I woke up.

I groaned—immediately furious that I had allowed myself to fall asleep. How had that even happened? Also…where the hell was I?

I glanced around all bleary-eyed at my surroundings. A bunch of brown. Shapes. Couple o' muddy stains on the wall.

Ah, right. I'm in hell.

Now, before you go spiraling off into a tizzy, know I was being a teensy bit dramatic. I wasn't in any actual afterlife, you know, full of fire, brimstone, and people who are mean to dogs. But I may as well have been. The place I was in—where I actually was—was in a ramshackle hut the size of a McDonald's parking lot trash can in the middle of a destroyed camp in a dumbass forest on the scaly boil of a world called Regaia. I knew this because, for the last month, I'd woken up in the same spot. You'd have thought I'd have been used to it by now, but let me tell ya—I was not.

I groaned again because you know what? I felt like it. Groaning was a great thing to do when you wake up after not wanting to fall asleep, and you're still in Dumpsterville and know your day will be oh-so shitty. Because it would be. The worst thing I ever did was trot my ass inside, and I'd been hot about it since.

I slumped forward, finally rising, and, forgetting my size compared to the hobbit hovel I was in, bashed my head on the ceiling. Groan numero tres tumbled out of my lips. Let me tell you, this was queueing up to be another fabulous morning.

I crashed through the open doorway and into the bright, beaming sun—because that was literally the only way I could comfortably unwedge myself from within the structure's confines—and glanced around. It was early; that much was evident since there wasn't a single other person awake yet in the whole damn vicinity.

Buncha lazy bones.

Well…I supposed that wasn't totally true. Someone somewhere was still awake—the evening watch, for one. I didn't know who had pulled dunce duty last night, but I was glad it wasn't me. Not that I'd be allowed. But somebody was in charge of keeping us safe through the night, and they sure as hell had better have been awake or…well, that wasn't my problem. No, my only issue was that I'd arrived here in tow with my homies, and it had been a fantastically bad idea.

Because I'd died. Remember that?

Then, for some reason, I'd made my way back with Rexen, and now…

I squinted at the junkyard-like bullshit abound.

Now I can’t wait to leave.

Briefly, hesitantly, I peered at the makeshift walls the villagers had constructed around the camp. They were tall and misshapen, consisting primarily of downed tree trunks lashed together with other trees—the baby ones…what are they called? Straplings? Saplings? Sure. Anyway, it looked like a big ol' pile of shit and was just begging to be breached. Really, though, nothing screams 'come attack us' like poorly put-together fortifications that looked like they were crafted by a pack of newborn, arthritic beavers. I mean, it was a heaping mess and wasn't keeping anybody out. Though, for some reason, it had kept me in so far…

I heard a shuffle and almost darted back inside my wigwam. But, of course, I'd been spotted. Based on the time of day, it could only be one person.

"You're up early," said Dalton.

"Yeah," I said sleepily. "I, too, like to state the obvious. It is daytime. You are Dalton. You smell like old piss."

Dalton crinkled his forehead at my words and shook his head sadly as if he couldn't believe I'd be so rude to him. I mean, come on, how could I not be a bit of a canker sore to him? He was an elf that was formerly a college-aged dipshit from my original world who was also named Dalton. It was hilarious that given the opportunity to crawl into a new world and completely change everything about yourself, this guy had deemed it wise to keep his original name. Dalton the elf. Fabulous. What was worse: he was the seemingly second-in-command to the asshole who ran this whole operation, though I couldn't divine by what metric of fairness.

"Just doing some morning talk, dude. Goddamn. I was trying to be friendly."

I sneered at him.

"I don't want to be your friend, Dalton."

Somehow I knew that purposely not following that up with any sort of joke or additional razz was the best way to show him I didn't like the cut of his jib. A follow-up comparison could just be passed off as my usual plucky personality—but ending it where I did…that would cut deep.

"Whatever," Dalton said dismissively as if I hadn't just decimated his self-esteem. "You're on ditch duty today."

"Fuckin' sweet," I said, rolling my eyes. "Digging more holes. You guys have no fuckin' clue what you're doing, do you?"

Dalton ignored my comment. He was staring off past the train wreckage that had brought us all to this world, his eyes intent on something beyond the treeline. Then he came back to reality and shook his head.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said sourly. "Work starts in an hour, so have breakfast and then grab a shovel."

"Eat a whole butt, Dalton," I said before stalking off toward the, uh…mess hall of sorts.

Cursing under my breath, I pushed my way through the cluttered jungle of metal that separated the open-air atrium of the communal dining area from the rest of the open-air everything of the camp. It was essentially a large clearing dotted with stumps that people could use as both tables and chairs surrounded by a bunch of shrapnel that had been torn from the belly of the derailed train. A big campfire sat nearly center, a bubbling kettle hanging over it with a long piece of thin wood sticking out of it that acted as a ladle. Somebody had, at some point, tried to fashion it into an actual ladle, but failed spectacularly, considering it primarily consisted of one straight piece of walnut with a little shallow reservoir designed to be the scoopin' bit. I scowled.

This is seriously fucking pathetic. I'll bet it's filled with twig stew or something, too.

The camp was a big fuckin' dump. Blackened, charred remnants from our first day here were still present everywhere I looked. The makeshift huts, the ground, the nearby trees—few things had escaped the attack. Rather than convince them to leave, it had only bolstered my fellow former Earthlings into digging in their heels.

The one thing I had going for me—if you could phrase it in such a way—was that nobody expected outta ol' Loon. And by god, I aimed to keep it that way. I did the bare minimum to avoid getting something worse than ditch duty. But even that was starting to feel like a royal pain in the ass, especially since all the information I got from the System was still giving me grief.

In fact, it had gone even further into wacko-bananas territory over the last month. I was ready to dig my own eyes out to escape the mixed greens of genuine malicious stupidity it was serving up.

Like, get this: I'd checked my Strength a few days ago, and rather than an actual number, it said:

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Boy, are these doggies tired!

I didn't want some sort of parable pick-me-up. I simply wanted to know if I could punch a bear in the face and not break my hand.

… I'd been debating with Rua about what each Attribute constituted in relative power, so it had been vital information. Apparently, there was a very specific score—according to Rexen.

Meanwhile, the prompts I got when using Eye of the Saboteur were equally unhelpful and dripping in frustrating, unnecessary subtext. It was, like, one of the only cool things about this world—allowing me to get a ton of information about the stats and material breakdown of pretty much anything. But now… it was a mess. I'd try to examine an item and get a message like, "This rusty dagger has seen more sunsets than you can count."

I mean, what in the candy-coated Christ was that supposed to tell me? That the rusty dagger was old? Great! Super! Was it sharp? Fragile? Coated in tetanus? And why was my System menu getting all poetic on me, anyhow? It used to just be regular annoying. Now it was borderline petulant. Really upset my stomach, ya dig?

But I digest.

Between wrestling with my maddening menu and trying not to die from boredom or Alpha-induced rage, my day-to-day involved a lot of menial labor. I helped with basic things around the camp. You know, fetching water, gathering wood, and helping cook whatever passed for meals. That was when I wasn't digging fucking holes.

Motherfucking ditch duty. The mention of it brought up a fresh wave of irritation.

Now, I'm all for contributing, pulling your weight, and all. Still, I strongly suspected that these ditches we were digging were largely useless. And yet, it seemed to be a staple in our sword and sorcery handbook. Got a problem? Dig a ditch. Not sure what to do? Dig a ditch. Dick hurt? You guessed it—dig a goddamn ditch.

To say the very thought of it made my blood boil would be a very egregious understatement. I was just one misplaced pile of dirt away from turning my shovel into a makeshift javelin and hurling it into the nearest sojourner. But, alas, all I could do was groan, gripe, and get to digging. Or, at least, do a convincing job of pretending to. Alpha—in his mind that doubled as a perpetual motion production facility of dipshit imaginings and carnal meanderings—had gone forward with the designs and started putting together the plans for a wall. This was fucking dumb because, even if I just had a vague indication before that things were bad here, now I actually knew it was. But, since I'd gone and done a big silly like accidentally losing the Duellum—through no fault of my own, I might add—I didn't really have the option to toss my substantial weight around.

This place was a joke. The settlement we'd built was a far cry from anything called 'civilized.' I mean, if we were going for 'medieval peasant chic,' we'd nailed it. If, however, we were aiming for 'livability,' then we were failing spectacularly.

When the sun shone in the sky—a big burning ball of fiery hate—I'd usually see the camp bustling with activity. Most of our crew were focused on making the camp a more permanent residence. That meant construction, basically. And by construction, I mean attempting to build structures using a combination of fallen trees, leftover bits of the derailed train, and sheer desperation. These creations were rickety, uneven, and leaned in ways no building should lean. A drunk architect's feverish withdrawal scratchings.

Every so often, we'd get a break from the camp monotony by going on scavenging runs. There's nothing quite as glamorous as rooting through debris and plant detritus in the hopes of finding something useful or edible. It was the world's shittiest scratchy lotto because instead of winning dollars, you ended up with a handful of barely-edible berries or a half-rusted blade.

To top it all off, there were incessant, never-ending meetings. Oh, how I despised the meetings. Alpha had begun calling them "strategy sessions," but that was just a fancy name for him having free rein to verbally assault the others in various textures of badly-managed word salad. I wasn't invited to these, either—nope, more ditch duty.

In the evenings, we'd gather around the pitiful campfire for a feast of whatever scraps we'd gathered that day. The offerings were generally a muddled stew that tasted like boiled deodorant, accompanied by an assortment of foraged plants that were probably poisonous.

After dinner, if we felt particularly ambitious, we'd engage in the age-old tradition of sitting around the fire and exchanging stories. Well, primarily, the others would exchange stories about their lives back on Earth or speculate about the mysteries of Regaia. Me? I usually hung back and avoided adding anything. I was restless. And none of these fucks seemed to care at all about the fact that there was a malignant band of sojourner-harvesting psychopaths lurking around somewhere.

Eventually, we'd all traipse off to our respective shelters and attempt to get some rest. Sleep, however, was always an elusive beast. The constant anxiety, the rough sleeping conditions, and the deafening sounds of nocturnal Regaian wildlife reawakened my previously barely contained insomnia. I got, like, zero sleep.

Life in our settlement was a repeating cycle of grueling labor, questionable meals, and anxiety-riddled nights. So much for thrilling fantasies of otherworldly adventure. But hey, at least it wasn't dull. No, wait... it was really fucking boring. Every day was like a dance to the same tune, one with a particularly monotonous beat. Everyone stuck in a never-ending game of The Sims: Wilderness Edition. And I'll tell you: the graphics sucked.

Once in a while, there would be a break in the routine. Perhaps a storm would roll in, making all our work a little bit harder and a whole lot soppier. Other times, we'd get visits from Regaia's less-than-friendly inhabitants—everything from lumbering beasts that looked like hippos on steroids to winged monstrosities that loved dive-bombing our pathetic camp from the skies.

Exciting fucking days, man. You know, when everyone's adrenaline would kick in, and we'd band together to excruciatingly easily drive off whatever wanted to munch on our tasties. It was dangerous and messy, but at least it wasn't digging ditches. And I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a certain middling thrill to standing side by side with my reluctant comrades, shitty blades, and other makeshift weapons in hand, ready to duke it out for our survival. Sometimes, for a brief moment, I would almost feel like a hero.

Almost.

And then, inevitably, the…excitement would pass. The creatures would be driven off, or better yet, end up as an ingredient in our mystery lunch. We'd patch up our wounds—of which there were usually few—fix whatever damage was done—also usually…not much—and go right back to the fucking grind. Because, as it turned out, life in an otherworldly survival scenario was less about epic battles and more about…I dunno, just existing?

I remember believing I'd been better off back in the previous world when I first arrived. I know what you're thinking: "Loon, how could you say such a thing! You're in ninety percent of humanity's wet dream! Action! Adventure! Unrequited stabbings!" Right? Weeks and weeks ago, even with all the social, economic, and political issues we'd faced back home, I was om-nomming at the bit to return. Because at least there, I didn't have to worry about being eaten by a monster or getting impaled by a sentient thorn bush. At least there, I had a decent bed to sleep in, food that wasn't a daily gamble, and a life that consisted of more than just the barebones struggle to survive.

But no use crying over spilled milk. Or, in our case, over accidentally teleporting to an annoying, dumb-as-dicks, hostile Westeros. This was our life now, and all we could do was try to make the best of it. That or curl up in a ball and wait for something to take pity on us and end our misery.

So, we carried on. Day after day, night after night, lather-rinse-repeat. All the while waiting for something to change. And every morning, I would wake up in my hut, smack my head on the ceiling, groan, and start again.

Such was the glamorous life in the fabulous settlement of Diarrheaville, or as some of the more optimistic folks had begun to…cleverly call it, 'New Home.' Yeah, right. As if a name—especially such a laughingly-fucking-adorable one—could make this place any less of a shit pit. I swear, the level of delusion with this group was so high it was bumpin' into satellites.

In the end, I suppose, we were all just trying to cope in our own ways. Which was fine, I guess. Some people deluded themselves into thinking we were pioneering a new civilization. In contrast, others clung to the hope that we'd somehow find a way back to the world we left. And then there were those like me, who fully embraced the suck and just tried to get by without unaliving ourselves.

And, of course, there was the big old cherry on top of this late-night, hungover lobster mac vomit sundae: I was bored.

As I sat, eating the terrible food that someone probably worked super hard on, glaring at my surroundings with the appreciation of a feral badger, one single thought was bonkin’ around inside my head: I fucking hated it here.

Not in the world—no, that part was probably the most surprising. Here in the camp. Eking out an existence doing our best Catan impression just wasn't doing it for me. I wasn't interested in building up some Sid Meier-esque base camp and expanding into the world, slowly cultivating larger territory…or whatever. I wanted to be where the action was, man! I wanted a…I dunno, a fucking fight or something. To get kicked in the face by some ugly son of a bitch with power far eclipsing my own while shoveling out semi-witty, poorly-contrived comebacks. God motherfuck, what I wouldn't have done for a straightforward 'kill ten rats' Quest or something. But no, life sucked.

That's why I was more than a little bit intrigued when Rexen suggested we kill a god.