I had known since childhood that no matter the difficulty there was always a choice. Recently in my life I began to discover that no matter the situation, those choices somehow only ranged from bad to terrible, and more often than not, suicidal.

Opposite me, behind an ornate hardwood desk sat the commandant of the Lodestone Republic’s 4th regiment. Right now he was waiting on my response to the query, “what do you have to say for yourself?” I had several legitimate answers, but knew that each of them would be shot down as either complaining or insubordination. I considered trying to play the rogue and come up with some daring story to escape my current predicament, but such foolishness would not be tolerated here, much less believed.

“Sir, I, uh, uh…”

“Godsdamn it, Grunt! How does the Republic always attract such lowly maggots as yourself?! Your swordsmanship, let’s be generous and call it that, is worth less than my granny with a 1000-year-old butter knife! You are consistently underperforming in exercises, your demeanor unbefitting that of a warrior, your…”

I carefully sighed in relief. Dressing downs were far easier than responding to my superiors’ questions, which were always loaded. My swordsmanship was subpar, yes, but certainly not for lack of trying. I fought the urge to ask the wizened commandant as to how a soldier could improve by themselves, with no prior experience. That choice was suicidal. I could try rationally explaining that my fellow soldiers, and even immediate officers, refused to have anything to do with me. A terrible choice as that would no doubt be construed as a fault of my character or considered an outright lie. Trying to appease the officer with “I’m trying my best”, just plain bad.

I stood silently, listening attently to my numerous faults and how even a one-legged gnoll would perform better than me. I debated on zoning out, but thought better of it. I had learned two important skills from my short tenure in the army, one; be aware of your fellow men and surroundings as both were want to stab you in the back. Two; always listen carefully, useful for deciphering what schemes were being hatched against you and for avoiding charges of insubordination, most of the time.

My grandfather had warned me against joining the army, but as the youngest of five siblings there was nowhere else I could have gone. If not for the circumstances responsible for my enlistment, I might have considered suicide. Unlike most, I didn’t fear my death, there was something seemingly fulfilling at having completed one’s life. That being said, that was BEFORE. Now, I had every intention of not just surviving, but paying back each and every attempt on my life.

Before the army I had narrowly survived disease, beasts, war, and flame, after my registration my repertoire expanded to include, three daggers in the back, two in the kidneys, a mage spell mistakenly sent my way, an overly pissed apple treant, two equally overly pissed normal treants, a variety of poisoned fruits (that were only poisonous when picked by yours truly), venomous insects (which found me day or night, and rarely failed to deliver their animosity), and quicksand (in the freaking forest, where there isn’t even any sand!).

Every night I made sure to curse Demeres, the Goddess of Nature, out loud before retiring. Gods, how I hate nature, even more than my two-legged adversaries.

The old officer finished up by comparing me to short, flaccid, anatomy. He looked at me, contempt overflowing from his every word and action. He shook in a mixture of disgust and anger before willing himself to calm down. Please have a stroke, even a minor one, please, just one spot of good fortune… He looked up, a thin smile creeping to his lips.

“But, even with all that, there is good news, you may not be complete orc shit, just a more runny type of fertilizer.”

I looked at him dubiously, good news in the army never equated to good news for me.

“Your latest crystal’s results have been thoroughly examined, your mana has grown alarmingly since your admittance to the 4th, at least the resources we’ve lavished on you haven’t all gone to shit...”

He was really sticking with the excrement allegories, that wasn’t necessarily bad…

“…so you are being transferred to mage training.”

I gulped, that was bad.

“Though your affinities have yet to be determined, you will train to be a battle mage.”

I smiled stupidly, this was terrible. Battle mages were every army’s greatest artillery pieces, they were also the first things the enemy would try to take out, with copious amounts of violence. The magical, arrowy, and catapulty kind, when they didn’t have the patience to hurl entire squads at you.

The Commandant stopped, letting the words sink in. I knew it was stupid, but I had to try…

“The Royal Mage Spire, Sir?”

“The Commoner’s Mage Spire.”

Not quite suicidal, but the odds of me losing a limb drastically improved. Yay me!

“Uh, Sir, perhaps I could be the official, uh, latrine handler?”

“While the poetry of a piece of shit cleaning shit is not lost on me, the army would recoup more from your sacrife… Service, yes, service as a battle mage.”

Hell, why not go full suicidal?

“Sir, I believe that I would be better suited to some other duty, something less, prone to explosions, perhaps…”

“What are you?”

I paused, from all that he had said it began with an “s” and ended in a “t”, with a surprisingly cheery “hi!” in the middle. But that would be met with another dressing down, this time well earned. It had only taken a week for me to be taught exactly what I was.

“Property of the Lodestone Republic, Grunt, last class, Tome Rimoude, Sir.”

“Yes, and you would be wise to remember the first part. You will do as instructed, no ifs or buts. The next time I see you, you will be capable of at a minimum, one massive wide area offensive mage spell. Should you prove incapable of even that, pray you find yourself a corpse before I can get my hands on you. Dismissed!”

I clicked my heels and saluted, adding the obligatory “Yes, Sir!” before turning sharply. That had went worse than expected. I exited 4th’s headquarters, my head hung low, deep in thought. My metal boots clicked on the cobbled stones.

After a while I raised my chin and allowed a small smile to cross my lips. True, my odds of surviving were halved, but I was going to a mage spire, the kind of place with all sorts of dangerous powers. Perhaps I might find something that could kill entire swathes of nature, preferably something that would cause them to suffer horrible, agonizing torment before they expired.

I heard a small snap from above me, felt more than heard the soft whistling. My hand shot up, catching the apple before it could strike my head.

“Ah hah!”

Bringing it to my still smiling face, I looked intently at the red object. A cute green worm with numerous chitinous spiky legs swiftly emerged from within the would be projectile. It looked at me innocently, the six black dots that served as eyes quivering innocuously. Then it grinned its needle shaped teeth, viciously biting into my thumb. Blood poured out as the miniature abomination tore off a huge chunk of flesh larger than itself.

I had to admit, it was a clever addition to a mundane annoyance.

“Godsdamn you Dem...”

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I’m so going to die a horrible death.

-Tome Rimoude