now slipping into a nightmare. I could feel my emotions start to spiral. I quickly pointed at the painting and quipped "Ah, the classic head-in-hand look. Nothing says 'party' quite like a decapitated head. Reminds me of my a few dates I went on before Ruby, my girlfriend. Kidding. Uh, Sort of."
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The sharp accent of the announcer cut through my jabbering, startling me from my ruminations. His tone remained formal, unflappable, even amidst the bizarre circumstances. "Initiate," he began, his voice echoing ominously throughout the room, "I am the system liaison, you may call me liaison, or sir. Congratulations, you have earned the right to select a class."
I blinked, taken aback. “System liaison? A class? A class? Cool I guess, I always fancied myself a Paladin, no, a knight, but given my current predicament, do I have the option of a 'Space Cowboy'? No…? Figures." Before I could verbally process the information anymore, the liaison continued, his voice as cold and impersonal as the metallic walls around us.
"Your performance in the arena, your resilience in the face of adversity, have proven your worth," he announced, a note of grudging respect seeping into his voice. "Furthermore, we have completed an analysis of your genetic makeup, and your combat encounters. As such, we have determined your potential in specific areas. This information will guide your choice."
He paused for dramatic effect before launching into the details. "Your strength has been evaluated as 13. This signifies your physical prowess, your ability to handle the rigors of combat." His tone was matter-of-fact, reducing my survival instincts, my desperate fight for life, to a simple numerical value. For your race, the average score for each attribute 10.
"Your dexterity," he continued, "is 13. This represents your agility, your quick reflexes." My mind flashed back to the arena, the heart-stopping moments when I had to evade Kael's deadly swoops, my body moving of its own accord.
"Your constitution is 14," he added. "This shows your resilience, your fortitude." I remembered the blood, the bone-deep exhaustion, the throbbing pain that became my constant companion.
"Your intelligence is estimated at 12. This reflects your understanding of tactics, your ability to strategize under duress." I was a little offended at this, I was a goddamn PhD after all, a 12, that’s just barely over average. Then the memory of the fear that gripped me in the arena, perhaps that was affecting my score somehow.
"Your wisdom is 10. This represents your survival instinct, your judgment. This value, however, may be affected by your emotional state." The unsaid implication was clear - my nightmares and constant worry for my girlfriend and child were impacting my mental state.
"Lastly," he concluded, "your charisma is 14. This considers your attractiveness, ability to connect with others, sense of humor, and probably your title." His voice softened ever so slightly, a strange contrast to the grim reality of our situation.
As the liaison rattled off my stats like I was a character in an RPG, I couldn't help but let out a snort. “A 12 in intelligence? Come on, I've outsmarted more than my share of academics and bureaucrats. And let’s not start on wisdom, I’m man enough to admit I can be a little foolish. But hey, at least I'm charming,” I mused, my thoughts a mix of amusement and sarcasm. It was absurd, all of it, but if they thought numbers on a sheet could define me, they were in for a surprise.
The liaison's voice took on an expectant tone, a hint of excitement bleeding into his words. "Before you choose your class, Everett," he began, "you are required to select a mentor."