Sometimes, the universe just won’t give me a break.

  I should explain. My name is Finnegan, but everyone calls me Finn. I’m a 23-year-old college student — or I was a college student — who was doing well in my classes, and my life was on track to a cushy government job. Heck, I’d get up, look myself in the mirror, and think Finn, you are a sexy beast!

  Everything was awesome in my life until… my dad died.

  My mom played the grief avoidance game by spending long hours at work, so she wasn’t home often. And since I was still living at home to save money while going to college, I had to pick up the slack. My kid brother Sean was a high schooler, and I refused to put that stress on him. I had to put all my dreams, my grief, and my plans on the back burner so he could have the stability to live a normal life.

  And I resented him for it. Every God-damned day.

  I made sure he got to school on time. Drove him to see his friends and play those stupid games with the dice or PlayStation. I cooked dinner and cleaned the house. Eventually I returned to college to find that I didn’t find my political science program exciting anymore.

  That was my life. My turned-to-shit life that I was trying to get back on track. The universe wasn’t done with me yet, though. Nope. It just had to up and remove me from everything I knew and loved. Burgers. IPAs. My dad’s classic music collection from the late 90s and early 2000s. What I still had of my family.

  I don’t know how or when it happened. I’m pretty sure I didn’t die or anything. The last thing I remembered was another trip to visit Dad’s grave with Sean. Just another Thursday.

  But when I opened my eyes, it wasn’t the ceiling of my bedroom above me. There was a fierce, yet familiar, throbbing in my head that would have been better if it had been the ceiling. Must have drunk too much the night before and ended up sleeping outside. It was plausible; I’d slept outside a few times. One time, I woke up in the backyard of a Vietnamese family in Northeast Park, north of the University of Minnesota.

  So it didn’t come as a surprise when I was looking at clouds drifting across the bluest sky I’d seen in years. Disappointed in myself, yes, but not surprised. What confused me was the overwhelming male British voice in my head, booming out in a tired and rather irritated tone.

  ‘You wake up in a forest meadow. The sun is shining, and the air is so fresh it feels like you were the first to breathe it. Around you, birds chirp with excitement; the arboreal cacophony is so much more lively than anything you have ever heard. Hmmm. You are not what I expected. What is your name… adventurer?’

  Sitting up, I blinked in confusion. My eyes watered. “What? Where am I?”

  ‘You are in a forest meadow,’ replied the voice.

  “What the heck? How did I get here?” I looked around, trying to figure out who was talking to me. The quick movement hurt my head, and I let out a groan. I had the odd sensation of being too warm from the bright sun on my front while my back was too cool where the wet grass had soaked my clothing.

  ‘You woke up here. Pay attention,’ it snapped at me.

  The voice sounded even more irritated, and I wasn’t entirely sure why. There was no one nearby, so I stood carefully and glanced around the open space. The surrounding trees ringing the expanse of wildflowers and tall grass didn’t hide anyone. I was alone, and not in a backyard. And that worried me, and I could feel my heartbeat pounding faster, which did not improve my headache.

  The meadow looked and smelled beautiful, in contrast to how I felt, with butterflies flitting from flower to flower. There was an old gray log a few feet away. It didn’t make any sense to me. There should have been the sounds of motor vehicles and the smell of the city, yet there was nothing but clean air and the sounds of nature. I scratched my short black hair, glaring around me. “Where are you hiding?” I muttered aloud.

  ‘I’m not. Where I am doesn’t matter. I am the Voice, speaking within your mind, such as it is.’

  The voice was plainly in my head, yet seemed to come from multiple directions. Like I was hearing it with my ears. Did someone put a chip in my brain? Or maybe I’d gone crazy, like old Mrs. Jensen, hearing voices and wandering off into the wilderness. I shivered at the thought.

  “What? Who you are and where I am matters a lot! I don’t have any clue about any of this. How did I get here, and how do I get back to Minneapolis? You know, somewhere I can get a coffee? Or an order of chili cheese fries and a beer?” What I really needed was water or tea, and something non-greasy. But my stomach grumbled at the thought of the fries at the off-campus pub, Jamie’s. Cheap, tasty, and God only knew how far away.

  ‘Listen. You’re in a meadow. The rest of it doesn’t matter now. Just shut up and listen.’

  Christ, this Voice was a jerk! “Okay, asshole, what does matter? What do you need from me?” I spun around automatically, following the Voice despite knowing it was in my head and not amongst the grasses and flowers. I put my arms out to steady myself as I stopped turning. How much did I drink last night?

  I got the feeling that the Voice was taking a moment, like it had pinched the bridge of its nose, if it even had one. It let out a long sigh. ‘Hughhhh. Why in the name of everything holy — how about we try this again? And I’ll speak slower this time, okay? What… is… your… name?’

  “Why the fu—!” I started, but stopped myself. “Fine. It’s Finneg—you know what, just call me Finn.” I said, fed up with the attitude I was getting. “Is that all you needed from me? Can I go home now?” I asked softly.

  That was when the Voice decided to be overly cheerful. ‘Welcome, Finn. Welcome and good job remembering your name! Now that we have that out of the way, please choose a class. Your choices are: Assassin, Knight, Mage, Fighter, Thief, and Necromancer.’

  What the hell was going on? All of this was surreal, yet I knew it wasn’t a dream. The ground felt real. The stubble on my face itched, and the goddamn sun was too bright. Large, overly loud bees buzzed about. This wasn’t a dream. Taking deep breaths to slow my racing heart, I tried to think. Those “classes” sounded like something from a game, like the ones Sean played with his friends. What type of character did the little nerd play in those stupid games? I couldn’t remember, and that didn’t help my state of mind.

  Christ, what was it? He always said he didn’t like how clunky fighters were, and he preferred to keep his distance. And using armor was like playing on easy mode, or was it playing with magic that was easy mode? Why the hell can’t I remember? I needed to recall what he had said. My heart pounded in my chest and sounded like it was in my head. It hurt to think, and I wanted to scream. But I needed to stop; to acknowledge the reality of what was going on. Slow down and take deep breaths. I mentally thanked my grief counselor for teaching me this, even though I had told him where to stick it and quit therapy.

  With the calm of radical acceptance, I thought back to one of the times he was going on and on about some video game while I was making dinner for the two of us. Mom had to work late. Again. Oh God, I’ve got to get home! Without me, he’s all alone.

  Fighting my rising panic, I fought to focus on the present. I couldn’t figure out how to get home if I didn’t know where I was or how to navigate back to where I belonged. I could almost hear the calm sound of the therapist’s encouragement in my mind. Focus, Finn, what was Sean talking about?

  He talked about how magic was overpowered. Oh shit, that’s it! Sean had enjoyed playing characters with magic, which was the easy mode one! And only one choice sounded like magic. “Mage. I pick Mage if I have to pick anything.”

  ‘Oh, thank the gods. Congratulations, Finn, you are a Mage. Let’s roll your stats.’

  There was a pause as the Voice did something, and I thought I heard actual dice hitting a hard surface. I swayed a little on my feet, wishing I had a comfortable chair, a glass of ice-cold water, and the shade of an enormous umbrella. Then I noticed my clothes.

  I was wearing a thick, woven poncho dyed reddish-maroon, with a pouch in the front. Fortunately, I was wearing jeans and not tights. My shoes were gone, replaced with boots that laced up. Calf-high boots. Weird, but not as weird as the backpack I had.

  Trying to get a better look at it, I shrugged out of the straps and held the backpack in front of me. Made of well-stitched leather, it had a small sheath hanging below the clasp of the outermost pocket. The small knife secured in it looked like it was made for skinning animals, so likely not a suitable weapon.

  Were there any dangerous creatures in the surrounding woods? Magic sounded great and all, but even a pointy stick would go a long way toward making me feel more comfortable. What were those ugly things with teeth in the movie Sean tried to get me to watch? Goblins? I looked around the tall grass for a stick, anything that could work, yet I didn’t get too far before the Voice spoke again.

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  ‘Okay, Finn. Your stats are: strength 15, stamina 12, endurance 13, dexterity 20, intelligence 20, wisdom 20, charisma 15. Do you have questions or wish to use a one-time re-roll?’

  Damn right I had questions! That re-roll didn’t sound safe. What if I rolled all 5’s? I’d be worse off! No, this was a lot, and I didn’t know whether a 20 was good enough or if that 12 in stamina had anything to do with how long I could… I’d better just ask. Sean was always talking about this stuff, and I pretended to listen. I should have paid more attention.

  My jaw clenched. I was having a hard time keeping myself cordial. “Could you… please explain these stats to me? I’m not familiar with this stuff.”

  ‘Of course, Finn the Mage. Though why you wouldn’t already know is beyond me. Really, are you telling me you didn’t play any games on Earth? At all? I mean… no, when life gives you lemons, you add a lot of sugar, right?’ There was a pause, and the voice came back, sounding so saccharin it made my teeth itch. ‘The strength stat deals with how strong you are.’

  Great, now this bastard is talking to me like I’m a toddler. I may have been unsteady on my feet and in my thoughts, but really?

  ‘Hmm. You lucked out—most Mages do not have this much strength. As it has little to do with the primary skill set of a Mage, most opt to roll the excess points over the minimum needed into intelligence or wisdom,’ it stated, surprised.

  My mind whirled with the implications. If I were stronger than I needed to be, then I couldn’t help but wonder what I could actually do with that. “What’s the regular strength for a human? And how do I get stronger?”

  ‘A human’s regular strength is about 8. You get stronger by defeating monsters and completing quests.’ It took this moment to take on the tone that single adults take with children when they were an only child themselves, with zero experience with kids at all. Or some benign racist with someone who looks foreign. ‘Quests are like jobs that you’ll have to get from quest boards or sometimes by talking to people in taverns. Would you like to use your one-time transfer to move the extra strength points into another stat?’

  Eight. I was almost twice as strong as a regular human. That could be very handy if no one expected it. “No, I think I’ll keep the points there,” I said thoughtfully, deliberately ignoring the voice’s condescending tone. “What do quests involve? Are they like temp jobs? Or flipping burgers?”

  ‘Some quests are like that. For someone of your nominal — and I use this term lightly — talents, low-level labor is a good choice for you. BUT, many quests involve killing monsters or fighting bandits. Feel free to get yourself killed! It will help me sleep easier at night,’ answered the Voice. It sounded almost relieved at the idea of my impending death. One less thing to deal with.

  Personally, I wasn’t surprised at the idea that things here would and could kill me. That was a given, with the way things were going. I didn’t like the sound of fighting, however, as I never even got into martial arts. I’d circle back to this later once I had more information. “What about that 12 in stamina? Is that good for running and lifting?” I asked.

  ‘Mostly. But it also includes sustained mental effort as well. Stamina is an important stat for both magic and non-magic users. Stamina is not to be confused with endurance, which deals with your health points and environmental resistances, among other things,’ it said, dropping the dickishness for a moment. Maybe I had asked the right question.

  Oh god. It really hit me in that moment; I should have listened, like really listened, to my brother. I almost smacked my forehead, but easily resisted the urge. My head still hurt. This stuff sounded a little familiar and likely came from hearing the same thing repeatedly.

  ‘Dexterity affects your ability to move, your speed, and how quiet you can be. There are other abilities as well, but we’ll go over those later. Your dexterity would make you an excellent assassin or thief. It also helps you as a Mage. As it is, your spells will cast immediately.’

  “Okay, that makes sense,” I lied. If it meant the Voice didn’t talk down to me as much, I could do it. My brain was not firing on all cylinders yet, and I couldn’t worry about wrapping my head around this place or the absurdity of it. I would go with the flow. Radical acceptance.

  The log didn’t move as I sat on it; the smooth, weathered surface felt nice under my hand as the voice condescendingly droned on. Heck, just sitting felt good even if it wasn’t a comfy chair under an umbrella.

  ‘Your intelligence of 20 is a mostly decent starting point for a Mage and helps determine the size of your mana pool. Not that it reflects your actual intelligence, as small as it is,’ The bitter tone the Voice expressed had hinted at something. Something important. I had mentally noted it for future consideration, for a time when my head was clear and I could really ponder it. If the Voice hadn’t been in my head, I would have missed it droning on. ‘It also determines what and how many spells you can learn, how many can have active at a time, and what level of spells you can learn.’

  “Wait, so the stat has nothing to do with my actual intelligence?” I asked. This appeared more and more like a game. But nothing the Voice had said had explained how I got there.

  ‘Yes and no, Finn the Mage. Your intelligence stat will affect how your mind works, such as how well you remember things or how fast you learn things. The higher the stat, the more you will remember,’ the Voice lectured. As slow as my hungover brain was, I had seen a pattern: when I asked the right questions, the Voice treated me better. Though this proved short-lived, as it had gone back to an almost sneering disregard for my personhood. ‘But you will not be even a smidge smarter, though that would be an immense improvement over whatever your poor brain does now. Puzzles won’t get any easier, so you still will not look like a genius.’

  I wasn’t the smartest guy at my college, but neither was I an idiot. It would have been nice not to struggle with some of my classes. But if I could remember more… maybe I could impress the girl who had sat next to me in Intro to Political Theory. Maybe when I got back, I’d get her number… The voice rudely interrupted my thoughts of romance by continuing its lecture. I realized the voice talking down to me had pissed me off, reducing my anxiety enough for my mind to wander.

  ‘Wisdom is the other stat that affects how much mana you have. That stat determines how good certain skills are. For example, your tracking skill you gained for starting out with a wisdom stat over 10 is fairly high, so you should be able to follow most medium to large animals through a forest without too much trouble.’

  “I was good at tracking before this. Does that have any bearing on this skill?”

  ‘I would love to believe you are good at something, Finn the Mage. If your wisdom were where it should be for such a disappointment, you wouldn’t see the tracks. So at least there’s that. You’re not a total loss.’

  That would really frustrate me. And I was already struggling to keep my cool with my situation and the Voice. Its snide comments in my head didn’t help.

  ‘And finally, Finn the Mage, let’s talk about charisma. This stat affects how others view you and what you say. For example, if you were to say some nasty words to someone, as you already have to me, then with your charisma of 15, they would think you were being “edgy and cool” and likely not be offended. Your ability to persuade people depends almost entirely on this stat.’

  “Wait, can I talk my way out of a fight?” I asked, sitting up straighter. The idea that I could just avoid fighting really lowered the freaked-out feeling that I was fighting down. But why the hell would I want to be edgy?

  ‘It depends on a few factors: what you say, level disparity, charisma disparity, and level of sapience. If the person you are trying to persuade is 10 or more levels above you, then it will not work. Nor will it work if they are not sapient. And it definitely will not work if you are trying to persuade someone to do something against their nature, or it’s something they really do not want to do. This isn’t mind control.’

  “Does my charisma work on you?”

  It scoffed loudly and even chuckled derisively. ‘No. You, of all people, will never have enough charisma,’ the Voice replied while it chortled.

  “You know what, Voice, you’re kind of a dick.” I muttered, sliding off the log into the grass. Glaring at the world around me, I leaned back against my former seat. Though the grass was wet, my new position really helped me feel physically better, at least.

  ‘I expected someone with more heroic qualities, Finn the Mage. But here we are,’ it rejoined coldly.

  “Ouch. Coming here wasn’t my first choice. Granted, I never had a choice,” I snapped.

  The pregnant silence did nothing to ease my mood.

  ‘Would you like to know what spells you have?’ The Voice said. There was almost a note of apology instead of irritation. Like it knew it had crossed the line into impropriety.

  “Sure, and knowing how to cast them would be nice, too,” I replied. I had tried — and failed — not to snarl at it.

  ‘You are starting out with a variety of spells: Firebolt, Ice Shard, Chain Lightning, Walking in Shadows, Enchant Light, and Mind Read. You have a level 2 ability to craft spells and a level 2 ability to enchant an item with one of your current spells.’

  The Voice had toned down its irritability and was droning on about the different spells in more detail. My mind wandered off, trying to remember what I had drunk the night before. There was this vague notion of drinking with someone, but that was about it. I couldn’t even remember what the bar looked like.

  Focus. I needed focus. I forced myself to pay attention, hoping that I hadn’t missed anything of importance. The Voice seemed to be done with explaining the spells, which likely involved information that I needed, and went on to the next part.

  ‘… and of the 7 types of magic, you are level 1 in all other than mental and enchanting, which are level 2. There is, however, a higher price in mana compared to the spells of other magic users. To cast your spells, you need only speak or think the words connected to the spell and aim at your target. That shouldn’t be too difficult for someone as unprepared as you.’

  “No kidding, that’s really it?” I said sarcastically. Irritated with both the voice and myself, I stood up and took a pistol-shooting stance. Making a finger gun with my right hand, I aimed at a tree on the edge of the meadow. “Firebolt!” Heat sped down my arm to my hand, and a small bolt of flame shot from my finger and slammed into the tree. “No way!” I looked between my cooling index finger and the tree in shock.

  The flames licked the tree’s bark around the point of impact. Eyes wide, I watched as the flames went out, leaving a charred mark. A couple of steps back, and I sat down hard, almost falling over the log behind me. The heat in my arm had felt incredible. “That was awesome!” I exclaimed.

  ‘If you had asked, I could have called up a tutorial monster or two for you to practice on. But sure, just shoot any random thing here,’ said the Voice. Its irritation was back, and it had added notes of disdain and resignation. ‘Let me see. The tree takes minor damage from your attack, which it ignores. As trees do.’

  What came next made zero sense. It was like the Voice had undergone a change from an interactive person — one who really disliked me — to a calm narrator of a wildlife documentary. It still had a distinct upper-crust British accent, but it was no longer talking to me.

  ‘You hear a rustling of something moving through the forest behind you.’