One thing you get really good at as a Survivor is assessing pain. How much can you tolerate? How much more can you handle?

That’s really the crux of it. How much more shit can you shovel onto your tired, aching body before it gives out? Associated skills like Pain-Oriented Decision-Making develop soon after: Would you rather take on some more pain or die a painful, grisly death?

I should put that on my resume.

Despite my dearest wishes, a painful, grisly death had obviously been denied me. I twisted my face in a frown. I guess that means it’s time for more pain. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I was tired. And my body hurt. But that’s another thing Survivors pick up quick.

The knowledge that denying reality doesn’t make it go away.

I swallowed. I opened my eyes. Perfect…

My swaying body hung at the end of a long rope of white-grey spidersilk as thick around as my wrist. The rope ended somewhere between my shoulder blades, so I hung at an angle, canted slightly forward. The floor was at least fifteen feet below, beneath my dangling legs, which had been wrapped up tight in the same sticky cord. In fact, my entire body — ankles to shoulders — had been bound.

I imagined the gigantic arachnid, silken rope pulsing out of its body, spinning me around and around as it mummified me. Yeah… Glad I was unconscious for that. There was a red stain along the right side of my cocoon, but I imagined that the improvised bandage had stopped the bleeding.

Having taken stock of myself, I craned my neck to look around. Yeah… I thought. Seems about right.

If someone had forced me to interior decorate the lair of a giant, man-eating spider, I probably would have gone for this sort of aesthetic. No light sources, of course. Gloomy. Lots of draping cobwebs. I craned my neck to look around. All they were missing were a couple of throw pillows. You know, to really tie the place together.

And hanging all around me, like pods from a terrifying death tree, were other white-wrapped figures. It was hard to make out details, even with my strangely-sharp, greyscale vision, but most seemed dwarf-sized, shorter than me and stockier. I could hardly tell from their features, however, because their exposed faces were little more than husks. Wisps of beard still clung to a few chins, sunken cheeks and eye sockets sucked into their skulls. Their skin was wrinkled, ashen and pale like the ones I’d encountered, but with a waxy sheen. Each of these husks had two giant puncture marks in one side, angled up under their ribs, the kind of puncture marks that made my chest tingle and itch as I remembered my captor.

I swallowed and felt my stomach twitch somewhere beneath the webbing.

Only one other hanging figure seemed alive, and that was the one nearest me. From the body’s height, I knew it wasn’t one of the dwarves, and common sense — as well as the womanly curves that the silken wrap did nothing to hide — told me it was the woman I’d saved.

Or who had saved me.

If I could have, I would have shrugged. Symbiotic saving, I thought. Though it looked like our escape had been short lived.

Her head hung low, her chin to her rounded chest, with dark hair obscuring her face. I could hear her breath, shallow and quiet in the stillness. One pointed ear parted the cascading locks. It made me wonder what kind of race this woman was. Was she an elf, like me? Did elves have green skin, here? I didn’t, but maybe there were other kinds? Where she was from? Did she have a family?

I shook my head to escape the barrage of questions. Through the exhaustion and pain that squeezed my body in their dual vice grip, I had to think. I wasn’t dead. And now that I was relatively less-exhausted, relatively less-terrified and in relatively less-agony, I fell back into old habits. Make fun of shit and try not to die. Make short term goals and then survive long enough to make longer term ones.

Luckily or unluckily, I was used to exhaustion. I was used to pain. Back on Earth, it was always there. For survivors, it’s a given. You’re getting less sleep than you need. Muscles stretched to their limits, and then some. Rest days? A distant memory. Relaxation? Only if you want to die. The only novel experience here was waking up with my arms and legs pinned to my body with nothing to do but stare into the gloom and spin slightly as I tilted and tried to look around. It was like a dark bondage fantasy taken way too far. And that sort of 50 Shades fuckery was never really my style.

Alright, Colin, I thought. What are your assets?

It was like whatever twisted framework of reality governed this universe was listening, waiting for just the right time to jump-scare me. I choked and grunted with surprise as my vision was suddenly filled by another notification. This one, though, was long enough to drop off the bottom of my vision. It began to scroll, slowly, as I read.

And, for the first time, the words were oddly recognizable.

Jondalar — Level 2 Martial

Traits

Race: Half-Elf

Height: 6’2”

Weight: 175 lbs

Eye Color: Blue

Hair Color: White

Repute: 0

Statistics

HP: 25

Stamina: 95%

Mana: 15

Movement Speed: Above Average

Armor Class: +0 (Cloth Pants)

Active Effects: Poisoned (Mild)

Attributes

Strength: 13

Constitution: 13

Dexterity: 13

Intelligence: 10

Wisdom: 10

Charisma: 7

Luck: 10

Unassigned Attribute Points: 18

Skills

Combat > Strength > Polearms (Lvl. 5): You have moderate skill when it comes to wielding polearms. (This includes spears, quarterstaffs and improvised, pole-based weaponry.)

Non-Combat > Wisdom > Tracking (Lvl. 5): You have moderate skill when it comes to finding things that don’t want to be found, tracing things that don’t want to be traced.

Abilities

Linguist: You have an ear for language and a gift for piecing together dialect. If you hear or read a language every day for three days, you will gain the ability to speak, read and write the language with conversational fluency. If you hear, read and speak a language every day for thirty days, you will gain the ability to speak, read and write the language with native fluency.

Arcane Framework: You have a deep understanding of the nature of reality. Thus, you better know how to bend it. Provided you have enough Mana, you can cast spells that you don’t know. You have a 25% chance for success with spells you’ve never seen cast before, and a 50% chance of success with spells you’ve seen cast before. On a success, a new spell is added to your Spells list. On a failure, there is an [unknown] chance that something unexpected will happen.

Feats

Incredible Focus: Once per day, you can slow time to ¼ speed for up to 3 seconds.

Achievements

Smoke ‘Em If You’ve Got ‘Em: +100% Stamina regeneration speed. +100% HP regeneration speed.

Blessings

Fleet of Foot (Hermes): You cannot be outrun.

Eldritch Hunter: You have a 100% bonus to your chance of making a critical strike against a creature that is outside of its native plane of existence.

Marks

Mark of the Survivor: Once per respawn, the first time you drop to 0 Hit Points you will instead regenerate 1 hit point.

Mark of the Traveler (Hermes): You have a 50% bonus to experience points gained in areas that are strange to you.

Relationships

Hermes: Liked

????: Hated

????: Uncertain

Languages

Elvish

Common (Southern)

Dwarvish

Spells

None

I sniffed as the notification stopped scrolling and didn’t disappear.

I read it again, trying to digest the fact that I had a… A what? A character sheet?

Then, I sighed. “You have to remember what this place is. It’s a game, Colin.” My voice was low, similar to my own but not quite the same. There was a richness to it, a depth and a rhythm that felt alien. But even more alien than my voice was my name. It felt strange on my tongue, like it didn’t belong to me. I frowned, then murmured, “Jondalar…”

The word, which should have been alien, clicked in the back of my mind: normal and familiar, like I’d been responding to it all my life. I swallowed as reality punched me in the face. This was me, now.

A new world. A new life. A new name. And I would have to adapt to it. To survive.

“Alright,” I muttered, and my mind began to race. I had no idea when the spider would be back, but when it returned I needed to be ready.

First things first, I read my sheet again, section by section. Traits seemed relatively straightforward: height, weight, race… I frowned as I reread ‘Half-Elf.’ Then I shook my head as I realized what had happened. I suppose I had told Hermes ‘elf-adjacent.’ I also paused on my hair color. White? Really? I wanted to growl at the god, but instead I shook my head and pushed it from my mind.

I did tell him to make me stupidly good-looking, I thought. Maybe white hair is all the rage these days. But if I got to a mirror and found out that I was just some wrinkly old man with long white hair… I was going to be pissed.

Statistics was the next block, and it also seemed fairly direct. I assumed HP stood for Hit Points, and as weird as it was to imagine that I had hit points it also jived with the whole ‘gamified world’ mood. My only problem as I read through my stats was the fact that I had no frame of reference. Was 25 hit points high? Was it low? Was it even my maximum? I almost wished it was a percentage, like my Stamina, but at the same time I had no idea what Stamina represented. Was it how good I was at cardio?

I growled, frustrated, and pushed the questions aside. Right now I needed to find assets, not distracting quandaries. I kept reading.

Mana… That was magic, wasn’t it? Only…

With a flick of my eyes, I managed to direct my view back down to the bottom of my sheet. I felt a slight jump of pride in my chest, like I was starting to get the hang of this. The excitement dulled, though, as my memory was confirmed. “No spells,” I muttered. “Figures.”

I moved on.

Armor Class and Active Effects I ignored, since there was nothing I could do about them currently. Then, I was at the first block where I felt like I might have some control, and I felt a growing excitement in the pit of my stomach.

Attributes… I thought, and read through them again. It looked like 10 was the baseline, and the changes that the god Hermes had promised had been applied. I scowled when I saw Charisma 7, but I shook my head.

“It’s a fair trade off for all those other bonuses,” I muttered.

Once again, though, I’d been thrown in the deep end. I had no idea what an Attribute level 10 actually meant. Was it good? Bad? Average? I tried to recall any roleplaying or videogames I’d played where you customized your character’s statistics, but nothing came to mind.

Kyle had been the gamer. Not me. I grunted, shoving away the guilt that clawed at my gut.

Cut the crap, Jondalar. I grimaced, the new name still jarring my thoughts but slotting into place in my mind. That fucking spider could be back any minute, and you’ll be here debating obscure game mechanics. That’s not how you get out of this.

My inner Survivor was right. I was spinning out, overwhelmed. I had to be fast, and I had to be decisive.

I went with the assumption that 10 was an average level in any given attribute. If that was the case, then I wanted to be as above average as possible in all traits relevant to keeping me alive. I felt like I had a lot of points to spend, but I remembered the notification I’d received during my chaotic arrival.

Only 4 Attribute Points for reaching Level 2, I thought. Which means that I’ve got to be careful how I spend this first chunk, since it will only be minor adjustments from here. I still wasn’t sure how I’d gotten to Level 2, nor was I sure what Level 2 meant, but at this point meaning was irrelevant.

What was relevant were the seven attributes and the 18 points I was about to spend improving them.

“What to choose? What to choose?” I muttered. So many choices… Too many choices.

But my inner Survivor clamped down. Enough bullshitting, he ordered. Strength is good. Strength means you hit things harder. Dexterity is good. Probably means you can dodge things better. Luck is good. It probably means that bad shit is less likely to happen. And so far your luck has been pretty much the worst.

Before I could really think about it, a notification popped up. It was small, but half-covered the character sheet that filled my vision.

You have allocated 4 Attribute Points to Strength. You have 14 Attribute Points remaining.

Are you sure you’d like to proceed?

Yes/No

“Um… Yes?” My voice was uncertain, but the notification blinked away and I saw that my Attributes block had updated.

I nodded. Okay. I could do this.

You have allocated 4 Attribute Points to Dexterity. You have 10 Attribute Points Remaining.

Are you sure you’d like to proceed?

Yes/No

“Yes,” I muttered.

It flashed away, but was followed by another.

You have allocated 4 Attribute Points to Luck. You have 6 Attribute Points Remaining.

Are you sure you’d like to proceed?

Yes/No

Yes, yes… I thought, but before I could open my mouth to agree the notification disappeared.

Oh… I guess that made sense. I wondered if that meant I could control all the notifications with just my thoughts. That would have been nice to know.

I scowled as I considered my remaining 6 points.

My inner Survivor piped up. Let’s be honest, it told me bluntly. You’re here because you fucked up. You weren’t fast enough, and that mutant sliced you up good.

I grimaced, chewing my lip. He was right.

You have allocated 3 Attribute Points to Dexterity. You have 3 Attribute Points Remaining.

Are you sure you’d like to proceed?

Yes/No

I have a thing for round, even numbers, so bringing my Dexterity up to a 20 was oddly satisfying. But what to do with the remaining 3?

My eyes strayed down the list, but Survivor stopped me. Don’t even look at Charisma, man. It sucks to have an Attribute so low, but right now you’ve got to devote all your energy to getting out of this alive.

I wanted to whine and complain. I hadn’t even thought about social or interpersonal skills for more than a year, but for some reason seeing a literal statistic that declared my inadequacy rankled me. But I knew that my instincts were right.

I blew out a breath. Alright, then, I thought.

You have allocated 3 Attribute Points to Luck. You have 0 Attribute Points Remaining.

Are you sure you’d like to proceed?

Yes/No

“Yeah,” I muttered.

I had no idea what ‘Luck’ meant as a real life character trait, but it seemed like it could be extremely useful. And more applicable to survival than even Strength or Dexterity. Not all problems can be solved by hitting them or dodging around them.

I surveyed my new Attributes block.

Attributes

Strength: 17

Constitution: 13

Dexterity: 20

Intelligence: 10

Wisdom: 10

Charisma: 7

Luck: 17

Unassigned Attribute Points: 0

I nodded to myself and was about to scroll down when I froze.

My ears flicked and I shivered at the strange sensation. But they had caught something, a sound. It was an echo, a strange jingle-jangle-swish. Coming nearer and nearer. Metal scraping along rock, and the sound of pounding footsteps.

I hesitated, then tried to use my thoughts to stow my character sheet. My vision instantly cleared.

The sound grew closer.

My eyes searched the ground level, looking for the origin of the noise. As my gaze pierced the shadows, skimming over tangles of fallen web and frighteningly empty cocoons, I saw a round, gaping hole. It looked like the opening to a huge, rough-edged sewer pipe that emerged several feet above the uneven floor.

Then, springing athletically from the mouth of the tunnel was a squat, broad figure. It wore a ragged cloak, but as the dark fabric spun about its body I caught a glimpse of glinting silver and the shape of a big, heavy something held in both hands. The jingling I’d heard was from the chainmail tunic that swayed down to the figure’s knees.

I hesitated only an instant. The figure was obviously one of the pale-skinned dwarves. But while my experience with these dwarves was overwhelmingly negative, what other choice did I have? Did I want to hang around here until the gigantic spider came back and sucked my insides out through my ribcage?

I groaned inwardly at my unintentional hang around pun, retched at the unwelcome image then opened my mouth to shout for help. Maybe my luck — or Luck — was already changing?

Then, with the horrifying click-click-click of Satan’s typewriter, a gigantic, hairy, eight-legged monstrosity unfolded itself from the tunnel entrance launched itself at the dwarf.

Or maybe not.