Present Day, on the way home from the Tower

It’s not my fault. It’s the System’s fault. If it wasn’t for this System, I wouldn’t have to put up with this humiliation.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost ran into a telephone pole. Abruptly, he looked up and found himself in the midst of wreckage. Crushed skyscrapers with shattered windows sagged against one another. A huge white dish sunk through the sagging ceiling of a defunct fast food restaurant. Cracks shot through the asphalt, and weeds grew tall through the gaps.

Rowan tensed. He backed up, swiveling his head. Shit. I fucked up.

“Ribbit.”

He whirled.

A frog the size of a small dog sat behind him, flat pupils gazing at him and everything around him. Bright blue and black skin gleamed in the sunlight, shiny with moisture. It opened its mouth and croaked again, revealing a neon-blue mouth.

Rowan backed away. He cast about for a weapon, a broken pipe, a snapped piece of rebar, anything. Nothing.

Damn, I forgot the shortcut home got turned into an exclusion zone last week. When high-level monsters spawned and couldn’t be rooted out, the city threw up exclusion zones and let low-level combat classes practice their skills there.

Especially when they spawn in support sectors, Rowan grumbled silently to himself. He retreated one step at a time, maintaining eye contact with the poisonous frog.

It hopped closer to him.

“No! Nope. Uh-uh. Stop!” Rowan shouted, throwing his arms out to make himself look bigger.

The frog blinked and licked its eyeballs. It croaked again.

“Okay. Stay there. Good frog.” Another step backward.

Something bumped against the back of his leg, wet and slimy. Rowan turned, slowly.

A poisonous frog stared back at him. It croaked.

All around him, frogs croaked back. Rowan whipped around. Out of the shadows, crawling from under rubble, moist skin shimmering with poisonous chemicals, blinking wet eyes, blue tongues darting.

Rowan’s vision trembled. He shuddered involuntarily. Burning pain shot up his leg from where the wet sensation lingered at the back of his calf. His leg went weak, and he staggered. Slowly, he looked back at his calf.

Black and purple bruises crawled up his calf. His veins stood out, twisting under his skin in a horrible shade of red.

Rowan’s stomach plunged. I touched one. Oh, fuck, I touched one.

A popup appeared in the corner of his vision. Poisoned. Fatal in: 1:09.

“What’s this? A little support class in trouble? My oh my. If only someone could help.”

Rowan stared up, searching the edges of the crumbling buildings.

Perched on the edge of the satellite dish, a man dressed in black leather armor smiled down at him. He hoped down, landing lightly on combat boots. A man and a woman bulging with muscle stomped up behind him, arms so thick they could barely cross.

“Well, well, well. And he’s poisoned?” The man clicked his tongue. “Oh dear. If only someone could do something.”

“H… help me,” Rowan stammered. His teeth clattered. His hands shook. Vision wobbling, he stumbled to the side and only barely caught himself on a shelf of rubble.

“Hmm? What was that? Help? If only someone could. Oh, dear, I’m just too exhausted. Maybe a few credits could change my mind…”

Rowan gritted his teeth. Damn extortionist! I’m dying! “Please, I’ll… pay anything…”

“What do you have on you right now? Cold, hard credits.”

“Fifty.”

The man cursed and stomped away a few steps.

The female goon rolled her eyes at him. “I told you we shouldn’t waste our time on this idiot. Look at the way he’s dressed. Raggedy shorts and an old t-shirt? He doesn’t have any money.”

“Please, just… help,” Rowan stuttered.

“Dammit. Cancel skill.” The man flicked his wrist.

The frogs twitched. They blinked and shifted, flat pupils gazing in faint confusion. One hopped forward, then another.

“You—control—the frogs?” Rowan managed.

“Was controlling. They’re free now. Curse your foul luck for running into a nest of wild monsters.” The man shook his head and walked away.

“He only drops ten percent of those fifty credits when he dies,” the woman pointed out.

“Fifty credits, five credits, what’s the difference?” the man grumbled.

“No—please! Please.” Rowan reached for the man. He tried to follow him, but almost fell the second his hand left the rubble and had to desperately grasp it to keep from falling. Breathing grew harder. He struggled to heft his chest out and back in, air stilling in his lungs.

“Back to the nest. Once they waste that loser, I’ll initiate control again, and we can get the next idiot to pass through.”

The burly woman cocked an eyebrow at him. “Hey, but make sure they’re at least intellectual-class next time? Support classes are all broke.”

“Not true. Artists and singers count as support classes. Dancers. Performers,” the slender man argued.

“You think they aren’t broke?” the woman shot back.

Rowan reached after them. His hand trembled. Weak, it fell to his side. He sagged against the rubble.

Poisoned. Fatal in: 0:20.

HP Critical!

Rowan shuddered. His eyes sagged shut. No, dammit! I can’t die here!

The ribbiting grew louder. Moist footpads slapped against asphalt. A tongue lashed out, slapping against his shoulder.

If only… if only I wasn’t a support class…

Level 2. Please select a skill.