Adventuring is a Profession
I turn the corner at breakneck speed. I am running faster
than I ever have in my entire life. Even at this speed, though, it will not be
long before my pursuers catch up.
I was always the slowest runner in school.
“Help!” I yell, hoping to get someone’s attention. “Help!”
In this neighborhood, however, that doesn’t mean anything.
Most people here will simply bolt their doors and close their shutters when
something is happening.
I turn another corner, heading towards a street where I know
there will be people.
Five seconds before it happens, I see another blue shadow
that seems to be hinting at what will happen next. I stop with my heels and
whip around.
A girl in green spandex lands right in front of me, between me,
the curb, and Aaron’s thugs. She holds out her hand.
“Halt!” she says.
Never have I ever been so grateful for the civilian adventure
patrol.
The girl is skinny, with crimson hair pulled back in a
ponytail. “Why are you chasing this kid?” she says, to the four thugs.
Aaron approaches her boldly. “This ain’t your problem,
miss,” he says. “I would suggest you get out of our way.”
The girl sighs. “That doesn’t help your case.”
Aaron turns and looks at his thug friends. Then he spits and
drags his feet on the ground. The three thugs fan out and appear to be readying
for a fight.
The girl flicks her fingers. A bright yellow ring, adorned
with mystical lettering and arcane shapes, starts forming at her chest and
radiates outwards until it is at least a meter in diameter.
I know what this is. This is a spirit circle. It is the
first time I have seen one in real life. I see them on TV all the time, but
something is different about its presence when right in front of me.
The girl laughs. “You’re attacking me?” A wind picks up, a
low growl that sends shivers down my spine. Leaves and paper scraps pick up
from the gutter and rise, undulating, as they swirl around the girl’s spirit
circle.
All at once the winds concentrate. Blasting forward with an
impossible noise, the cyclonic winds pick Aaron and the three thugs up and
smash them against a dumpster. They fight to move but are unable to stand up
against the withering gale.
The girl flicks her wrist. A rope uncoils from a satchel at
her side, twirling and snaking along with the wind. With a swinging motion it
trusses up the four thugs up. When the wind has died down, the four thugs are
hanging from the top of a street-lamp, swaying gently in the leftover breeze.
Only now do I notice the sound of police sirens. I look
around myself. All I see is devastation. Several dumpsters have been thrown
across the street, their contents strewn about willy-nilly. At least a dozen
lampposts are bent or crooked. A transformer box is crackling, looking like it
is about to explode. The windows on the side of the building closest to us are
cracked, some of them missing.
“Oops,” I hear the girl say. She turns to me, grinning like
a maniac. “Run!” she says.
Before she can even take a step, Blackjack—a local adventurer
who I know well from TV—lands beside her with a thump. He grabs her arm and
plants his feet.
“Nooo!” says the girl. “I’m sorry!”
Blackjack sighs. “Look, Esla, I know you were meaning to
help, but you have to learn to control your powers.” He looks over at me. “Sorry
about that. She has a habit of letting her powers go out of control.” He looks
up at the four hanging men, who are struggling to free themselves, uselessly.
He sighs again. “I’ll take care of these four bozos. While I’m at it, I want
you at the police station. Now.”
Esla, which I assume is the name of the girl who just saved
me, looks at the ground in contrition. “But—” she says.
Blackjack slams his foot down, sending a wave through the
concrete.
Esla shirks. “Okay.” She turns around.
Blackjack looks at me, apologetically. “I’m going to need
your statement too,” he says. “If you don’t mind. Just follow Esla here to the
local station.”
The walkie-talkie at Blackjack’s side flares up.
“We have a psion wave convergence at Fifth and Main. A
dungeon has been forecasted. The Black Cats have been assigned to clear it.
Over.”
Blackjack grimaces. “As you can see, I’m busy,” he says. He
looks me over. “Be careful out there.” With a kick he jumps ten feet up and
begins running against the side of a building, climbing to its top, and jumping
away.
Esla smiles sheepishly at me. “Sorry. I get carried away
sometimes.” She motions towards the nearest street. “Asalo station isn’t too
far away.”
I follow her through the sidewalks and towards the police
station. I live here, so I already know where it is.
“You’re an adventurer, right?” I say.
“In training,” says Esla. “I’m a junior at Ixtham Academy.”
“I’m going to be going there soon,” I say.
Esla’s eyes light up. “Really?” she says. “Congratulations!”
She holds her hand up.
I pause.
Esla seems disappointed. “High five?” she says.
I reluctantly give her a high five.
“Yeah!” she says. She pumps her fist. “Fighting for
justice!” She tilts her head. “What did those bullies want with you anyways?”
she says.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing. They just don’t like me.”
“There has to be a reason,” says Esla. “No bully tries
assaulting a pedestrian in broad daylight without a reason.”
“I …” I say, debating about whether or not to speak. I make
a decision. “I got him kicked out of SMART’s youth program.”
“Ouch,” says Esla. “I’m sure he did something to deserve it,
though, right?”
“He … He’s always been a bully to me. He just happened to
try to bully me in front of the judge who awakened me.”
“Ha!” says Esla. “It seems like he got what he deserved.”
We turn the corner and reach the local police station. Esla’s
attitude becomes somber.
“Look, whatever you do, don’t look suspicious. I don’t want
any trouble.”
I nod vigorously. “Of course. Of course.”
Esla paused. “You look scared.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
Though, I really am. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a
police office for something bad, even though this is more of a kiosk than an
office.
Esla grins, and then shrugs, appearing to regain some of her
liveliness. “First time for everything, eh?” she says. Then she waltzes through
the front door.
I follow.
The cop at the desk looks up, appearing annoyed. “What is it
this time, Esla?” he says. “Did you ruin another streetlamp?”
Esla looks sheepish. “Well, a little bit more than that.”
“Ha …” says the cop. “You were the cause of the disturbance
call just five minutes ago, then.” He scratches his head. “What did you break
this time?”
“I don’t know,” says Esla. “A lot of stuff? There were some
sparks, a lot of glass, and … And some bad guys I tied to a lamp post.”
The cop rubs his temple. “As long as the academy covers the
expenses, I can’t actually do anything to you.” He pauses, seeming to notice me
for the first time. “Is this the person you, eh, saved?”
I nod. “Yes. She saved my life.”
The cop sighs. “I’m going to have to take both of your
statements.” He clicks a couple time at his desktop computer. “Come in. It will
only take fifteen minutes.”
I oblige.
Twenty minutes later, feeling more frazzled than I ever have
in my entire life, I step out of the police station beside Esla. She turns to
me.
“You said your name was Markus, right?”
I had, during the questioning. I nod.
Esla grins broadly. “Call me Esla,” she says. “My spirit is
a typhoon. What’s yours?”
“Er, …” I say. “Blue Anima.”
Esla doesn’t seem fazed. “So you see stuff?”
I nod.
“What kind of stuff?”
I shrug. “I think it has something to do with space … And
time … Maybe spacetime?”
Esla laughs bubbly-like. “So you’re the next Einstein?”
I shake my head vigorously. “I’m not nearly smart enough. I
just barely managed to get in. I haven’t even got the results of my entrance
exam back.”
Esla smiles at me. “I’m sure you’ll get in. You seem like
the kind of guy who makes the best of things.”
I don’t know what to think of that. Am I really making the
best of things? Of course I know that I am weak, stupendously so. But how am I
reacting to that?
Have I tried taking my future into my own hands yet?
I don’t know.
Esla extends her hand.
This time, I don’t hesitate to shake it.
“I’ll see you at school,” she says, winking. Then she turns
around and ambles away. Before she rounds the corner, she faces back towards me
and waves. “You’ll get in! I know it!” With a twirl she walks away.
I stand in front of the police station for a couple of
motionless seconds. I shrug and walk towards my house. A police car passes by,
from the direction of the incident. I think I catch sight of Aaron in the back.
At the very least, no one is hanging from a lamp post anymore.
Once home—it’s a short distance from the station—I go up to
my apartment and enter.
My mother is on the living room floor handling the baby. My
dad isn’t home from work yet.
“How did it go?” my mom says, without looking up.
“I took the test,” I say, “But I’m not sure if I passed it
yet.”
My mom coos at baby Sandy. She is not yet old enough to
walk, and so she crawls around the safe space on the living room floor while my
mother watches her.
I enter my room and toss my backpack on my bed. As part of
the written exam, I had filled out some information, including my address,
phone number, and email. Email was how they were going to send me my results.
I check the Dungeon Keeper’s forums online to see what is
going on in the adventuring community. Three new dungeons have opened up in the
greater Tri-City area this afternoon. That is not unusual. There is some video
footage of the one that was cleared by the Red Birds—I watch everything.
Usually, high-profile guilds bring media personnel with them to film their
work. The “sport,” which isn’t actually a sport but rather a public necessity
like firefighting and police work—is, despite this, filmed for entertainment.
Well at least, a lot of people treat it like that. I’m pretty sure the actual
people involved in filming treat it more like wartime correspondence than
televised sports. Analysts instead of announcers, a sixty-second live delay,
and ticker tape running along the bottom of the screen.
I get to see Drew Clerk, the healer for the Red Birds’
A-team, obtain a triple-digit spirit circle. It is from a gigantic snake-like
monster that takes them half an hour to bring down. The analysts call it an Orange
Toeless Monitor. I check the usual forums, and after dinner play some video
games. A night like any other.
I go to sleep at my usual time, eleven pm.
When I wake up my phone is blinking. It’s early; too early
for the alarm to have gone off. I grab the phone and check it.
An email. It has just arrived. Even though it isn’t even
seven in the morning, it appears to have been no more than five minutes since I
received it.
Strange, I thought. I open it up.
Congratulations. You have been accepted as a trial
student at Ixtham Academy. You will start the day you receive this message.
Please don’t be late.
Today?! That’s too quick!
The message continues.
Your draft scoring is as such:
Dexterity: 5
Constitution: 6
Strength: 6
Intelligence: 12
Charisma: 5
Wisdom: 9
Spirit Rating:
Versatility: E
Power Output: F
Combat Rating: F
Priority: E
Notes: Unusually high psion emission rate.
It isn’t anything I wasn’t expecting. I know from watching
dungeon crawling on TV that the stats given to me in the email are below
average in everything except intelligence, which is three points above average,
and wisdom, which is average. This isn’t much to work with. If anything, it
proves that I am not going to be very useful for whatever guild selects me.
I may not even be selected at all. That is a possibility.
F is also the lowest grade possible for a combat spirit. E
means I am just barely above the non-combat spirits in terms of battle power.
I do feel a little bit happy, though, that I at least have a
more powerful spirit than Aaron. Though his spirit is probably more useful,
overall, than mine. Just in a different field.
But adventurers are more respected than engineers. And I
don’t think Aaron is smart enough to even be an engineer.
A mixed bag, to be honest. But I know what I want. I want to
become an adventurer. I always have. This is, at the very least, an opportunity
to take hold of.
I look up the address of Ixtham on Google Maps. It’s in the
same building as the Adventurer’s Association.
As I get ready, I make extra sure that I don’t forget
anything.
Once in the kitchen, I realize I am the first person to wake
up, which is rare in a household with a loud-mouthed infant.
As if on cue, Sandy starts bawling. A bleary-eyed dad walks
out of the hall and stops, startled.
“You’re awake early,” he says.
I smile at him. “I got in to Ixtham,” I say.
Dad hugs me. “Congratulations. When do you start? Next
week?”
“Today,” I say.
My dad opens his eyes in surprise. “They aren’t giving you
any time, are they?”
I shake my head. “But I think I’m going to be fine.”
My dad releases me and heads to the kitchen. “Do you want
breakfast before you leave?”
“No thanks,” I say, shouldering my bag. “I should probably
be there early.”
Dad checks his watch. “It’s only seven. Are you sure you
don’t want to wait?”
I shake my head. “If I’m early on my first day I’ll make a
good impression.”
My dad shrugs. “Okay. Tell me how it goes.”
“Gotcha,” I say, as I walk out the door.
The trip to school is uneventful. I pass where Aaron had
attacked me yesterday, but there are no incidents. When I arrive at the
Association Headquarters—also the campus of Ixtham—I approach the man who is
sitting in the guard kiosk beside the entrance.
“Hello,” I say. “I just got accepted into Ixtham.”
The guard smiles at me. He types a few words into his
computer. “Name?”
“Markus Red.”
“Address?”
“Ten-Twelve Second Street.”
“Day of Birth?”
“June seventh, 2003.”
“All right.” He gives me a hastily printed card. “Please go
to the administrator’s office so we can handle your intake. There, you’ll
receive your ID and your class sheet.”
I thank the man and walk through the building, following the
signs to “Ixtham Administration Office.”
Once I arrive, I go through a series of processes that
include paperwork, a photo for my ID, and the reception of several textbooks.
Before I leave, I am handed a blank class sheet. “Mr. Red,”
says the receptionist, “Dr. Barrimore has already informed us that he has elected
to be your mentor. Therefore, you won’t have to go through the usual mentor
selection process. Fill out this class sheet as he advises and hand it in when
you are finished.”
I take it and start towards Dr. Barrimore’s office. I figure
I should start thinking of him as such now that he is my mentor and teacher. I
know where his office is—he gave me his card, after all. It’s on the seventh
floor. Room 708.
When I arrive, I knock.
“Come in,” says Dr. Barrimore.
I enter. The room is the same size and layout as Dr. Irr’s,
but instead of dog photos the place is covered in pictures of fractals. I
recognize one of them as the Mandelbrot set.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” says Dr. Barrimore, as he notices
me looking at them.
I nod. “Math is cool.”
“My research does use a lot of math,” says Dr. Barrimore.
“But I have those up mainly because I think they tell us something about our
universe.” He leans back in his chair, welcomingly. “So you’re here to be
advised, right?”
I nod.
“Have you ever been advised before? I mean, in a
college-like academic setting?”
“No,” I say.
Dr. Barrimore nods his head. “Ixtham is a specialty school,
and is chartered by the New York Adventurers’ association. While we do have
basic education classes, they are only to the point where one can pass the GRE.
Our mission is to get you to pass that test as soon as possible.”
“So,” I say. “What do you teach here?”
“Spectral Analysis,” says Dr. Barrimore. He turns to his
computer. “What math were you taking at your high school?”
“Trig,” I say.
Dr. Barrimore nods. “You’re fifteen, right?”
“I’m going to be sixteen in a month,” I say.
“Good, good,” he says. “At least you have some maturity. As
far as awakenings go, yours was not that early.” He types a few things into his
computer. “So, let’s set you up for Lit II and History II, as well as let you
finish Trig. Once you pass those classes, you can move on to try and take the
GRE.”
“Am I going to be taking any adventuring classes?”
“Yes, of course,” says Dr. Barrimore. “You have six hours
left in your schedule.” He hands me a sheet of paper. “These are the classes
that you can take as a newcomer. You won’t be able to change your specialty
until after you are drafted by a guild, so don’t worry about that.”
I look at the page that Dr. Barrimore has given me. There is
a list of classes and their descriptions.
Monster Taxonomy
I
Spirit Circle
Identification and Renumeration
Practical Party
Management
Signs and Signals
Dungeon Mapmaking
I
Spirit Circle Acquisition
(Practical)
General Spirit
Theory I
Spirit Anatomy
Mixed Martial
Arts (Practical)
Equipment
Management
Field Experience
(Practical)
Psionic Physics I
Spirit Field
Manipulation
Spectral Analysis
I
There are a lot, and I feel overwhelmed. I turn to Dr.
Barrimore. “Can you help me?” I say.
Dr. Barrimore rubs his chin. “I would take General Spirit
Theory first, as you’re going to have to take that eventually.” He pauses. “And
I would also take Spirit Anatomy or Spirit Circle Id-Rem. Both of them would
help you find your specialty.”
“Spirit Circle, er, Id-Rem sounds good.”
Dr. Barrimore makes some marks on a piece of paper and
enters something into his computer. “Good. Your first classes start in …” He
checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes! Go on and have some fun. Come talk to me
after all your classes are done for the day and we can discuss your part as my
lab assistant.”
“Okay!” I say, as Dr. Barrimore prints out a paper with my
schedule.
He hands it to me, smiling.
I nod. My first class is General Spirit Theory One. Room
1409.
I just hope I won’t be in over my head.
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