It was on the day that Fenrir had decided to kill himself that he met a god. It was dark, the vast fleet of stars blanketing the sky obscured by an endless expanse of dark clouds pouring forth their contents. Blankets of water crashed down to the ground, creating an incessant drumming on every hard surface that rang throughout every alley and corridor of a vast city. Fenrir stood atop a high bridge, only with the heavy downpour the view was obscured and it was more like a liminal hallway removed from the very fabric of reality itself. The regularly placed streetlights disappeared off into the infinity of the fog-like rain, the end of the bridge obscured and unknowable. He had chosen this place to be his last, and the weather seemed fitting, it could be quite easily chalked up to an accident, a poor kid simply losing his way in the harsh downpour, but on this night he had encountered the impossible, no, the divine, and one does not leave such a situation unchanged.
The being perched atop the slick railing of the bridge like an overgrown vulture, a cloaked wrapped about itself, but even so, its inhuman features were clearly visible. Massive bulbous eyes stared out through a pair of purple glasses, and a hood failed to hide the slit nose beneath them. Three-toed feet, large with a bird-like quality gripped tightly to the slippery railing and held the being in place as it surveyed the human staring at it. Fenrir wore no protection from the rain, and looked up at the creature, drenched to the very bone. Water poured down into his eyes, and he attempted to wipe it away for a better look, but his sleeve was thoroughly soaked and proved to be of little help. The being grinned, revealing a massive smile of pointed teeth that stretched the full length of its face as it hopped down to the sidewalk with a splash. It was the height of a young child when compared to Fenrir, but it had an undeniable presence that seemed to suggest it was something more. Its hood had flopped off, revealing its inhuman orange skin, and a beanie covering the crown of its angular head.
Fenrir had no intention of returning from his excursion. He had planned it out in advance, set the date to secure his own self-compliance, and chosen a method guaranteed to succeed, but this was something he could never have planned for. The rain washed his skin from a filthy layer of crust built up from weeks without bathing and purged the associating stench. His clothes too were purified by sheets of water from their grime and stink built up from days-on-end use in a room littered with stored bottles of urine, used tissues, and discarded bits of food. His eyes, used to the blue light of a screen, struggled to adjust in a dark world with real depth, and blinked rapidly to clear themselves of raindrops. The grinning god approached him.
"Let's make a deal."
Fenrir Malus was a character written with the express purpose of being a complete and utter degenerate loser. He was a friendless scribble designed to be utterly contemptible and pathetic, serving only as the butt of jokes for the heroes of the story. He was a terminally online hater, filled with spite, endlessly thirsting over women, and simultaneously blaming them for all the problems of society despite hardly interacting with them. He was depressed, suicidal, and utterly worthless. A statistic blamed for every social issue and lambasted as some sort of animal to be entertained by. He existed solely to be laughed at, a warning about the pinnacle of pathetic degeneracy. But today, he stood in the presence of a higher being and was offered a deal.
The being offered him a choice: he could become the wish-fulfillment protagonist of his dreams, a person blessed with good looks and oodles of magical power. A hero blessed with the power to reshape the world to his whims. He could become the sort of action star seen only on TV, a powerful and confident man blessed with unending potential. Or, he could go through with his suicide, and the god would insure its success.
"What are you?" asked Fenrir, his voice sounding odd from disuse.
"Consider me the first finger of the godhand."
Perhaps he should have considered things more carefully, or been more surprised by the ridiculousness of the situation before him, but in his depressive state he'd already committed to death, and now seemed to exist in a superposition, like Schrodinger's cat, a being neither alive nor dead until the god before him decided. Reality mattered little to him at this point, and he was somewhat surprised by his own lack of shock. Still, he had seen enough movies to have the faint sense that there was one other question worth asking: "What's the catch?"
"You can die here, or you can be reborn in another world as the hero you've always wanted to be, the only caveat being that you must carry your cross."
There was a moment of silence as Fenrir considered the proposition, but really? What did he have left to lose?
"I'll take the deal," replied Fenrir. The being clasped his hand, the grin upon its face spreading so wide it curved to the sides, and the corners of its mouth disappeared from sight, "Wonderful! But first, to be reborn, you must commit to the end of your life here."
Perhaps he should have been concerned about the strange religiosity, or inquired about the nature of such a bargain more carefully. But then again, perhaps the deity was sympathetic to him, but it could have just as easily been bored or in on the great ironic joke that was his existence. He had no will to continue living, it had been a feat of strength just to drag his flabby body out from its cave and to this point, and this seemed like a fitting reward, his deserved blessing after being cursed with so worthless a life. And then again, he had nothing to lose from this, he had committed to dying anyway, and could only gain from such an arrangement. It seemed to him a stroke of sudden luck, and it was better to just accept it rather than potentially anger the god and have the terms changed. Or, perhaps that was his great character flaw, his dull acceptance of life, perhaps that was what had forced him to this state and made him take the deal. Regardless, he didn't really care anymore, it seemed comforting to have some hope that after death he could become the very thing he idolized.
He peered over the railing of the bridge, far below the lights of passing vehicles could be dimly seen. It was high enough up that the vehicles really wouldn't matter. The bridge was a popular tourist spot, an overlook of the city skyline in the distance spanning a ravine through which traffic passed, but on a stormy night like this, Fenrir was the only person out. Everyone wants to be some sort of hero, everyone wants to be special, to be the character everything revolves around, it's only human nature, so surely, didn't Fenrir deserve that? He placed his hands upon the railing, rain pelting them, and clumsily clambered over. There was a moment where he paused at the edge, perhaps reconsidering one final time, and then he leapt.
If he had known the sort of "wish-fulfillment hero" the god intended him to be, he would have perhaps refused the deal. He should have perhaps taken this strange encounter as a pivotal moment in his life to change himself and improve, refused the deal and gone back home a changed man. He should have perhaps begged and groveled at the god's feet, lauding it in the hopes of improving the bargain, but he had no way of knowing what the god entailed by its cryptic deal. It was an offer to have the escapist fantasy he'd always dreamed of, a chance to redo his life as someone else. So, Fenrir fell towards his demise, without knowing that this would be but the first time he would be forced to try and take his own life.