A Gamer's Guide To Beating The Tutorial

He woke up to the sound of something snapping. A little twig or something, he was sure. And still, he decided to open his eyes, just in case.

Everything was dark. The fire had burned out, but a few cinders were still glowing in its heart. Unfortunately, this singular light source only served to make the darkness around him so much darker. The foliage between the trees, the bushes and even the stream, everything was pitch black. The only other light came from above, though even the stars seemed muted. Silently, he put her back in his pocket.

Something felt wrong. Something was… off.

He sat up. A sensation made him furrow his brows in confusion. He’d gone to bed without fully drying off, sure, but he should have been dry by now. It didn’t make sense that…

He touched a hand to the cold wetness on his chest. It was sticky. Sticky, and dark, even darker than the forest around him.

Realization struck him like lightning and he spun around, finally looking at Lance properly. The sprint drake had been lying so still that he’d thought him to be asleep. But he wasn’t breathing. The drake was curled up, mouth slightly open, eyes wide—the pupils having turned an eerie, dead white. He was dead. The sharp, perfectly cut slit across his throat was proof of that.

Jarne stumbled back, falling on his behind. He was starting to hyperventilate, heart beating out of his chest. As he crawled backwards, unable to make sense of what he was looking at, what had happened, and why, he muttered under his breath, on repeat, “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck…?!”

All the way until his back bumped into something cold and bony and knotted. Like a pair of thin tree trunks.

He looked up.

A pair of yellow, cat-like eyes met him.

He let out a scream and flew to his feet, stumbling back so far he tripped on Lance, falling back to the ground. The eyes simply followed him, uncaring, until they stood in front of the remaining cinders. The tawny light created just the slightest red lining around the figure. The silhouette, much like the eyes it wore, was well familiar to Jarne. That didn’t make things better.

“K—K—Kitty?” he stammered. “Wh—what are you—”

Kitty shook his head, sighed, and stepped closer. Normally, Jarne was taller than him. Not by much, but enough to stave off any sense of threat from the smaller man. Now, though, this was no longer a factor. Jarne was on the ground, staring up. And Kitty, with the eyes of a natural predator, stared down. “Now why’d you go and do that?”

“D—do what?” Jarne said, whimpering pathetically. “I haven’t—I said earlier that I was going to do this, and Mole—”

The eye inched closer. “Moleman’s worried sick.”

“Really? Th—that’s… I—I’m sorry, but that’s not… Y—you can tell him, wh—when you go back, that I’m fine. See? I’m doing just fine! He doesn’t have to—”

Now, Kitty hunched down. He perched himself right in front of Jarne, knees to his chest, close enough to make a struggle wholly unnecessary. He tilted his head. “What tipped you off?”

“S—sorry?”

The eye narrowed. “It was the arm, wasn’t it? Hm. That’s troubling. I thought that since Moleman hadn’t noticed, no one else would, either. But you did.” A clawed hand reached up to scratch his chin. “Curious. Was it only the arm, or was there something else? I’d love to know so I can avoid similar issues in the future.”

Right there and then, it clicked. Jarne couldn’t tell if it was the corpse of his drake beneath him, or any one thing the eye said, or if it was simply the situation as a whole. But he knew, right at that moment, that it was already too late.

“It was Jazz,” he said. “She told me. She told me everything.”

“Everything?”

Despairing triumph reared up within him. “That’s right, everything! I even know that you’re the one who infected her!”

He stared at him. Silently, mutely. “Wow,” he said, showing no reaction whatsoever. “I really thought reversed brain damage resistance level two would have greater effects. So she could still express herself despite that, huh? Or maybe she already had a high tolerance…” He shook his head. “Well, we’ll see if you turn out any better. It’s a very delicate balance, you know. You have to be too out of it to be able to make sense, but not to the point where you die from it. Not easy. Tell me, what’s your level in brain damage tolerance?”

“Brain damage… tolerance…?”

“Oh, you don’t…?” He frowned. “Weird. You should try leveling up that stuff, you never know when it’ll save your life.” He paused. A sound blurted from his throat that almost resembled a laugh. “Not that it’ll matter in a while. Now, then…”

He stood up again. Jarne stared up at him, fairly certain that this was it.

Kitty cocked his head at him. “What are you doing? Come on, we have to go.”

“Huh? Oh, uh…” He pulled himself to his feet. Not waiting for him, Kitty walked straight into a brush of foliage, forcing Jarne to scramble after. After a minute or so, they emerged into more trekkable open fields. “Weren’t you going to… What is…?”

“I’m not going to carry you all the way back,” Kitty said. “That’d take ages. It’s much easier if you walk by yourself.”

“You’re telling me,” Jarne said, “that you expect me to walk to my own grave?”

“Basically, I guess.”

He laughed. This was fucking ridiculous. “You’re a monster.”

“I know.”

“When Mole finds out you did this, he’ll never forgive you.”

“I know.”

“So, let me get this straight. You spread the plague. You killed Sully. You killed Plus. You killed Jazz. And now, you’re going to kill me.” He laughed bitterly. “When do you plan on killing Mole? You must be saving the meatiest piece for last. That’s only obvious. So, when? Do I get to be there?”

He couldn’t see Kitty’s face, but he knew from his voice that he was frowning deeply. “Most of that was incorrect, but it’s worrying how much wasn’t.” He hummed. “But if it makes you feel better, you’ll probably be dead within the coming three days. The dragon plague as a whole is disease resistance level two, but I’ve used up TRR for disease level three and four, so I’ll have to use level five on you. I’m not sure how strong it’ll be, but considering that Jazz died in less than a week from TRR level four, I’m pretty sure you’ll die within three.”

“And then,” Jarne said, “you’ll use my heart to heal Mole.”

“No,” Kitty said. “Then, I’ll convince him to leave this city because he won’t have any extra lives left.”

“Right. Sure, great. You can’t honestly think he’ll agree to that. I mean, you’ve seen the way he’s been these past weeks! He’d rather die than stop working.”

Head downcast, face turned away from him, Kitty suddenly looked very, very small. “I have to try,” he said. “What else can I do?”

Maybe stop killing your friend’s friends. Maybe stop being such a horrible person. Maybe do a kind thing for once in your life. Maybe—

“Let him die,” Jarne said. “How many times has he been sick now? Three, four?” Kitty didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. “Enough times to make anyone suspicious. But not him. And why is that? Because you’ve lulled him into some weird delusion of invulnerability. And, yeah… if you’d asked to heal his sickness earlier, a few months back, he would’ve refused. But he would have had a choice. You trust him, don’t you?”

After a few moments, Kitty gave a meek nod.

“Right. You’re his friend. He’s your friend. And that means that you trust him to make decisions for himself. Sure, maybe he’ll make a decision you disagree with, but if he did it fully knowing the consequences, following his own heart, in relation to himself… It’s his choice to make. Not yours. If you have to control him to be as you want him, you don’t really like him as a friend—you like him as a concept.” Jarne shook his head. “And I know that hurts to hear. You don’t want him to die, or to kill himself, but when it comes to him and his life, then—”

Something flew at him from the darkness, barbed and growling and with yellow eyes like a cat set in deeply sunken eye holes, tackling him to the grassy field, night dew tickling him coldly as the bony shadow above him pressed him down, a horrible, barely human face closing in on him, nose furled up, lips drawn back to reveal needle-like yellowed teeth. “I am his friend!” the horrible shadow snarled. “And he’s my friend!”

Jarne felt his heart pounding in his chest. The sight above him was terrifying. Every instinct in his body, kept from time immemorial, from when to be the hunter or the hunted was a daily struggle, screamed at him to run, to fight, to attack, and to survive at any cost.

But he couldn’t move. Not out of paralyzing fear, but rather, something else entirely.

Understanding dawned like a summer sun in his chest.

“Why…” he said, reaching up toward Kitty’s face, “are you crying?”

Heavy teardrops fell from the wide, trembling eyes. “Huh? Wh—what…” Kitty touched a hand to his face, only for his fingers to recoil at the wet touch, as though scalded by holy water. “No, this isn’t… I’m not…”

Gently, Jarne clambered out from under him. Kitty let him. Jarne watched silently as Kitty sat down and hid his face in his elbow, knees drawn to his chest.

Carefully, Jarne approached him. He held out a hand towards him. “Kitty, it’s okay, you don’t—”

Kitty’s hand flashed out, claws glinting in the moonlight, and suddenly Jarne’s palm was in shreds. Even the bone had been cut. As cleanly as though with a laser. He stared at it. His hand felt warm and wet. His fingers were still attached, but as he moved his wrist, they flopped down like a bundle of limp bananas. He didn’t feel anything. But he could see his flesh. He could feel his hot, warm blood flooding down his arm, soaking into his shirt.

“See?” a bitter voice rumbled. He turned to see Kitty, looking at him blankly. As though he was stuck in a daze. No—this was how he usually looked. Apathetic. “I hurt people. It’s what I do. It’s all I can do.” He giggled. “Even Moleman. Lord knows I’ve hurt him. But he always forgives me. Isn’t he nice?” He smiled. The same kind of smiles wolves gave. “I have a feeling, though, with this…” He brought his claws to his face, gingerly licking off Jarne’s blood. “Maybe he’ll finally condemn me.”

“Ah… ah…” Jarne breathed, trying to put his hand back together again. That was his right hand. That was the hand he used to paint minifigures. He couldn’t lose it. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to continue his game with his players when he came back home. He still hadn’t finished his campaign. This one was going to be his masterpiece. But he couldn’t do it with only one hand. He had to fix it. He had to…

A shadow dotted out the stars. Two new moons had appeared in the sky. Jarne gaped up at them. He hadn’t heard him. Hadn’t even seen him. When—

“I’m sorry,” the moons said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to let you walk all the way to your grave. This will have to be it. I hope that’s okay, Rat. Oh, and…” The moon split into a crescent smile. “Don’t dwell too much on the irony, okay?”

Jarne trembled, eyes widening. “P—please. I—I don’t want to—”

“They never do,” the moons said. A clawed hand of sheer void spread across Jarne’s vision. “Now, please hold still while I…”

He was touched.

He saw a flash.

He touched her.

‘Lenna—’

And then, it was all over.