VIP Saga day 5: computers and a really, really well-traveled old man.

So the guy who I worked with in the computer lab today was this seventy-odd old man who has probably had every experience known to man. He has been a cop, an engineer, an EMT, a fireman, a heavy equipment operator, a bouncer, and who knows what else. He told me at one point that he is on three pensions. Three! That means he worked three different jobs long enough to get a pension! Pretty amazing, if you ask me.

One of my favorite things to do is listen to life stories of old people. I don't know why, but I find it gratifying to understand what life was like for older generations. If there is an old coot with enough stories, I could listen to him all day long.

Like most old people, though, this man was rickety and full of problems. He said himself that he lived on Tylenol. He had a pretty impressive gut, but I was told that the reason for it was the fact that his spine curved outwards towards his stomach. Apparently he had been 6'1 and is now 5'9.

This old man has some serious work skills. He can fix anything and everything. Some of the descriptions he gave me of technical mechanical stuff went over my head--and things rarely go over my head when it comes to mechanical stuff!

The thing that made him a little bit hard to understand, also, was the fact that he was missing half of a lung. According to him he had some sort of disease that needed a lung removal.

The people I was working with--the clients--were the same as always. Most of them typed in the single digit WPM range. It appears that there is also a trend: the shift key is a little bit too technical. I think the fact that it only turns a key capital when it is depressed and not when it isn't is a little too hard for many of these clients to grasp. It made me think about how lucky I am that something like this shift key doesn't stump me. I am more and more grateful for my intelligence after every day spent there.

I hope other people will start appreciating what they have as well.

VIP saga day 4: Baseball, Hotdogs, Apple Pie and Chevrolet

Today I spent a good amount of time teaching a bunch of older disabled folks about apple pie and Chevrolet. It was part of what seems to be a fall bonanza of education about very American things. Basically, I just sat behind a television in front of a group of clients and read Wikipedia articles and watched YouTube videos about how these things are made.

I'm pretty sure even this basic knowledge went over the heads of most of the people there. There was one person who kept asking me about how much gas a car could use. Another one kept asking me about monster trucks. Apparently he really wanted to see some monster trucks! This must have been a regular occurrence, as one of the social workers kinda got frustrated with him and told him "no! No monster trucks! Sit down!"

I do my best to just listen to these people. Even if it is unintelligible, I think they appreciate the fact that I am listening and doing my best to understand whatever I can pick out about what they're talking about.

All in all, I feel like a made a difference today. Tomorrow is computer day!

VIP Saga: Day 3: Yahtzee and Bean Bag Toss! (Plus what I like about working with the disabled)

So today I pretty much just played Yahtzee and bean bag toss with the seniors. Pretty boring stuff.

So instead, I'll talk about what I think about the care these people are receiving, what I think about them, and what I think about the institution.

First off, there's the fact that most of these people have very little in the way of awareness. The lady I played Yahtzee with was a marked exception, being able to regale me with tales of her life. (Believe it or not, she had worked at a nursing home!) She must have been at least seventy. I never found out why she was there.

There are some workers that treat the patients/clients with respect. There are others that, well, don't, exactly. One guy I remember was trying to teach these people football terminology and hand signals, and it was pretty obvious that it was over their heads. (It was over my head too!) The problem, though, is that he expected these clients to understand and absorb the information he was giving them, and actually got a little bit frustrated that they weren't "getting" it. His tone was quite condescending at points. I believe in a more guidance-based interaction with these clients, especially when one is trying to teach them something. The caretaker must watch carefully for cues that the client is picking up what the caretaker is trying to teach. And, of course, the caretaker must always be able to give up and say to themselves: "this person can't understand what I'm trying to teach them, and probably won't unless I figure out a better way."

The key ingredient here is not getting frustrated. It's listening to whatever they say and interpreting it through the lens of someone who has been blessed with clear mental vision. Don't get frustrated because the client can't understand things or keeps wandering off or getting distracted.

Maybe my view of this has been influenced by my experience on the other side of the equation. While I was never mentally challenged, I did experience the social-worker client relationship through the lens of the client. There are a lot of things that are pretty subtle that require a keen eye to pick up. For example: realizing the cues that the client gives when they are uncomfortable.

It's best, in my mind, to just listen to clients when you are in this kind of relationship. Nod your head, say "yes, I understand," and ask targeted questions to tell them that you care and are listening to their story.

That's all I have to say. Treat people with respect, no matter what their mental state!

VIP Saga Day 2: Oragami: Can I Keep This?

Now that I think about it, origami requires a significant amount of spatial awareness and intelligence. This kind of intelligence was sadly lacking in the two groups of people I interacted with today. One group was comprised of people who had been born with intellectual disabilities. The other was comprised of elderly people with dementia. The whole program is geared towards people with intellectual disabilities, so the vast majority of clients are less than functional.

Sadly, the only person able to follow along with even the simplest designs was the social worker who was with me. Even she had a bit of trouble with the "magic" folds!

Maybe, since I learned origami at a young age (maybe fourth grade), I might have internalized some of the folds like language.

What made me really happy was when several of the elderly people I worked with during the second half of the day wanted to keep the stuff I made. One old man was oddly determined to put a paper bird I made in his locker. The social worker in the room even put his name on it for him.

I made paper airplanes, balls, and flapping birds. It was fun!

There is one fold--an origami water bomb--that puffs up majestically when you blow into the hole in its top. That was fun, seeing people's reactions to that.

Most of the people I worked with, though, could barely manage a triangle fold.

I think they got the most out of just watching me fold. One of the social workers even commented on how fast I fold!

That was today in a nutshell. I guess I have a new calling now, and I'm pretty happy with how things have turned out.

Mini Episode: Work Day at St. Johns!

Today I got up a little earlier than is usual on a Saturday in order to bring donuts and coffee to the people who I would soon be working with. There were, perhaps, ten people there--including the pastor--when we began the morning with a prayer. Then it was onward to stacking boxes!

Lots and lots of boxes. Apparently the basement of St. Johns is used as a storage facility for old paper legal documents. There were perhaps three hundred boxes, the size of a box of printer paper, filled with files and redwells.

The sad thing is that a significant number of them were water damaged. Especially the ones on the bottom. Apparently it has been a pretty wet season here in Wisconsin, with a lot more rain than usual.

We lifted the boxes from a too-narrow bunch of pallets to thicker pallets that would properly support rows of two, five boxes high. We also had to make sure that the ID stickers faced outwards.

There were a lot of files! Thousands, probably tens of thousands! All the boxes apparently belonged to the same file storage company.

I don't know what the arrangement with the whole storage thing works, but it's strange to find old legal files in storage in the basement of a proper church.

After that, I single-handedly vacuumed the sanctuary with a backpack-style vacuum. It was the first time I had ever used one!

Then we wrapped the day up with a lunch of hot dogs and mac and cheese.

A good day!

VIP Saga Day 1: Dumbfounding (And Saddening) Computer Illiteracy

I have to admit, I did not think it was possible to be as illiterate regarding computers as the people I worked with today. Of course, most of them were mentally handicapped to some degree, so I really shouldn't be placing the blame anywhere other than the roll of the human creation dice.

Let me backtrack.

I came in early and asked for Dave (not real name), the seventy-odd year old man who handles the computer classes. He had already started the first class.

The institution has a rather small computer room with six computers. Four of them were running Windows 7, and the other two were running Win8. There are rolly chairs and the room is just large enough to cross the whole floor with one big push.

There were four classes, each an hour long. The curriculum consisted of practicing typing and basic arithmetic practice.

I won't use strong language to describe how the "clients," as they are called, handled computers. A surprising number were around my age. Most of them were at the hunt and peck level of typing ability. About half did not know how to use a mouse. They would get caught up at the strangest things, such as not realizing that the screen had been scrolled down, to not knowing how to get rid of antivirus software popups (you know, those.)

I had one rather energetic gentleman who could not, in any way, understand the operation of the Shift key. He would press the shift key, and the instant he pressed the ?/ key he would let go of the shift and ?/ key at the same time--a method with a fifty percent failure rate.

I tried everything I could to try to tell him to keep the shift key pressed when you let up on the ?/ key! I guided his hands, I told him to count, repeated the same instructions over and over in as many ways as I possibly could. It was a no-go. The day ended and he still does not understand the function of the shift key.

A little backstory about VIP Services. They run a program where mentally disabled people can hang out during the day to give breaks to their caretakers. The program is mainly funded by donations and staffed by volunteers.

The highlight of my day was the guy, Dave, who was a blast to be around. I'm one of the people who really like listening to old folks tell their life stories. Because, that's exactly what he did. He told me that he once worked the BIG dump trucks that you see carting ore around strip mines. The thing had twelve foot tall tires, with a cab that was twenty-three feet off the ground. This guy was living on three pensions and social security. He had been a fireman, too. He also got a degree in Engineering and another one in computerized drafting.

Pretty cool dude.

The only problem was that, in the middle of the day, his phone rang. Apparently his aunt, who was on hospice, had passed away and Dave's wife was too devastated to be alone.

As a result, I got to be useful, being the pinch hitter in this situation so that the day would go on.

Next week I'm going to be teaching the clients origami. I bet that will be fun.

Prologue to the VIP Saga: doing the institution tour!

There's this place called VIP services here in the town I'm in. It's a volunteer organization that does a whole bunch of different community services. I have actually used them to get from place to place, as they run a cheap, government-subsidized rideshare program that costs less than five bucks a ride anywhere in the county. Three-fifty if within the same city.

Now, they also do a lot of other things. Let me start from the beginning.

I met with the Volunteer Coordinator (she just so happened to be manning the receptionist window at the front when I came in) and greeted her. I'd left several messages by phone and she asked me the obligatory "How do I pronounce your name/where is it from?"

I would have been surprised if that hadn't happened.

In any case, she led me down a hall that had a very institution-esque feel (giving me flashbacks to the time I spent in the psych ward) and introduced me to several rooms full of disabled/elderly people. They all looked like they were having a great time.

VIP services does not have any live-in residents. The people who spend their time there come in in the morning and leave before three pm. There are lots of activities and fun things to do.

I met one mentally disables fellow, let's call him Bob, who gave me his version of a "high five;" an elbow bump. Apparently, they tell him to keep it to the elbows because he is constantly wiping his nose with his hand.

I may have been guilty of that at one point as well ... But no more!

The place seemed very friendly and I think I'll enjoy volunteering there until my paying job matches me with a client. I'm going to be teaching computer literacy tomorrow! I hope it goes well.

More stories hopefully will be forthcoming after my first day.

The Weakest Link Chapter 2: Not a Devil, Not a God

Not a Devil, Not a God

Marigold stood on a street corner in the middle of skid row, watching carefully for a person she knew would be coming. After years of searching and research, she had finally begun to execute her plan. The man came, wearing a long coat that hid his face. His back stooped almost comically, with humps at regular intervals along his spine.

Marigold held out a golden apple, carefully. The man’s eyes seemed to gleam from behind the hood, even though Marigold could not see them. He took the apple in both hands.

“You’re not getting a fair deal, you know that, right?” said the hunchbacked man. He held the apple up to the light of a streetlamp and examined it. It twinkled, glittering. He tucked it into his jacket with one hand and pulled out first a mask, and then a dagger, holding them in the same hand as he handed them to Marigold.

Marigold took the mask. Her eyes blazed with Machiavellian intensity.

“You know what that does, right?” said the hunchbacked man.

“Of course,” said Marigold. “Why would I trade a gapple for it if I didn’t?”

The man seemed to think for a minute. “You have a long road ahead of you, then.”

Marigold’s anger flashed. “What do you know about long roads?” she said.

The man backed away, bowing. “Much more than you think I do,” he said, before disappearing into the darkness.

Marigold held the mask in her right hand. She turned it. It was nondescript, made of jade, representing the face of an ugly man. Marigold smiled. This was what she had been waiting for.

###

Fey’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, its light throwing shadows against the bedframe.

Come to my house. I have something to show you.

Fey sighed. Sometimes, his sister would call him to help with various problems she encountered with her house as a handyman. To her, it was cheaper than hiring real help. Even though she was vastly rich, she still nickeled and dimed everything.

But Fey needed the money. His computer was in its dying stages and he needed a new one.

Doberman woke up and began to whine. Fey, getting out of bed, patted him, ruffling his hair. Doberman’s eyes appeared to ask him “why are you awake?”

Fey sighed, walked to the dresser, and got ready for an outing in the cold winter might.

Walking about two miles, watching for muggers and squinting at headlights, he reached the Beverly Hills area. After another mile or two he arrived at Marigold’s mansion.

He knocked. There was silence for a while, and then Marigold opened the door. She was, for some reason, dressed in a fancy outfit that was definitely not easy to put on—almost as if she were preparing for a formal occasion. She smiled. “Glad you came.”

Fey followed her into the grand reception room. Fancy decorations, probably worth millions, lined the walls and sat in the corner. Fey had long since stopped worrying about the income disparity between himself and his sister.

“What broke?” he said.

“Just the light bulb in one of the rooms,” said Marigold. “It would cost me triple to call for professional help.”

Fey sighed. Saying anything about how unfair it was would not change anything. Plus, he still held a fondness for his sister that he couldn’t pinpoint the origin of.

“Take me to it,” he said.

Marigold led Fey up the grand staircase. Glancing at the clock, Fey noted that it was five minutes to midnight. So much for his sleep schedule.

The room’s door was wide open. Fey recognized it as Marigold’s workshop, where she put together costumes and stored all of her magical equipment.

As Marigold had indicated, the light bulb was out. The room was lit with candles, which flickered ominously.

Strange, thought Fey. They weren’t the scented candles that Marigold seemed to like so much. In fact, they looked almost ceremonial.

Fey turned to Marigold. “A ladder, please.”

“Of course,” said Marigold. However, she did not move from the doorway. “Can you try reaching for it yourself?”

Fey looked at the ceiling. It was just high enough for him to reach if his stretched. He sighed, again, and reached for the broken bulb.

Electricity crackled out of the bulb and entered his body through his arm. He was frozen. Unable to move, thoughts rushed through his mind. Was it an accident? Did Marigold leave around one of her magical tools?

Marigold walked around him until she was facing him. She grinned—the smile that Fey knew to mean she was going to do something horrible.

“I do care about you, little brother,” she said. “But you’re probably going to die anyways from your illness. Even when treated, type one diabetes can do that.” She brushed aside a lock of his hair. “So I’m just expediting the process. And, in the meantime, I gain something.” She pulled out a dagger with one hand, and brought Fey gently to the floor with the other.

“Be quiet for me, will you?” she said. She then slit her own finger and dribbled the blood on Fey’s forehead. With a brush dipped in that blood, she drew a character from some foreign language on Fey’s neck. The blood was warm and slimy.

Marigold stood up. She wiped the blade with a cloth. “Sorry about this,” she said, clearly not sorry. She then chanted a mantra in a language that resonated like magic. Fey’s body felt a million miles away.

The dagger fell with a flash. Fey’s stomach burned, and then the lights in his mind went out.

A swirling whirlwind of darkness surrounded him. He could see nothing, feel nothing.

The disgusting face of a devil appeared out of the blackness. It grinned, mischievously. “You got sacrificed, eh?” he said. A small window into the room where Fey had been killed appeared. Marigold was wearing a weird jade mask and smearing his own blood all over it. There was no sound, but she appeared to be laughing.

The window closed. “A small price for her to pay for what she’s going to receive,” said the devil. His grin grew wider. “So let’s surprise her a little bit. I don’t want my compatriot whom she is sacrificing you to gaining an advantage over me.” The devil’s entire body appeared. He had the lower body of a goat and the upper body of a human. A classic demon. “And since you have been sacrificed as a human offering, you fall straight under my jurisdiction.” The devil motioned to himself. “As you can see, I am a devil. Not just any devil though. I am the god of sacrifice.”

Fey coughed up blood. His insides were still a mess because of the stab wound.

The devil approached Fey. “My name is Offool. Sounds a bit like offal or offering, right?” He motioned to himself again. “I was planning on this playing out differently. The man who was supposed to use the Mask of the Necromancer should have been a quarter as powerful as your sister is. As things are right now, I could stand to lose my position.” He smirked. “Thus, I have to do everything in my power to utilize my resources—you—to fight back against that bastard Nero.”

Offool walked up to Fey and touched his chest. “You have been healed. As I am the god of sacrifice, though, all power that will be vested in you must be obtained through the sacrifice of something. That’s just how things work around here.”

“Necro …” said Fey. He remembered a small part of the mythology class he took in college. “He’s the god of the dead, right?”

“The undead,” said Offool. “You mortals don’t understand him enough.” He swept his hand and a picture of a skeleton wearing voluptuous robes on the throne of a palace appeared. “He is giving your sister the ability to raise the dead. She is becoming a necromancer.”

“Necromancer …” said Fey. His brain was still playing catchup to his sudden teleportation.

Offool walked up to Fey and put his hand on Fey’s forehead. “I am allowing you to access some of my power. The more you sacrifice to me, the more power you will gain.” He touched Fey’s recent wound. It healed in a flash of red light. “Money,” he said. “Gold. Dollars. Silver. Riches. All of it. I need all of it.”

Fey shook his head. “I’m poor. I have no money.”

Offool began walking in circles around Fey. “I’ll give you something to start with,” he said. “Call it an investment. An investment that I expect to pay dividends.” He snapped his fingers and a goblet of wine appeared in his hand. He sipped it. “I will give you something I have been working on for a long time.” He paused. “I’ll regale you the tale of how I acquired it.” He snapped his fingers again and a metal box with two holes on opposite sides appeared in his free hand. It was about the size of an apple. He placed it on the ground, carefully, and a blue interaction screen popped up in front of him.

“I was traveling the expanse of space somewhere in this galaxy and encountered a Dyson Probe sent out millennia ago by an unknown race of beings.” He tapped the screen and the box grew to the size of a large dog. “This device takes in material and spits out whatever you have the plans to make. There are a few preloaded designs in there, but the rest of what this thing can make is locked behind a series of security walls. I can get the keys, yes, but it will take a long time.” He tapped the screen again and the box shrank back to the size of an apple. He tossed it to Fey.

Fey caught.

“I will cut you a deal. You give me money, and I will use my connections and ability to unlock more plans for you to use. Thus, as I get richer, you will gain the power of this factory.” Offool flicked his wrist and the goblet of wine disappeared. “I’ll leave it to you to figure out how to get money. I’ll start by demanding half a million dollars’ worth of straight cash or precious metal obtained in ten days.”

“What happens if I don’t get it by then?” said Fey. He shivered. It was cold.

“Then you’ll be dispersed into nothingness. I can’t support minions who don’t make me profit, after all.”

Fey watched as Offool circled him. He thought for a minute. “What about my sister?” he said.

Offool smirked. “She’s going to be pursuing her own goals,” he said. “Of course, they involve taking over at least the entirety of North America.”

Fey shivered. “My sister … She’s really doing this?” Thinking back on his relationship with her, he couldn’t believe that she would do this. Even though she was a penny pincher, even though she was sometimes a tyrant, Fey thought that deep down, she was a good person. She had to be. She was his sister, after all. The person Fey had always looked up to. She was strong. She wouldn’t fall to the temptation of whatever dark forces created that jade mask.

Offool laughed. “You do not understand the depths of greed that infect humanity. Everyone is capable of doing evil.”

“But …” said Fey. “Why?”

“Take a look,” said Offool, opening the view portal again.

Marigold had since finished the ritual. Fey’s body was halfway through disintegrating into black dust. She took the jade mask she had been wearing and carefully placed it within a safe behind a mirror. Wiping her hands, she sat down in a plush chair next to a cluttered table. She then picked up the phone. “Hello? Is this the police?” she paused. “Yes. My brother, Fey Darwin, hasn’t been answering my calls. He’s been gone a whole day. I think he’s missing.”

The view faded.

“Let’s accelerate a week,” said Offool.

The screen flickered. There was Fey’s mother, dying from cancer, laying in a hospital bed. Marigold had been paying her medical fees—a sign to Fey that she wasn’t as bad as her actions told. Even after she sacrificed him.

The detective knelt down beside Ms. Darwin. “We haven’t found anything about your son yet.” He turned as Marigold walked in. “Your daughter is being hit the worst by this, I assure you.”

It appeared that Marigold had been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy and her makeup was a little messy.

Ms. Darwin began to sob silently. The tube that was helping her breathe made a swiping sound after each sob.

“I wanted to see him one last time before I died,” said Ms. Darwin. “I can’t believe that he’s gone.”

“I did the best I could,” said Marigold, kneeling beside her mother. “I don’t know where he’s gone, but I will find him and I will bring him back to talk to you before … Before you die.”

Ms. Darwin grasped Marigold’s hand. “Please …” she said. “Bring back my little boy.”

Fey continued to watch, enraptured. Marigold’s deceptive face was perilously well-acted. She appeared the perfect rendition of an older sister who was worried to death about the fate of her little brother.

“Sorry to show you this,” said Offool, opening a new portal while closing the one showing the hospital. There was Doberman, in a cage at the animal shelter. His eyes were dead and his breathing shallow. A worker at the shelter gently opened the cage and pulled him out. Doberman was taken to a white room and placed on a table.

Fey collapsed. “No …” he said.

Offool shook his head. “Your sister was thorough. She knew that Doberman might be the key to figuring out what happened to you.”

The animal shelter worker pulled out a needle. His eyes were as glazed over as the dog’s. He whispered something—there was no sound—and then injected Doberman with the syringe. Doberman’s breathing slowly faded until his eyes darkened and he slumped down.

Offool closed the portal. “As you can see,” he said, pausing to let Fey regain his composure, “Your sister has covered all the bases.”

Fey rubbed his stinging eyes. “I don’t know … Why would she do this?”

Offool laughed. “Power, of course!” he said. “Your sister wasn’t expected to be the one to receive the power given to her, but Necro—that bastard—is probably giggling into his wine glass about obtaining her.”

“You said something about her being four times as powerful as the previous candidate,” said Fey, now mostly recovered. He wiped the snot coming out of his nose.

“Your sister was rated as the eighth most powerful A-rank in California.”

“What about the other A-ranks? Or the S ranks?”

Offool chuckled. “You don’t have to worry. There will only be one necromancer.”

Fey turned to look at the darkness behind him. “What now?” he said.

Offool snapped his fingers and a spider dressed in a butler suit scuttled into the room through an opening in the darkness.

“Since your previous body would be recognized, we are giving you a new one.”

The spider unloaded what it had been carrying, wrapped in silk. It was a mannequin, but of a higher quality than those in clothing stores. The face, especially, was very realistic. Handsome, of course, but with an almost imperceptible plastic feel to it.

“Is this …” said Fey.

“Your new body,” said Offool. He tilted his head. “What, did you expect me to actually bring you a flesh-and-blood body?”

“I thought you were a god,” said Fey.

“I just used that term because it fit in some way,” said Offool. “I’m not really a god. Just a very powerful individual.” He shook his head, smiling. “In any case, this body is special. With every blessing I give you, it will grow stronger.”

“Blessings, as in exchange for the money you want?”

Offool rubbed his hands together. “You catch on quick.” He opened another portal with a snap of his fingers. “The only shrine to me in the United States is on the East Coast, in Boston.”

“So I won’t have to meet my sister?”

“If you don’t want to,” said Offool.

The portal Offool had opened was of a more physical nature than the previous ones. The room beyond was a nondescript concrete box with a couple of simple-looking altars in it.

“You’re not really a devil, are you?” said Fey, as he stepped towards the portal.

Offool laughed. “I’m neither an angel or a devil. Just a very powerful person.” He paused. “You’re wondering why I look like this.”

Fey nodded.

Offool snapped his fingers, and his body turned into an ordinary bearded man with a rather sprightly facial expression. “Those were my work clothes.” He clapped once.

The spider butler brought him a platter with an ordinary egg and ham breakfast on it. Offool picked up the toast and crunched it, waving his hand.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll be getting ready for work again. My break is almost over.” He looked as if he had just remembered something. A smartphone appeared in his hand. He tossed it.

“Catch,” he said.

Fey caught it with the hand that wasn’t holding the micro factory. “For contacting you, right?”

Offool gave Fey the finger guns, winking. “You got it.” Then his image fuzzed up and disappeared. The spider bowed, as best a spider could, and backed away through the door it had arrived from.

Fey shuddered. He stepped through the portal, allowing it to close behind him.

3

***

Chapter one of The Weakest Link

“Fey! Hurry up or you’ll be left behind!”

Magnolia’s voice bounced off the walls of the stone cathedral, which was lime-lit by pillars of rock around which torch fire ricocheted and played merrily with itself. The whole room was cast in a gloomy, disinterested glow. Flickers of orange and yellow churned on the ceiling and the creaking depths of the darkness below their passage, illuminating nothing. The air smelled of must and guano.

Fey picked up his pace. His pack—almost too heavy for him to carry—dug into the small of his back.

“I’m coming,” he said, as he approached the back of the adventuring party.

He caught up to James, a middle-aged man with a slender build, wearing a magician’s cloak. Exuding power, the cloak simmered in hues of angry red and soft, touching blue. Electricity crackled around its edges, sparks jumping orange. Enough power to rival a nuclear bomb fought to escape the silken fabric.

The tank whose job it was to protect the rear, Alex, had equipment of the same caliber and electrically powerful make.

The only difference was its design. Covered in sponsorships, ranging from McDonalds to Roundup, it resembled the paint job of a NASCAR vehicle. Logos fought for space on his breastplate, greaves, and leggings. His entire helmet was dedicated to an advert for specialty dungeon equipment by the maker Pelicar—a high-end brand that was along the lines of Louis Vuitton in the dungeon crawling scene.

Most other adventurers in the party were similarly outfitted—except for Fey. His cheap, battered cloak and worn-down boots were all that he could afford.

He was only working this job because of Magnolia.

Magnolia drifted backwards through the advancing party until she came into contact with Fey.

“Hey,” she said. “You look a little gloomy.”

Fey thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, “I am. I don’t like spelunking-class dungeons very much.”

“What about them? The atmosphere? The lighting? Or are you claustrophobic?”

“That,” said Fey. “All of it.”

Marigold flicked Fey in the forehead. “You dummy. You know I’m going to make sure you get out of here in perfect shape.”

Fey turned his gaze away. “I—”

“Contact!” yelled Sam, the party member whose job it was to keep an eye out for the enemy.

Magnolia’s expression changed to an unreadable blend of maniacal fiendishness and self-aware irony. “Would you look at that,” she said, moving her gaze to where a tunnel split off from the main path. “Kobolds.”

Fey shivered. “I’ll stay back.”

“As always,” said Magnolia, smiling sweetly. She gave him a rub on his head. “Your big sister will take care of you.” Then her eyes glimmered a bit and she thumbed the edge of her blade. Radiating magic power, the blade half disappeared into thin air, leaving only a phantom of its form behind. Electricity arced from its tip, traveling all the way to the hilt in waves.

She disappeared. A second later the kobolds descended. Foaming at the mouth, traced with war paint, a hundred of them poured out of the entrance to the side tunnel.

“They’re ordinary!” shouted Sam. “I count one hundred and seven!”

Alex, who was standing next to Fey, chuckled. “As expected of an A rank dungeon. Switching things up a bit.”

Fey shivered. “Are kobolds dangerous?”

“They usually populate E rank dungeons in pairs of two or three, but this many can only be seen in an A rank.” He pointed to a rather tall kobold standing behind the pack. “See him? He’s a kingpin. They’re not very powerful, but they are smart.” He raised his shield. “See—”

A little dart appeared out of nowhere stuck in Alex’s hand. Before he stopped moving completely, he pushed out the words: “Paralysis …”

Fey scrambled to unpack his bags and find the right potion. Before he could, a single kobold slipped through the defensive lines and ran straight at Fey.

Fey stumbled. The kobold’s face slavered with rage and bestial emotion. It held a small, crooked dagger that it held in its right hand.

Fey fell to the floor. His fear had overwhelmed him. He pulled his own dagger out of its sheath.

When the kobold came close, he slashed.

A red “12” floated above the kobold’s head. The kobold’s skin suffered a small slit through its armor. A blue “130/142” appeared after the red “12.”

His attack was almost worthless. He backed up on his hands and knees as the kobold approached with a merciless glee in its eyes. Raising its blade, the kobold laughed. Its tongue hung out of its mouth, flapping from side to side.

Fey dodged, but not fast enough. The blade entered his side, striking a rib. He coughed up blood. The kobold twisted the dagger, wearing a grin filled with crooked teeth. Spittle landed on Fey’s face.

The kobold ripped the dagger out. Blood traced in droplets through the air. Fey’s vision blurred.

A crossbow bolt pierced the kobold’s head, sending it into a dance of frenzied death, after which it collapsed to the floor, lifeless. Blood trickled out of its mouth.

Through his double vision and intense pain, Fey saw Magnolia kneel in front of him. She appeared distressed, more so than would have been normal after Fey had taken a hit. He moved his head to the side.

Oh. Alex was dead. His eyes had rolled back and he wasn’t breathing. His body was in a position that implied he had died because he had been distracted by Fey’s plight. An arrow had struck a critical hit.

Bright light emanated from the healer, Bee, who stood right next to Magnolia. The pain in Fey’s body lessened.

“Damn porter,” she said, her voice a distant stream. “Why did we have to bring this F ranker here?”

“He’s my brother,” said Magnolia.

“That doesn’t mean we can let him get our party members killed!”

“I have to keep an eye on him, and he needs the money!”

“That has nothing to do with our party!” said Bee. She lifted her hands.

Fey sat up, groaning. “What …” he said. He looked at Alex’s body again. “Did I do it again?”

Magnolia’s face creased in a strange way before she sighed. “Yeah, Fey,” she said. “You did it again.”

Fey coughed. “Sorry …”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” said Bee.

Magnolia slapped her. “I’m the leader here,” she said, in a strong voice. “I get to decide what happens.”

Bee hesitated. “You …” She seemed to think for a moment. “You’re just a money-grubbing worm who doesn’t think about the lives of her people,” she said. She stood up. “I’m leaving.”

“We can’t keep going without our healer,” said Sam, from the other side of the battle zone.

Magnolia rubbed her eyes. “Then we’ll leave. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“Just because it will cost money …” said Bee, before she turned away and began the return to the surface.

“Does anyone else have any complaints?” said Marigold, surveying the party.

“She’ll never make it out alive,” said James.

“Who’s going to stop her?” said Marigold.

All the party members averted their eyes.

“Exactly,” said Marigold. “We stick together down here or else suffer the consequences.” She glanced at where Bee had gone.

“Let’s go.”

The whole party mumbled, and Fey knew that it was about him. Yes, he was weak. Yes, he couldn’t even fight against a single kobold. The only reason why he stayed with his sister on these dungeon crawls was that she was paying him. Not much. Just enough to cover his insulin fees—which were astronomical thanks to big business and monopolies.

Marigold had a saying: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Fey had sometimes wondered if she actually cared about him, but he usually put that thought aside whenever it popped up.

He needed to work this job to stay alive. Type 1 diabetes was still incurable. Battle healing magic only worked in dungeons, and only healed injuries that had been obtained in that dungeon. There was no respite for him.

He followed the party out of the dungeon and into the streets of Los Angeles.

Dungeons. They appeared suddenly as doors into another world, and if the boss wasn’t killed in seven days, the monsters within would have free reign over wherever the gate appeared. At the same time as the appearance of the dungeons, about one in every hundred people received an “level up,” which gave them powers far greater than a normal human being. Usually, these powers went along the line of traditional role playing video games.

No one knew why.

The adventurers were ranked based on a class system that went from F, where the individual was just barely stronger than a normal human, to S, which was the category where those beasts who could not be measured were grouped.

There were two major guilds in the Southern California area. Longneck, and The Greasers. There were many, many smaller guilds, but most adventurers chose to work with the big guilds because of their power and, of course, their support crew.

Marigold stepped out of the portal and into a crowd of support crew. Yellow and white hard hats swarmed around, taking everyone’s special equipment, passing out Gatorade, cooling the adventurers off with towels.

The logo of the Longneck guild was everywhere. This was their party, after all. Though it was only the C team.

A woman in a prim, tight business suit approached Marigold. She eyed the gathered party members.

“I assume I’m going to have to send in a corpse retrieval party?”

“Two,” said Marigold. She took off her armor and handed it to a nearby support personnel.

The woman sighed. “You really need to better manage your party,” she said.

Marigold’s face flashed with anger. “Who says I’m not doing a good job?”

The woman rubbed her temples. “Look. We can’t keep taking losses on your end. The B and A teams rarely lose a member.”

Marigold looked like she was about to hit the suited woman. “I’m not doing anything wrong.” She turned to the party. “Am I?” she tried to meet their averted gazes. “Am I?”

There was no response.

The suited woman put her hand on Marigold’s shoulder. “You’ll have to brief command later.” She looked at Fey. “And get that man a drink. He looks like he’s been through hell.”

Fey sighed. Every party needed a porter. The pay was comparatively low, and thus no high-level adventurer would ever take the job. Not only that, there was a stigma, and a legend that if an adventurer of C class or higher took a job as a porter, their career would be over.

It was dangerous, too.

Fey stretched his arms, looking for a nice place to sit. He felt bone-tired. His entire being shuddered with the feeling of a blade penetrating his side. The floating numbers that passed his vision were almost real, as if there were enemies in front of him at the moment.

“Alex was a good man,” said Sam, facing Fey. “You’re dead weight here. No one knows why you, an F ranked hunter, are still here.”

Fey averted his gaze. “I’m just here because I have to be here.”

Sam turned away. “I recognize that Bee died because she didn’t stay with the group, but you’re probably the cause of that too.”

Fey shook his head. “I don’t know. I never know. I’m not powerful but …”

“But what?” said Sam.

“I don’t know. I guess that’s it. I’m just weak.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

“I … I don’t know.”

Sam grimaced and turned away.

A support crew member handed Fey a bottle of Gatorade. Fey thanked him. The crew member nodded once, understandingly, and then began handing Gatorade to the other team members.

Fey folded his hands and looked at the sky. It was a true, bright blue, not a cloud in sight. Perfect California weather. The skyscrapers of downtown LA swept up and pierced the sky.

The portal that lead to the dungeon cast everything around it with a slight greenish glow. Every now and again the mysterious ruins that lined its edges changed, dissolving and then reappearing as different, still unintelligible, words. A large amount of magical energy radiated outwards like the heat from a fireplace.

Marigold stood in the center of the crowd, giving orders to the support crew. Her mannerisms were curt, almost brutal. Everyone feared her. Her power as one of the top ten A-rank adventurers lent a certain strength to her commands. She could take on the rest of the party toe to toe, alone. Her beauty was unmatched as well. She was a tyrant queen, full of ambitions and the need to be recognized as powerful.

This much Fey knew. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. He sighed, taking a swig of the Gatorade the support personnel had given him. It was Blue Cherry, not his favorite, but any Gatorade would do after a harrowing adventure. He looked at the pack that he had been carrying. Already vested of its valuable soul stones—dropped by every monster before it puffed into dust—there was only emergency equipment and a couple of backup weapons. It was Fey’s life.

Later that evening, as Fey sat on the balcony of his tiny apartment, he watched the stars go by, the blinking of the lights of the city. Distant sirens grew louder and then faded. Some people on the bottom floor were throwing a party.

Doberman, Fey’s dog, shuffled out of the apartment and lay down at Fey’s side. Fey scratched behind his ears absent-mindedly. “You’re weak, are you?” Fey said. “You’re the strongest animal I know.”

Doberman, not understanding, nuzzled Fey’s leg.

“Good boy,” said Fey.