Chapter Text
The apocalypse was the best thing that ever happened to Mason Hill.
When his dreams were interrupted by a strange voice, he thought he’d finally died. The cold streets of Reno had claimed many a friend that winter; what was one more body to the pile? There was no regret… well, that wasn’t true. What would happen to Wishbone if he died?
“The gods have grown weary of your world. Rather than being destroyed, they offer a more entertaining mercy. The downtrodden, the homeless, the disabled, will all receive the gods’ blessing, a System to even the odds stacked against them. The meek shall inherit the earth.”
Before Mason could question the voice, before he could even comprehend their meaning, a sharp tug yanked him awake.
Bundled in three layers of clothes — all the clothes he currently owned — Mason still felt the keen bite of winter. Worse, he could see cold light flashing around the entrance of the underpass he slept in. He sat up quickly, and gathered his things. Little more than a bag filled with crackers and a jar of peanut butter he’d nabbed from a nearby convenience store, and his outdated glasses, but it was all he owned.
A small group of people surrounded him, all snoring away in their own blankets and tents. Mason picked his way through them, echoing steps mixed with the click of claws on cement. Glancing to the side, he smiled at the white boxer walking beside him, leash in mouth.
“Give.”
The leash dropped into his left hand. In his right, Mason unfolded a cane — the better to see steps with. It rolled across the pavement, keeping him from falling into the Truckee River as he picked his way through the suddenly dark underpass. The flashlights were gone.
They were coming.
He lengthened his steps as best as he could, bursting out of the culvert. Out of the corner of his eye, Mason saw a massive van sitting on the overpass; it was more than enough to fit all of the people still sleeping.
Mason rubbed at his eye, blinking at a pulsing blue light in the corner of his vision. It nagged him, insisting he focus on it, but he had more pressing concerns.
Walk casually. You have a backpack. You’re just a college student on your way to the campus. Nevermind the cane and dog in your hand.
“Good boy, Wishbone,” he murmured as they slipped out of the ambush before it could be properly laid.
His heart ached for the people still sleeping. But when it came down to it, Mason and Wishbone were free. He had little doubt what would happen to the boxer if he was arrested for being homeless. And a mass exodus from the underpass would have seen them all taken in.
Heading across the river, Mason picked a bench. This area had already been swept from what he could see. It should be safe enough for a blind man and his dog to take a quick rest.
And figure out what that damned blue light was.
He pawed at his eye. Blinked again. But the light wouldn’t quit. Even with his eyes shut, Mason could still see it hovering in the corner of his vision. His eye flicked-
And suddenly a giant blue box took up his entire vision. It shrank a moment later, as though resizing to properly fit him. Mason could only stare. At a list of stats, a list of words that seemed to be classes from Pathfinder or D&D.
Strength — 10
Dexterity — 12
Constitution — 10
Intelligence — 13
Wisdom — 11
Charisma — 12
A note below the stats offered an explanation: 10 was the average score for his race. Mason frowned. Were these numbers supposed to represent him? This was obviously the System that voice had mentioned — which led to a horrifying conclusion. Gods were real. And they were assholes who wanted to watch the world burn.
A flashing number near the bottom of his vision told him he had two points he could fit into one attribute.
It almost went to [Intelligence] before Mason paused. And thought. Wizards had spellbooks. How would he fill those spellbooks in a world without magic study? Everything he learned, he would have to research himself.
No, he couldn’t be a wizard. [Intelligence] was wasted on him.
Then what? His physical stats could probably be adjusted if he could ever afford a gym membership. So mental stats. [Wisdom] or [Charisma]. It wasn’t hard to imagine what [Charisma] could help with. [Wisdom] was a bit harder.
But finding information on it was as easy as thinking. None of that eye flicking, no magic words spoken.
[Wisdom is a person’s willpower. How much common sense a person has, how acute their senses are, how much intuition they have, are all determined by how much Wisdom they have. It is also the most important ability score for Druids and Clerics, and to a lesser extent, Rangers, Hunters, Shamans, and Warpriests. Every two points of Wisdom over 10 grants these classes 1 additional mana per level.]
Divine magic. Blegh. But added willpower? That would be nice.
His selection made, Mason narrowed his eyes as his optimal class changed from Wizard to Cleric. Then back to Wizard. Witch. Druid. Like he was about to take suggestions from-
Sighing, Mason looked back over the class selections. He should take one of the suggested classes. It was the smartest thing to do. His newly increased [Wisdom] was screaming at him to choose Cleric, to kiss ass, and pray — literally — that he’d be spared through the fallout of this entire situation.
Fuck the gods. They’d done nothing for him — except giving him a leg up over hundreds of millions of people — so why should he fawn over them?
Fine. He’d keep Cleric as an option. His eyes scanned the rest of the choices, from anything like a Bard — fat chance — to a Paladin — ugh, more divinity — to a Summoner.
That was more like it. These all sounded like combat oriented classes. If Mason was going to be in combat, there was a fifty-fifty chance he froze up. But if he could summon a companion to fight for him, maybe he could survive longer than five seconds. And if he survived, Wishbone survived.
“Summoner it is,” he muttered, watching all the other options disappear.
[Error: Secondary qualifications met. Human is disabled and homeless. A second class shall be chosen from optimal class list.]
Mason grinned. Stupid gods hadn’t even considered how many homeless people were also disabled.
His grin faded as his second class made itself known.
Cleric.
Wishbone’s chin settled on Mason’s lap. Pulling himself out of the blue box felt like surfacing after a minute under water. Mason’s head hurt. He breathed harshly, blowing out a heavy breath. Cleric… what kind of fucked up…? Did he actually have to pray for his abilities now? Who was he even supposed to pray to?
And spells. He’d seen another list with labels like [Grease] and [Mage Armour].
But Wishbone was right. The sun was rising. They’d spent too long here already.
Scratching the dog’s ear, Mason forced himself to wobbly feet. His cane in one hand, leash in the other, the newfound mage froze as a chorus of sirens filled the air. Smoke drifted overhead, and he shuddered. How many people had been given his choice? How many neophyte Wizards were trying to throw fire in public places?
He ducked his head and hurried down the Riverwalk toward the library. By now, it was probably open, and he could spend the day there trying to figure out what abilities he had access to.
But one tug at the library doors found them locked. Sighing, Mason folded up his cane and slid down the frigid marble wall to stare blindly out at the world. Who knew how much longer it would be before the library opened? To pass the time, he delved again, shelving the problem of being a Cleric in favour of focusing on his Summoner spells.
A long list ran before his eyes. Mason’s mind glazed over. He snapped himself back into focus. [Summon Monster 1] was a mainstay of the class, wasn’t it? But no, he could see that spell under another tab labelled [Spell-like Abilities]. So he already had the spell?
Of the remaining spells, [Mount] was promising — this was a summoning class after all, and summoning a horse would go a long way toward getting him around town. If they were street legal in Nevada, of course. God(s?) he wished the library was open.
[Grease] would be a boon if he got into a fight; if nothing else, he could run away while his assailant tried to stay upright. He selected the spell, just to have some kind of defense.
One spell left. And he was torn between [Mage Armour] and [Mount]. Utility or defense? But why was he so focused on fighting suddenly? Sure, the world was about to go through an enormous change. But that didn’t mean his life was about to change, for better or for worse. For all Mason knew, life would continue to be a struggle, to feed himself, to feed Wishbone… fuck, he would kill to have an actual roof over his head for one night.
Mason paled as the realisation hit him — he probably could kill someone now. Well… once he actually had access to his new spells. He moved quickly away from that line of thought. Even at 20 years old, Mason had already seen more than enough death. Better to just be careful about his thoughts in the future.
“Good morning Mason!”
Mason blinked sluggishly. He shot to his feet, wincing at a sudden yelp from Wishbone.
“Shit, I’m so sorry boy!” Kneeling, he gave the boxer a tight hug. With a slobbery lick, Wishbone let him know he was forgiven.
But the dog still limped gingerly as they followed Nathan into the library.
“Good morning Nathan,” Mason replied, tearing his mind from his injured companion.
The librarian was short, scrawny — really not much different from Mason himself, albeit better fed. His short mousy hair clashed with Mason’s long, coppery strands, and his tan skin made Mason’s alabaster tone blinding.
Most damning, Nathan was clean. Mason didn’t know how long it had been since he could afford a load of laundry — what few donations he got from standing on the street corner went to feeding Wishbone, and then to feeding himself. And a job? Forget about it. Who would hire someone who smelled and looked like crap?
He was bringing himself down again. Mason squeezed his eyes shut, focused on what he needed to do here. What he needed to accomplish. Namely, finalising his Summoner class, then trying to figure out what the hell the Cleric class was about.
“I had the craziest dream last night,” Nathan said before Mason could vanish into the library.
“Yeah?” That made two of them, then. Except Mason wasn’t dreaming.
“Yeah, some voice talking about gods and the end of the world.” Nathan laughed, and Mason joined him belatedly.
“Too many doomsday podcasts, probably.” Mason tilted his head further into the library. “Anyway, I gotta get studying, if I ever want to get my GED.”
Not that it would help. UNR was the only campus within walking distance, and they didn’t accept the GED to enroll in classes. Mason didn’t exactly have the money to take public transportation anywhere, even at a reduced rate for his disability.
It got Nathan off his back though. The librarian waved him off, freeing Mason from pressing social obligations. Diving deep into the library, Mason found a quiet corner he knew no one used — who wanted to check out copies of 19th century science books?
Safe and warm, he broke open a small bag of kibble and pulled out a handful for Wishbone. And another. His fingertips scraped the bottom of the bag, and Mason winced. His wallet held a five dollar bill taken from Jessie’s body three days ago. Walgreens might have some dog food, but he had no idea how much it would cost; the last bag had been a donation in and of itself. Feed the dog, ignore the human on the other end of the leash. He was only a little ashamed to admit he’d had a couple kibbles from Wishbone’s bag a few nights ago, when the peanut butter just wasn’t enough.
Not that it ever was.
“Alright Wishbone, heads or tails?”
No sense moping. There was work to be done. But Mason’s face still fell as Wishbone wagged his tail.
“Yeah, you would go with that one. Traitor.”
Sighing, Mason opened the blue box again, and dove into the Cleric class.
The first rule in dealing with the gods is: don’t.
Mason didn’t exactly have that luxury. Instead, he was faced with a list of pantheons, of cultures. He was American; the only god he knew the tenets of was the Judeo-Christian god, someone he was on decidedly unfriendly terms with. Let the Catholics, the Protestants, the Orthodox, let them spread the word of their god. If Mason was forced to choose a deity to follow, he was going Hellenistic with it.
That choice out of the way, he still had a monumental task ahead of him.A quick search on one of the library computers put the number of Greek gods at 3000… at least until Mason saw a mention that 3000 was just ancient Greek for innumerable. He didn’t know how accurate that was, but it did not inspire much confidence.
Okay… sort by ideals. What would he want to be the cleric of? Finding something he and a god could — eugh — connect on would make this a lot less painful.
Medicine. Apollo… no, that looked like a false lead. Asclepius? The son of Apollo.
Love. Ah fuck… Aphrodite, Eros, the Erotes, even Dionysis was listed among these gods!
Out of morbid curiosity — and glancing around to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder — Mason searched for a god of homosexuality. If anyone was going to have one, it would be the-
Nope. Nothing. Well, a mention of a Hermaphroditus, one of the Erotes. Come to think of it, why couldn’t he just pay lip service to the whole pantheon at once? They all existed, apparently. Maybe something for Hades; Mason was going to die eventually, and now that he had some notion there was an afterlife, he was starting to feel the desire to make it a good one.
Clicking through descriptions of Himeros, of Pothos, of Antares, Mason sighed. He didn’t want to be a cleric of death. A cleric of medicine was just his altruistic pat on the back. But if he could follow a group of deities devoted to love… maybe someday he could find actual love himself. A loving family, a loving boyfriend. Right now, all he had was Wishbone.
Wishbone, who was pawing at his leg.
With no more time to think, Mason focused on the Erotes. The other options vanished, leaving seven behind. Grabbing Wishbone’s leash, he collected his cane and hurried as best as he could outside.
A quick walk around the snowy block — don’t eat the yellow snow, kids — and the two dove back inside.
Channel energy. He chose the healing option.
Domain. Between Charm, Love, and Lust… he chose Love.
[The gods have seen fit to offer each adherent to their blessing a $2000 gift. This gift may be waived for an infinite bag that comes with other boons within. These boons include: one weapon of your choice, including the requisite knowledge of how to use said weapon; gear for your companion including armour and feed; fresh clothing suiting your current climate; five days’ worth of rations for yourself; a bedroll capable of keeping the occupant at a comfortable temperature no matter the outside climate.]
Mason didn’t bother reading the rest. He took the bag — how could he not? It would have food for himself and for Wishbone. More importantly, a weapon? And the knowledge he needed to not be a complete ass using it? Mason picked an AR-15; ammo for that should be plentiful should he actually have to use the thing.
The blue box faded. And Mason was hit with such bliss, he thought he really had died and gone to heaven. It lasted for the briefest of seconds, then ended just as suddenly as it started.
Mason blinked tears from his eyes. Was that what it was like to truly be high on life?
“Heady stuff, isn’t it?”