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.