Fuck the high ground.

  I just stayed at floor level. The many intertwining branches above formed a construction of potential pathways. The sight made me assume an eventual need to climb up. Three seconds of not being an idiot dispelled the notion however. Recent events really brought out the pessimist in me. The sun remained in the sky, albeit obscured. Shafts of light peeked through the canopy and their presence inspired minor awe paired with relief. The slightly chilly temperature, kept me comfortable during my brisk walk. My heading remained true west and the reason why came down to gamblers fallacy.

  The changed surroundings had a profound effect on my mood. Drab grey stone and ever-present darkness enforced a sense of gloom, whereas the still forest carried a sense of whimsy and innocence, with a side of confusion. There was something decidedly exotic about it. Botany had never interested me and closer inspection confirmed that I’d never encountered any of these plants before.

  All the tree leaves were blue, for one. Waist high woody bushes were barbed with hidden, vicious thorns the size of my index finger. Plucking a tuft of grass proved surprisingly difficult, like trying to tear apart a piece of plastic. Punting the forest floor nearly stubbed my toe. There were no flowers or undergrowth scattered about. Instead of reflecting and illuminating various particles in the air, the few rays of light which reached ground level looked remarkably clean, sterile even. Large side-by-side blue tinged roots snaked out of the ground only to dive back, creating unusually wide, even patterns amidst unbroken earth.

  My new habit of constantly flashing the interface paid off. The only tree so far which didn’t rest on a rootball triggered an Errant warning, which I heeded. Can’t fight no trees. My penchant for mischief made me want to scratch ‘beware trees with no balls’ somewhere but discretion was the better part of valor and all that. At least it smelled like a pine-forest, or an air freshener. The two were analogous in my mind. A recollection surfaced of someone telling me how heavy smoking deadened ones sense of smell and taste. Best not to think back too much.

  After an hour of wandering I even encountered some familiar wildlife, so likely edible. The bunny ahead mirrored me in freezing up. It was little bigger than they were supposed to be, nature was often like that though. The important facts were present however. It was wonderfully fluffy, probably delicious, and entirely harmless. I gave the little white fluffy fuck a nickname, Breakfast.

  Some things just weren’t the same anymore after the end. For one, it didn’t run away. My mood soured quickly after. The post-apocalypse sucked. All the best parts of life were ruined.

  Breakfast had been standing on its hind legs looking in my direction. It even did the whole cutesy sideways nod thing. When it started bounding towards me and then ducked under a wave of roots to get closer, I thought Breakfast might even manage to upgrade itself from meal to friend. Yet it was not to be. The huggable animal apparently shared my thoughts, minus the friend part.

  Such became apparent when it entered full view and a long chitinous three-part appendage ending in a stinger rose from the base of its neck. My interface refused to open, confirming it. Everything was getting an Errant-check from now on. My late realization led to an unfortunate consequence. We weren’t all that far apart anymore.

  Breakfast braced and its neck stinger went straight for me. Luckily it missed because my reflexes were on point, having flung my winter jacket at it in a blind panic while backstepping. It was my turn for a sideways nod. An odd calm settled over me, dismissing any lingering fear and anxiety.

  Breakfast was fucking helpless. The stinger had reacted and pierced my winter jacket, which now covered it. It stabbed around in a wild, aimless frenzy. After a couple of more misses, the appendage retracted and folded impossibly, reducing multiple meters to what couldn’t have been more than 20 or 30 centimeters. Shaking and shuffling betrayed failed attempts at shedding the jacket. This fucking place. It looked stupid and a bit funny, but didn’t make me any less wary.

  A stinger implied venom. My brush with infection taught me proper sword fighting equaled death. Thus, mindswording appealed. Breakfast definitely reacted to the blade but struck next to it, as if aiming for a wielder. That turned out to be very helpful, so I executed a downward chop, pantomiming along with two fingers for no particular reason beyond self-indulgence. Good thing this went down as it did.

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  I would’ve had no chance of dodging the assault at close range. The stinger nearly blurred when striking. A few attempts at catching it during a stab only served to convince me of the futility thereof. Eventually, I sliced at the base instead. Whether due to inherent fragility or overwhelming sharpness, my sword went clean through and the mental feedback registered no resistance at all.

  Breakfast went still, as did my winter jacket. Afraid that it was playing dead, I tried to lift the jacket with telekinetics but it was firmly stuck. Frustration overcame caution and sure enough, the fucker was dead. Condensation taught me nothing of worth. Distortion Fragment, 1/25, again.

  The choices presented were one energy, a hide or manual. I picked the third option. Familiar streams of odorless smoke wafted away although the corpse largely remained this time. I cut up the stinger appendage into four pieces at the joints, and then picked it up to have a look-see, hoping to figure out what this stuff was made of. It seemed like white meat and segments of chitin. Very informative.

  A cigarette spent circling around looking for further threats suggested no more dangers lurked nearby. More spoils joined a steadily growing pile. The prospect of food put a spring in my step while painstaking effort extracted firewood from a nearby rootball and a thorny bush. For some reason, the local flora heavily resisted cutting. At least my headache had faded somewhat.

  In my giddiness, using my sword as a skewer for a roast had ticked off all foreseen requirements and set me to work. My plan fell apart quickly however. My Bic couldn’t light up the twigs and roots. Getting the skin off might have worked but I’d never been the outdoorsy type. Lacking a pot or water source meant the only sensible option, a stew, was off the table too.

  My stomach growled. A cheeseburger and coke did not a full meal make. An old saying sprung to mind, now confirmed. Civilization is just three missed meals away from anarchy at all times. I cut off the end of the stinger. There was only meat inside.

  Only the sight of ubiquitous white meat greeted me, there were no signs of a venom sac or anything else for that matter. The anatomy didn’t seem to check out. I chucked the stinger just to be safe, and then cracked open another section, separating a little cube of white meat. Roasting it over my lighter sparked a hunger pang. It took on a little glaze, and then a scrunch. It smelled like seafood.

  I used to have an entire drawer full of random lighters, appropriated at every opportunity. Unfortunately, this left how full they were a complete mystery. Thus, wanting to conserve lighter fluid, my roasting ended within minutes. I closed my eyes in apprehension, albeit with my interface still open, and took a bite.

  Delicious, tasted like crab. A raw piece reminded me of juicy crab. Worry made way for pride as Breakfast lived up to its name. Rest in pieces, little buddy. I sliced open the rest and munched on bunnycrab meat.

  I had a smoke, breakfast was a kind of dinner after all, and sorely missed coffee. Examining my winter jacket judged the hole a necessary shame. There was nothing to be done about it. Maybe someday I’d have the spare mana to mend it. Although a sneaking suspicion suggested the damage was going to get much worse soon enough. Extricating myself from situations which bordered on certain death seemed a forlorn hope.

  Suspicions were once again confirmed about one mana later upon coming across Breakfast’s brother, Lunch. The same tactic had the same result, my execution improved though and my jacket got a little more torn up. I hadn’t gotten the shits yet so nothing prevented further munching. This time I had something to do while plucking at bunnycrab meat.

  My level had increased again and another skill awaited along with the usual fixed stat increases. My survival prospects were improving somewhat, especially if skills kept coming along at a steady pace then I’d be rocking quite an arsenal soon enough. Even so, thoughts of the future were accompanied by a certain bleakness, further augmented by the passive anxiety which refused to stay away for too long at a time. My emotional rollercoaster appeared to be looping over and over. As usual, distraction proved an adequate refuge from doom-thinking.

  I needed a proper ranged attack of some sort. The melee shit hadn’t worked out and the telekinetics were underwhelming. The ‘inventory tag’ hadn’t quite landed either, probably because it had nothing to do with swords. With the second try I’d been overthinking it.

  Fortunately, all thoughts of risk profiles and betting strategies had long since left my mind, replaced by a need - to stay the fuck out of melee range. I decided to play it straight, see what happened. There was always the next skill if this didn’t work out. My annoyances with the System had somewhat subsided, the dude did put in work to my benefit.

  “Ranged”

  It worked. Thank the System, it worked.

  [Launch]

  “Launch a sword you control in the direction that the point is facing, twice as hard as you can throw it. Range: 3 meters. Cost: 5 energy.”

  The wording was all over the place, nothing new there. The underlying mechanics seemed clear enough though, which made this a functional ranged attack. Just to be safe, I planned to refrain from targeting anything further than three meters away. Spatial awareness thereof had been burned into my mind thanks to the control skill. A blink of optimism even graced my thoughts. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this survival crap.

  Even if this turned out to be the bluest apocalypse I could never have imagined.