Excessive beauty really is a curse.
Annabell was certain of it. She lay sprawled on her bed like an artistic rendition of youthful ennui, happily kicking her legs in the air as she scrolled through her phone. Having dipped a toe into the tide pool of popularity, she’d discovered it was lukewarm and slightly murky, like a public hot tub on a Sunday afternoon.
She didn’t hate it, but her comfort zone, as she saw it, was delightfully compact. It consisted of a small, cozy space mostly populated by herself, an excessive number of pillows, and Wallace.
Meanwhile, those weirdos outside had tried to follow her home, presumably intent on basking in her glory like moths orbiting a particularly disinterested lamp. Maybe they were still down there, pounding at the doors to the apartment complex, trying to get in. She hadn’t cared to check.
“What do you think, Wallace?” Annabell began through a mouthful of chips, sending a fine spray of crumbs onto his perpetually calm face. “Should I become an influencer after all? Shake the ol’ money maker a bit and finally afford those Wafu-Wafu Chibi earrings?”
She snorted at her own imagination, which gleefully presented her as a vision of grace laying it down under a golden rain of cash. The kind of rain, she noted with professional detachment, that would also buy her an unholy amount of cookies.
Another handful of chips vanished into the abyss of her mouth as she continued scrolling, pausing only when her feed took a dramatic, and rather sinister, turn.
“Look at this, Wallace,” Annabell said, sputtering crumbs anew as she brandished her phone at him like it was a sacred text. Bold headlines screamed for attention: “THE WORLD IS ENDING!” “THE END TIME IS NIGH!” and “PEOPLE GOING CRAZY!”
“What do you think?” she mused, flopping onto her back with all the grace of a fainting goat. “Did someone forget to separate their plastics from their organic trash again? Or maybe some mega-famous movie star kicked the bucket ahead of schedule? Honestly, if it’s just another apocalypse, I’m not even sure it’s worth getting up for.”
She tipped the chip bag over her open mouth, letting the last salty fragments tumble in, before crunching thoughtfully. The muffled chaos of the somehow still-ongoing party outside trickled in through her window, a cacophony of no-longer-so-pressing shouting, car alarms, and, inexplicably, what sounded like a kazoo being played with murderous intent.
“Maybe the world will end if they keep carrying on like that…” she huffed, swallowing her salty treats like a punctuation mark. She rolled onto her side, looking towards the window with a thoughtful expression. A full three steps would have brought her over to it, allowing her to see what was going on outside. But as of that moment, those three steps might as well have been a mile.
So, Annabell just gave a shrug. “Then again, as long as there are cookies left, who really cares?” she yawned. “Oh, and WiFi. Can’t forget WiFi. A girl has to have—”
The ding-dong of her doorbell sliced through Annabell's daydreaming. She sat upright, and a second later, a grin spread across her face as she swung her legs off the bed.
A visitor could mean only one of two things, and debt collectors had never been morning people. That left her with only one logical conclusion.
“My body pillow!” she exclaimed, eagerly padding towards the door.
“Wallace, get my wallet!” she called over her shoulder, though the plushie, unsurprisingly, did not stir. Her socked feet skidded on the hallway floor as she made a beeline through the jungle of unopened parcels.
She flung the door open with the gusto of a queen greeting her adoring subjects, but the smile froze on her face.
The figure on her doorstep was decidedly not the cheerful, harried mailman she’d been expecting.
No, the man standing there looked like he'd lost a fight with a hedge, and the hedge had used dirty tactics. His clothes were wrinkled and smeared with something unidentifiable but definitely unpleasant. His fingers dripped with blood that had clearly seen better arteries, and his jaw hung slack, emitting a wet, gurgling sound that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
But it was the eyes that clinched it. Cloudy, unfocused, and devoid of life, they fixed on her with the unerring certainty of someone who hadn’t had a thought since last week.
Annabell’s stomach dropped. The signs were unmistakable.
“A debt collector,” she whispered under her breath.
Pivoting on the spot, Annabell bolted back inside her apartment with a loud yell, "Wallace, evasive manoeuvre!"
Behind her, the ragged man shuffled forward, a shamble of ill intent and questionable hygiene. Unfortunately for him—and fortunately for Annabell—his first unsteady step sent him careening straight into the tower.
Ah yes, the tower. Months of unchecked online shopping had manifested in the form of an architectural marvel: a teetering column of parcels, balanced precariously against the wall and defying gravity through sheer force of optimism. Now, like all great monuments of human hubris, it came crashing down.
Boxes of every size and weight rained down with the vengeful wrath of express shipping. A particularly dense package, containing a set of “artisan concrete coasters” (because Annabell had briefly convinced herself she was sophisticated), struck the man squarely on the head.
He collapsed under the avalanche of consumer goods, disappearing beneath a tide of bubble wrap and regret.
“No!” Annabell cried, clutching her chest. “My treasures!”
The apocalypse’s second attempt at claiming her, Annabell returned to sender.
***
High above the city streets, atop a building the locals grandly referred to as a "scraper-of-skies" (though it barely grazed the undercarriage of low-flying pigeons), two figures were having what could generously be described as a disagreement.
"I'm telling you, Ix," said the first, in the kind of flat monotone that suggested they had endured this particular argument more times than was medically advisable, "the readings are negative. If there were any survivors, they’d have been prompted to register as Delvers by now. There are none left. Everyone who made it through the initialization has either gone below or gone splat."
"Then how do you explain the dungeon creature that just got killed, Iv?" huffed the second figure, in a tone best categorized as trying to match your exasperation, but mostly coming off as smug.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Iv crossed their arms.
"It would only take a second to check it out," Ix pushed on in a more neutral tone, wisely avoiding a smack across their head.
Iv sighed. Not just any sigh—this was a deep, put-upon, morally exhausted sigh, the kind that indicated the speaker had long since resigned themselves to the tragic reality that they would, in fact, have to explain this again.
"And you checking it out would be more accurate than the System’s readings how exactly?” Iv asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, what are the odds that some native has managed to perfectly mimic the biological readings of an undead? They would literally have to live in a waste dump, eat nothing but garbage, and barely shower.” They paused, then added, “And I mean barely shower, not one of those 'I rinse off and call it a day' types. No, I mean full-on 'My presence is a legally classified biohazard' levels of hygiene neglect.”
Ix opened their mouth, but Iv was already shaking their head.
“I’m telling you, it would take hundred-thousands of seconds to investigate every weird reading we’ve gotten about this disappointing world. And if we delay, people will realize this place stinks worse than an unventilated goblin nest. We need to sell it before it’s properly graded, and I know just the place for it. So, come on. Let’s go."
***
Annabell was in what she liked to think of as "a bit of a pickle." It wasn’t often you found yourself wondering: If you accidentally crush someone with a tower of parcels and there’s no evidence left behind, did you really crush anyone at all?
Not long after the debt collector had been spectacularly squashed, his body had... well, vanished. One moment he was there, a soggy heap of bones and questionable hygiene, and the next—poof. In his place, there were only a single coin and some teeth scattered on the floor.
She hadn’t touched them. Not yet, anyway. She wasn’t entirely sure if they were cursed, radioactive, or just rude.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to the ceiling—or more accurately, to the mess of floating text boxes hovering above her head. The latest of which read:
Achievement Unlocked!
Debt Collector (sort off) Beater: Congratulations on your first confirmed defeat of an adversary. That counts, right? +10 XP
Loot Acquired:
- 1 Copper Coin
- 3 Zombie Teeth (Condition: Questionable)
"Hey, Wallace," Annabell said, her tone as casual as someone commenting on a particularly drab wallpaper, "you know how you always say pretty girls aren’t allowed to act crazy until they’ve bagged a rich man? Well, shouldn’t these hallucinations have stopped by now? Or at least come with a glass of champagne?"
She raised a hand and poked one of the hovering boxes. It flickered, turned an alarming shade of red, and displayed a curt message:
Error. Allotted time exceeded. Registration as Delver is no longer available.
Below it, two new options blinked into existence, their unhelpful glow radiating a distinctly bureaucratic energy:
- Contact Local Dungeon Master.
2. Roll for a Different Class.
"Dungeon Master?" Annabell mused, tapping her chin with a contemplative finger. "You don’t think it’s going to be something naughty, do you, Wallace? Leather, whips, you know, getting tied up by dreamy, mysterious hot guys who—"
She pressed the option before she’d finished the sentence, because priorities.
Nothing happened.
She frowned and pressed it again. And again. The screen flickered stubbornly but refused to deliver so much as a dreamy sigh.
"Typical," she muttered. "Why are the dreamy guys always so evasive?"
The answer came swiftly, in the form of another glowing box.
Error: Dreamy Dungeon Masters are not currently available in your region.
"Oh, of course they aren’t," Annabell groaned, throwing her hands in the air. "Probably too busy being all brooding and mysterious somewhere glamorous, like a cafe." She paused, glaring at the text. "Or outdoors, in some stupid park."
Standing there, another message appeared:
Masterless Dungeon detected. Contact unavailable.
(Unless you seek purchase of aforementioned dungeon. Then contact Ix&. Nexus employees can and will be ignored.)
Annabell stared at the cryptically casual message, her brow furrowing. It wasn’t every day you received a pop-up that sounded equal parts shady business deal and intergalactic spam email.
“Well,” she said, shrugging in that time-honored tradition of people who press buttons before considering the consequences, “guess it’s this one, then?”
Without further ado, she jabbed the remaining option: Roll for Class.
Another message appeared, alongside a loading bar:
We Appreciate Your Compliance (And Your Generous Surrender of All Consumer Rights, Whether Real or Imagined).
Now Commencing: Stat Aggregation, Experience Reconciliation, and Wheel Stacking in Accordance With Regulations 42b Through 73? (Subsection C, Paragraph “Oops”).
Please remain exactly where you are. Movement may result in quantum entanglement, unexpected side quests, or worse — paperwork.
Do try not to panic. That’s a different menu.
Seeing that hovering, ominous text, Annabell couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a mistake. But buttons were meant to be pressed, right? Everyone knew that. They practically begged for it. Especially ones with phrases like “Order now!” or “Act fast!” in bright, enticing colors.
She glanced at Wallace. “This won’t, like, send me to school, will it? It’s not that kind of ‘class,’ is it? Because we both know I wouldn’t last a day. Too much standing. Or sitting. Or effort in general.”
Calculations Complete. Initializing Roll…
Her musings trailed off as the air shimmered, and with a faint pop, a gigantic roulette wheel materialized before her, glowing with more colors than seemed strictly necessary. It spun with a satisfying whirrrrr, accompanied by a jaunty little jingle that sounded like it belonged to an overly enthusiastic game show host.
Annabell gasped, her eyes wide and glittering. “Ooh, shiny!” she said, any thoughts of higher-learning forgotten. “Maybe it’ll land on something nice! Like… Upper Class! Or Upper-Middle Class! I don’t ask for much. Just no Working Class, please. My delicate constitution wasn’t built for labor.”
The wheel began to slow, its segments coming into view. For a moment, her heart leapt—there it was! “Gr... Gre—” Great Rich Lady, it had to be! It was practically destiny!
Then the wheel clicked to a halt.
GREMLIN.
There was a cheerful fanfare, complete with holographic fireworks and a festive little trumpet, the sort of sound one might expect after winning a rigged carnival game. It had the distinct air of someone trying very hard to convince her that this was, in fact, a good thing.
Annabell stared. She blinked once. Twice. Then leaned forward to squint at the glowing letters as if they might change under sufficient scrutiny.
"Gremlin?" she said, her voice as flat as a steamrolled pancake. “And what the heckity is that supposed to mean?”
Wallace, ever helpful, just stared blankly ahead. This, roughly translated, meant: You’re on your own with this one, pal.
Annabell threw her arms in the air. “Great! Just great! I was hoping for diamonds and champagne, and instead I get… Gremlin. What am I even supposed to do with this? Scam people? Hoard shinies? Live in an attic and hiss at passersby? Wallace, bring me my glitter pens. I’m writing a complaint!”
As if in direct, slightly smug response, a new text box materialized:
Class: Gremlin
New Skill Unlocked: Shiny Acquisition (Chaotic)
New Skill Unlocked: Emergency Escape (Cartwheel Variant)
Passive Ability: Questionable Logic (+1 range to chaos rolls, -1 to sanity checks)
Passive Ability: A Child’s Palate (Random boons from junk food, random banes from anything suspiciously green)
Social Bonus: Mischief Approved (+10 to confusing others)
Core Stats (Chaotic)
Might: 3 (2-4)
Dexterity: 3 (2-4)
Endurance: 2 (1-2)
Intellect: 3 (1-5)*
Charisma: 2 (2-3)
* (A range suggesting that, at any given moment, Annabel was either profoundly insightful or had the mental acuity of an overexcited goldfish.)
Active Gremlin Factor: Wild Card! (Chaos rolls on stat checks.)
Annabel squinted at the screen, slowly processing what she was looking at.
Then, very carefully, she muttered: "…I am both insulted and intrigued. Fair play, mysterious screen hovering before my eyes. Fair play."