I know that because I was puttering at my gaming computer, waiting for my gaming stream to start. The pre-roll—that’s when I have the stream up, but with a page showing the game I’ll play, as well as a timer counting down to the official start—was running. The official start for the stream is six.
Normally the chat’s dead until I start…. Well, it’s dead even after that, but that isn’t relevant here. What is, is that this time, it wasn’t. A collection of people were already there, talking up a storm about that sound I’d dismissed for the maybe the last ten minutes.
Sorry, that’s the best you’re getting. I am no good at keeping track of time unless I’m looking at a clock. When that…sound finally registered, it had been going on for a while, slowly increasing until I had to notice. I didn’t know what it was, but by how faint it still was, it had to be on the other side of the street, if not further down the block, so it couldn’t be that important.
Yeah. I have a habit of dismissing things that aren’t in front of me, and aimed at me. I’m going to pay for it multiple times before this story’s done.
The fact chatting was going on was unusual enough to pull my attention, which is how I noticed the time and how I know when the world ended…more or less. I didn’t know that was coming, so the conversations were more interesting that the clock.
Someone @ me—pronounced ‘at-me’. It’s stream chat slang for tagging me, so the message will highlight—asking if they were right that it sounded like a truck’s air horn. I’m a retired trucker, so it made sensed they asked.
What most people don’t realize is that truckers, the decent ones, only use them in emergencies. The more people hear it, the easier it is for them to dismiss it as background noise and miss the coming emergency.
I’ve never heard a prolonged air horn. The only places I’ve heard them are in parking lots and docks. Both cases when one was backing and about to hit another truck. A quick pull of the cord it all it takes; we know to listen for that sound.
I know, I said I’d dismissed it. But like I said. I’m used to the quick pull. That came on so softly and been on for so long I’d dismissed it.
I was about to explain that to the chat when it registered they were all talking about the same sound. I don’t know everyone there, but among the handles—their chat name—I recognized one I knew was in Germany, another in Poland, and one in Russia, I think. Somewhere in that area.
If they were all talking about that sound, it couldn’t be happening on the other side of the block. It had to be happening….
I couldn’t think of where it could happen for all of us to hear it, but that had to mean I should do something.
No idea what. I mean, if it’s heard around the world, what can one person do?
I was standing to proceed to do this ‘I have no idea what’. When I was thrown to the floor by the shaking. Tiger plushies fell on top of me as if they aimed to protect me; while books and hardware and cookware fell elsewhere in the room.
Hey, I have a thing for tigers and, some people claim, too many representations of them in my house. I also anthropomorphize them—that doesn’t even begin to describe it, but it isn’t relevant. Well, not right now, anyway.
So yeah. They try to protect me, obviously fail. Not just because they’re plushies, but because this is just too big.
The world ends.
So. If the world’s gone, and me along with it. How am I narrating this thing?
This calls for a scene break.
* * * * *
I…come to—best way I can describe it. The last thing I remember is pain I can’t describe and now this white room, no pain, and—
“Sylvester Sandusky?”
I turn to the voice and find a Caucasian woman with brown hair, wearing a striped orange blouse, sitting there, looking at me. Wait, no. It’s a blouse with tiger’s stripes on orange. Yes, there’s a different. I said I had a thing for tigers. I know the difference. One’s Tony the tiger, the other makes artist complain anytime I ask them to draw me a tiger.
After a while, I realize she expects an answer, and the best I can manage is, “Yes?” Then I ask the obvious, but fail to sound confident. “Am I dead?”
“I’m afraid so, Mister Sandusky,” she answers, her voice melodic. Her smile is too calm for a grim reaper. “If you’ll take a seat, we can get started on what happens next.”
I look at the chair next to me and realize I’m lying on the floor. I look at her, and this time all I see is her head as she leans over her desk to look at me, still smiling gently. Where—you know what, if I’m dead I’m not going to worry about things like objects appearing out of nowhere.
I pull myself to the seat and try to think of something to say or ask. I’ve never thought about death all that much. I’m not delusional. I knew it was coming. But I’m just fifty-six, and in reasonably good health, so it was still quite a ways away. That, unless it’s aimed at me and about to hit, thing again.
I looked at the small white room, her, the desk. “So, death is a bureaucracy?” Makes as much sense as anything, I guess.
“When rules have to be applied on a large scale, bureaucracies do tend to be the only way to implement them. Even when it comes to the forces that organize the world. Now.” She taps a stack of paper that I swear wasn’t there when I last looked. “The option for a normal afterlife is open to you, but due to the circumstances of your death, you can choose to be summoned to another world as a refugee.”
The afterlife is a thing? Then the rest registers, and all I can manage is blinking. Trust me, it takes a lot to stun me like that. “Summoned to another world as a refugee?” That doesn’t sound right. Those stories are more Fred’s thing, but between what he told me and being chronically online, I know a thing or two. “Shouldn’t it be summoned as a hero?”
She flips through the papers. “While that was the purpose of the super massive truck which collided with the Earth, its shockwave obliterated everyone well before the impact. So it only struck was the Earth itself.”
Again, all I can do is blink as I process what that means. “You’re telling me the Earth was summoned as a hero to some other world?” Look, I’m dead already. I’m just rolling with things.
She nods. “Where it impacted the planet, destroying both, and killing everyone there, including the nation that performed the ill advised amped up summoning.
I blink.
Look, yes, the world’s ended. Yes, I’m dead. But I’ll need a minute to process the scale of both the destruction and stupidity involve in making it happen.
But in the end, all can do is ask the question. “Do I get to pick my afterlife if I go that route?” Never thought about death, didn’t even think the afterlife was a thing, but if I get to pick. Anthro tiger heaven, here I come.
“Unfortunately,” she responds without having to look at her paper. “If you choose that route, your soul will be processed as all other souls from your world heading there. So, no. You don’t get to choose.”
And if I don’t believe I have a soul? Told you I didn’t believe in the afterlife. But let’s not jump on the Isekai too quickly. “If I go the hero summoning route, do I get to select anything about what happens?”
“Refugee summoning,” she corrects. “You will have several options to choose from. The powers that be, for both planets, put out an open call for universes looking to do mass summoning. They started this relocation process only once enough had responded that all sentient souls could be covered.”
Sentient souls, does that mean—“Wait. How long have I been dead?” Yes, yes, there are far more important questions. Give me a break. Technically, I don’t have a brain at the moment.
“Time is only a concern for the physical world,” she answers in her calm voice. “We’re outside of reality. You’ll recall the old philosophical discussion about if you can know that you aren’t simply a brain in a jar. Think of this as your soul in a jar. It’s all a controlled hallucination of the physical to make you feel comfortable.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Hate to tell you this, but you explaining how nothing’s actually real is doing nada for my comfort level.
She blushes. “Apologies. I’m not trained for this. My usual work is transatlantic weather, but this is a ‘all hands on deck’ situation. And there isn’t a planet to have weather on at the moment.”
I guess that makes a wait a
She tilts her head. “Did you just censor yourself in your own mind?”
It’s a habit I got into while being a streamer, and that doesn’t change the fact you just read my mind.
She rolls her eyes. “To continue. If you choose the summoned refugee route, you’ll be choosing a species, then you design—”
“Wait,” I cut her up. Didn’t mean to, but she kind of blindsided me with that one. “I have to change species to be summoned?”
“Yes.” She looked through her papers. “There are human options, but not all worlds that answered have that species there, and you’re required to be a species that already exist there.”
“I’m picking tiger.” Hey, that’s a no brainer. “Tiger anything.” I’ve said it before, I have a thing for tigers.
More looking through the papers. Then she sighs. “I’m afraid that all tiger slots have been set as priority for those living close to tigers.”
“There’s a zoo with tigers just up the road from me,” I try. It’s like on the other side of the major city that the city I live in abuts.
She smiled. “Closer to tigers’ natural habitat.”
If that didn’t work, let’s check what can be done. “What if they aren’t all chosen?”
“If you wish to wait to see if some remain, that can be arranged.”
“How long will that take?”
“There’s no way to know.”
“And what? I just sit here until everyone else is processed?”
“Oh, no. My apologies. From your point of view, it will be instantaneous. Think of it as being placed in stasis. But,” she says as I open my mouth to tell her to put me on ice. “Others will have made their own selection in the meantime. Which means that if no tigers are available, you will also have a smaller pool to select from.”
I close my mouth. Yeah. Not going that route. “How long do I have to make my selection? Or do I have to worry about options vanishing as others make theirs?”
“Oh. You have all the time. So long as I keep you active, you’re concurrent to everyone else.”
I have to take her at her word because I can’t imagine how that works. “Alright. Show me anything feline. Except lions,” I quickly add. “I’m not dealing with that whole king of the jungle thing.”
“That will not be an issue. Those are reserved for those near to their natural habitats.” She motions to the right, and when I look it’s not the fact the room is much bigger that catches my attention. It’s the row of anthropomorphic felines standing there.
“Wow.” There’s no point bottling up the embarrassment. She’s a mind reader and those are yummy naked male cats.
The light dims—wait, there were lights?—and a spotlight shines on the one on the far left.
“First up,” she said, “is the Cougrali. A warrior race from a space magitech setting. Their patron god looked at all the other deities, accepting refugees in moderate thousands, and promptly requested ten thousands warrior to swell his ranks. While you will be expected to wade into the thick of battle, as you can see this race is designed for it. You will also be given the necessary training and equipment to aid in your conquests for your new god.”
Being that buff is tempting after a lifetime of struggling with my weight, but those are quite the strings.
The spotlight moves one to the right. “Next is the Nocrogrel. A rustic tribe in the far north of a magical world. The local tribes are willing to take a trifling one hundred souls to join their cultures.”
Definitely better than being thrown into battle, and also a cougar. Not as tall, but also muscular.
The spotlight shift to the next one. “The Lycendralin are a race of immortal amazons in a magical world who succeeded in eradicating the men from their world, and only then realized they needed them to prevent stagnation. They’ve requested a thousand men to bring balance to their civilization.”
How hung the lynx is definitely catches my attention, keeping the implication from sinking in for a bit while I imagine myself walking around with that. Yes, every guy dreams of a bigger one. But mine was objectively on the smaller size, so….
Then, the implication sinks in and this species gets scratched out.
“Balance? As in helping repopulate?”
“Yes.”
I don’t care how hung I’d be. I am not having sex with women. I know they say everyone’s sexuality is on a scale, but mine’s at the complete end of the gay one. Had my chance to have sex with woman, had no interest.
“Next,” I say, just as the difference between the previous forms and my own, and I don’t just mean they have fur, raises another question. “Are the bodies representative of what I’ll look like in the world I’ll pick?” No, it doesn’t mean I’ll reconsider buff guy, or hung guy. This is just information I have to know, so I’ll know what I’m getting into.
The spotlight is on the next lynx, but she’s looking through her papers, and I’m looking at her. “No. These forms are constructed using the average for each species. Unless, like the Cougrali and Lyncendralin, a deviation from the norm was part of their accepting to take in the refugees. Which ever one you pick, you will be someone who simply deviates from the norm the way you do from the human race.”
I don’t like where that’s going. “Doesn’t that mean I’m going to arrive there as an old, overweight, not exactly in the best shape, version of whatever I pick?”
“No, I apologize for not expressing it correctly. The divergence will be only on the level of your phenotype.” She consults her papers. “You have a predisposition to gaining weight, so that will be there, although you will arrive without the extra mass you currently carry. You will be a healthy man of the age considered peak for the species you chose when you arrive. How close to that you remain once you engage in your life there, that will be up to you.”
Alright, that’s not bad. Of course, my track record for taking care of myself is less than spotless, but I can’t claim ignorance this time.
“That is the Lyncravil. They are part of a modern magical world reminiscent of yours. The gods there are intrigued by the powers you’ll get as refugees, so are asking for a hundred of each of their native species.”
“What do you mean, Powers?”
“We’ll address that in the next part,” she replies. “But because this is the result of a hero summoning gone wrong, it was decided that a severance package will be granted to those who choose to agree to being summoned. But for now—” the spotlight moves again. “The Lyvelin is a forest dweller residing in a dungeon world. This one has multiple summoning based on who can gather the required component to activate it. So I don’t have an exact number they’ll take, but you can expect each group to be smaller.”
Right, LitRPG. A dungeon world fits nicely there. I even wrote one. Too bad it’ll never be finished now. At least this lynx is the most normally proportioned of the three.
The spotlight moves over to a bobcat. “This is a Bopbokin. They exist in a magitech world also close to yours in scope. The god who agreed to take refugees actually requested only men. A gift to his favorite king to form a harem for him to enjoy.”
Is this because I pointed out I was one hundred percent gay? Not that I’d object to all that sex. And while he’s kind of short and stocky for a bobcat, he is also well hung. There’s something of fantasy dwarf about his proportions.
“Then are the Feorian. They are being introduced to a world as non-magical as yours was. Seems the gods there have failed to cause sentient life to occur and have decided on a shortcut. You’ll be part of a group of one hundred and will be setting up a town from scratch. There will be one hundred such group throughout this world.”
Definitely based on a house cat of some sort. But Colony sims are only fun when you’re outside controlling things. Having to live in the middle of it? No, thank you. And that’s not even taking into account the implication that to increase the population I’d be expected to father kids. Which means sex with women again.
“And finally.” The spotlight shift to another house cat, although this one easily identifiable as a Persan. “Felionious Arcanous. A species of familiar existing in another dungeon world. Here, you’ll be one of a hundred other felines summoned to faithfully serve a magic user of this world.”
How is forced servitude consider a valid option for refugees? Or is this a beggar and choices situation? This is definitely a bottom of the list choice. I’ll take my chance with waiting before taking slavery.
The light returns to the room, and it’s clear she’s waiting for me to make my choice.
Right off the bat, Lycendralin and Feorian are out. Sex with women is basically a must with them, even if one is just implied, and I am not doing that. The Cougrali’s also off the table. Doesn’t matter how buff I’ll be if all it gets me is dead in someone’s war. And
Four out. For the others, I need more information.
“You said the Lyncravil gods are taking in refugees to see what powers we’re getting. Does that mean we’ll be test subjects?”
She looks through her papers. “No. The evaluation committee’s findings suggest they are less curious about the composition of the powers and more with how their presence will shift the balance of power among the various shadow wars between the magical organizations of that world.”
That’s too bad because I would have liked a modern world, even if it’s magic, and until this, it had sounded like there wouldn’t be any string attached. Which reminds me.
“The Bopbokin. What’s going to be the deal with that king? You said I’d be part of a harem. Does that mean a gilded cage for the rest of my life, or can I go wherever I want so long as I’m back on schedule for when it’s my turn in the king’s bed?”
More looking through the papers. “Gilded cage, but one the size of an estate. You’ll be allowed to leave it to visit the city, but under escort. And you could get to see the world as some of those in his harem will accompany the king when traveling to other kingdoms for diplomacy.”
Going with him for diplomacy. She didn’t put the word in quotes, but I can definitely see all the ways politics can result in me being passed around without my consent, or you know, assassinated to make a point to the king.
Which leaved the Lyvelin. The lack of modernity isn’t appealing, but let’s find out what I’d be getting into there. “What’s the overall tech for the Lyvelin? Oh, and what kind of dungeon world is it? A huge central one? A bunch of smaller ones? They are many options that can be called that.”
More looking through papers. “Many small dungeons. As for technology, you’ll call where they are late stage medieval. Although, taking into account magic, their standard of living is higher than what Earth had for the equivalent period. No printing press, mass production or a magical equivalent of the telephone, but they are definitely approaching a renaissance according to the evaluation committee.”
I didn’t ask about the Nocrogrel. I grew up in a frozen hell. I am not going to another one with nothing more than a loincloth, fur or no fur.
“I’ll take the Lyvelin.”