Avarice: The Realm Chapter 7: Blood Oath

Blood Oath

The next job won’t be as easy as the first. I caught Mandrake Signa and his gang off guard; they didn’t even know anyone was after them. From here on out they’re going to be ready for me.

After I arrive at Fort Lincoln in a burst of light, I am greeted by Pierre, who grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me into a makeshift tent near the fast travel tower.

I enter, and most of the Fort Lincoln brass is there. Their faces tell me everything.

“He retaliated,” I say. I cough into my hand.

Pierre nods. “Much faster than we thought he would,” he says. “It’s been ten minutes since you successfully captured Ronald Delinsky.”

I hold out the apprehension module. “You should probably take this.”

One of the brass grabs it and slips it into a secured, tracked, and electrified storage container.

Pierre turns away from me, facing the wall. “And we’ve had an attack on an embassy near the British Fort Dunkirk. Two diplomats were killed, and we’ve had a lot of injuries to important people.”

“So he knows it was me,” I say. I feel a little tingle coming up through my arms.

“Not you exactly,” says Pierre. “But the US. We’ve beefed up security around all of our bases, but we’re not sure that we’ll be able to withstand Mandrake’s wrath.”

I cough, and a wave of dizziness takes over me. I know exactly what is happening.

Blowback.

“I can deal with that later,” I say, as I clutch my stomach. “If you need me.”

Pierre nods. “We’re all Freax users here,” he says. “There’s a blowback clinic just two buildings down.”

I cough up a thick, green fluid. The familiar feeling of numbness inserts itself into my abdomen.

I stagger out of the tent. As I do, I hear one of the officers speaking.

“Are you sure he can handle this?” the officer says.

“I know he can,” says Pierre.

I peel away before I can hear the rest of the conversation.

The blowback clinic is just like the one run by my friend, Daxton, in the real world.

I enter through an automatic door and am met with a blast of air-conditioned cool. There are two bialysis chambers against the wall. One of them is being used.

“Is it that time of the month again?” says a man in a lab coat. He is wearing a lopsided grin.

I clutch my stomach. “Yeah,” I say.

“I’m Doctor Fan,” says the man.

“Great,” I say, still holding my stomach. “Just get me cleaned up.”

“Clothes off,” says Fan.

I turn my armor back into card form and do the same for my clothes. I am standing in my underwear, and it feels a bit chilly.

Fan puts a special bismuth bronze fabric over my body, sort of like a magical hospital gown.

“Since The Realm is only accessible by Freax users,” says Fan, “There are plenty of places to get detoxed.” He shrugs. “But even so it’s pretty expensive.”

I step into the bialysis machine and lay against the fabric. I close my eyes.

My mind clicks. I am used to it by now, but even so it’s a difficult process. My soul rises out of my body and stands in the middle of a cluttered mess of a house. There are trash bags full of takeout boxes everywhere. The sink is overflowing with dishes and algae. Cockroaches scanter across the floor.

I walk through all the trash bags and head up worn stairs to the second floor. One room is filled to the brim with old furniture.

The whole house has a nostalgic feel, as if I had lived here as a child and forgotten it.

I begin the cleanup process. I know that, in the real world, I am being injected with liquid Freax. But to me, in the depths of my mind, it takes the form of an army of robot maids who skitter about the house, picking up trash, dusting, doing the laundry and the dishes.

This is what Freax does to the mind. It changes you. It controls you. Once you’ve taken the drug, you have to keep taking it. Forget heroin withdrawals; if I were ever to stop taking the Freax drug, I would die a horrible and painful death.

Superpowers come at a cost, after all.

The robot maids toss all the garbage into a portable lava bucket, each bag sizzling before disappearing into the red abyss. They wipe everything down, fumigate, and rearrange the furniture.

After about half an hour of experienced time my mind-house is cleaner than it’s been since the last booster dose.

I wake up underneath the metallic dome of the bialysis machine.

“Your vitals are all good,” says Fan. “You were out for eight hours.”

I sigh. That’s about normal for a Freax booster and bialysis operation. Normally this process would run me about two thousand dollars, but ever since I started working with the government I’ve been getting the operation for free.

I get up out of the machine. As soon as I do, another marine gets in.

“Binder.” I take the cards representing my clothes and armor and equip them.

Once out of the bialysis clinic, I am greeted by Pierre.

“This was the worst possible time for you to get blowback,” he says. “We’ve needed you desperately for the past eight hours.”

“Another attack?” I ask.

“No,” says Pierre. “It’s Ronald Delinsky. ReaperGoon.”

“And?” I say.

“He refuses to talk to anyone but you,” says Pierre. “We’re not allowed to use any more … Painful methods to extract information. But something tells me you’ll be able to get something out of him.”

“Don’t you have mind affecting Freax users here?” I ask.

Pierre shakes his head. “We tried. This man has been trained to resists mind-altering Freax abilities.”

I sigh. “Take me to him.”

Pierre leads me through Fort Lincoln until we reach an entrance to an underground bunker. We ride an elevator several floors down and step into a well-lit hallway. People with lab coats are walking back and forth.

“This is our research lab and quarantine unit,” says Pierre. He leads me to a nondescript door at the end of the hall.

I open it. The room is dark, and there is a shadowy figure strapped to a chair in the rooms center.

“Heh, heh,” says the figure.

Pierre turns on the light. The figure in the chair is Ronald Delinsky.

Ronald spits. “You knocked out several of my teeth with that footlock trick,” he says, wearing a dangerous lop-sided grin.

“You wanted to talk to me?” I say.

Ronald laughs. “No! I want to kill you!” He cackles. “Mandrake is going to repay you tenfold for what you’ve done to me.”

Yuck. I really don’t like this type of person.

“Just tell me what you want with me,” I say, “And we can end this early.”

Ronald laughs again. “Like I’ll ever do what you want!” His laugh is maniacal. He knows that he is in trouble.

I sigh, and sit down on a chair directly across from Ronald.

“We can do this the easy way,” says Pierre, “Or we can do this the hard way.”

“You Americans don’t have the guts to torture me,” says Ronald.

Pierre shrugs. “The Geneva convention states that we can’t torture prisoners. However,” Pierre puts on a very scary face, “The Realm isn’t beholden to those rules.”

Ronald spits. “You Americans have, like, some sort of election thing going, right?” he says. “You do something to me and you lose that chance!”

“First,” says Pierre, “Military personnel aren’t elected.” He holds up two fingers. “Second, no one has to know what happened to you.”

Ronald cackles. “Well, I’m dead anyways,” he says. “And I’ll take my secrets to the grave.” He winks at me. “I just wanted you here so that I could do this. Binder. Tracking Beacon!”

A flash of light surrounds me and my skin begins to tingle.

“This is not good,” says Pierre.

Ronald continues to laugh, and then his body boils.

“Binder,” I yell. “Ethereal shield!”

A shield made of yellow crosses surrounds me just as a lance made of boiling blood slams against it. A foul-smelling steam surrounds me.

Pierre gags. “That’s nasty,” he says.

It looks like, in his final moment, Ronald used his own blood as a weapon to try and kill me.

“Is there a card to remove tracking beacons?” I ask.

“It’s a Gold Card,” says Pierre. “And the US government does not have one.”

This is going to affect my work. Now, Mandrake and his goons are going to know exactly where I am at all times.

Not good.

I examine Ronald’s body. His skin has shriveled, and all the blood in his body is gone.

“Nasty,” says Pierre. He puts his hand to his ear. “Yeah. Call the biohazard cleanup crew.” He puts his hand down. “Sorry to subject you to this,” he says.

“I’ve seen worse,” I say. Though, the room is giving me some strange vibes. I back out as slow as I can and let Pierre close the door.

I stand in the hallway, my hands in my pockets.

Pierre sighs. “He pulled one over on us,” he says.

I shake my head. “You had no idea.”

“I should have anticipated that!” says Pierre. “I’m a veteran of the Realm.” He grits his teeth. “But, to tell you the truth, I’ve never actually been in a real binder battle.” He turns away from me. “And it showed.”

I put my arm on Pierre’s shoulder. “I can deal with this,” I say. “As soon as Mandrake and his goons are dead, I’ll be safe. I just have to strike first.”

“Right,” says Pierre. “We’ll support you all the way.”

I walk to the elevator and take it up to the surface. Pierre is silent.

Garnet is leaning against a wall outside the entrance to the underground bunker. “Did you get anything out of him?” she asks.

I shake my head. “He put a tracker on me and then killed himself.”

Garnet scoffs. “He deserved whatever he got,” she says.

“It’s going to get tough,” I say. “Mandrake will most likely continue to retaliate. Now that he knows where I am at all times, I’ll have a lot of difficulty sneaking up on him.”

“So what are you going to do?” asks Garnet.

“I have a plan,” I say. “It involves the card Focus Teleport. You have some of those, right?”

Garnet shrugs. “I mean, yeah. We have a lot of cards here.”

“Get me two copies of Focus Teleport,” I say. “And ID some sort of physical object that both of Mandrake’s remaining underlings are in possession of that they may leave in a place I can reach.”

“Um, okay,” says Garnet. “That’s a pretty specific order.”

“It’s necessary,” I say.

“I’ll get our intel team on it,” says Pierre.

Pierre and Garnet split to do their respective jobs. I sit down on a metal bench and put my chin in my hands, watching the X-marines walk past. They’re doing some sort of tank exercise, and about a dozen Abrams tanks are rolling across the demonstration grounds.

A man wearing a black fedora approaches me. I recognize the pin on his lapel; it’s the emblem of the Black Marches.

“You’re pretty brazen to make your way into a US military base,” I say, as the man sits down next to me.

The man tips his hat. “Indeed,” he says. “I have a message to deliver. Someone has put a hit out on you.”

“I had guessed that,” I say. “Why are you telling me this?”

“That someone is an enemy,” says the man. “As the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, yes?”

“Hah,” I say. “Mandrake Signa must have done something stupid to get on the bad side of the Black Marches.”

“It’s not Mandrake,” says the man. “Mandrake is cookies compared to the person we’re talking about.”

“Sure,” I say. “But my job is to deal with Mandrake.”

“And that’s what you’ll do,” says the man. “Just keep a few Ethereal Shield cards handy.” He passes me half of a medallion. It looks like the metal has been sheared with powerful bolt cutters.

“This is one half of the Gold Card called Rainbow Coin,” says the man. “And Mandrake has the other half. Once you unite the two pieces, something special will happen.”

“You obviously gain something from that, right?” I say.

The man shrugs. “Of course. I work for profit, after all.” He winks. “And you might receive a reward as well.”

“What’s to stop me from keeping the card?” I say.

The man stands up. “You won’t.” He pulls out a black card. “Evecin.” A familiar pillar of light surrounds him and then he is gone.

Garnet runs up to where I am sitting. “I just saw a transfer light,” she says. “What happened?”

I shake my head. “Just a secret organization contacting me to give me a job,” I say. I hold up the half of the Gold Card. “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” says Garnet. She takes it from me and looks at it under the sunlight. “Isn’t this Bismuth Bronze?”

“I guess,” is say. “I’m no expert on metals.”

Garnet hands the half medallion back to me. “Well, if you do actually find a gold card, the government will buy it off you for an exorbitant price.”

“What are we talking?” I ask.

“Millions,” says Garnet.

Is that what the Black Marches representative meant when he said I wouldn’t keep it?

“Card,” I say.

The medallion stays inert.

“Card,” I say again.

The medallion refuses to turn into card form. I slip it into my pocket.

“Mandrake Signa has the other half,” I say.

“Looks like you have another reason to do your job,” says Garnet.  

“Sure,” I say. “As if I didn’t already have enough of a reason.”

Garnet turns away from me. “I’ll contact you via telepathy if I find out anything more.” Then she heads towards the HQ building.

It’s time to get to work capturing my next target.

Avarice: The Realm Chapter Five: Dungeon Beginnings

Dungeon Beginnings

I climb to the top of a building so that I can get a better look at what Garnet calls ‘The Roving Keep.’ It does, indeed, look like a walking castle. The goblins still outside the city are rushing towards it.

Several causeways drop from the keep’s side and hundreds of large, bear-like creatures march out. The bears clash with the goblins in a large, ragged wave.

Garnet climbs up to the roof next to me. She slips her daggers back into her equipment belt. “Looks like we’re saved,” she says.

“Are those bears?” I ask.

“Bearfolk,” says Garnet. “The bearfolk and the goblins are mortal enemies.”

“Are they NPCs too?” I ask.

“Well, sure,” says Garnet. “As much as any non-player character here in The Realm can be considered one.”

We both watch as the goblins are routed by the bearfolk. The American and French armored cavalry pull out and assist the bearfolk from behind their lines.

Garnet puts her hand to her ear. “Yes. Right.” She drops her hand and looks at me. “Looks like our military didn’t take any casualties,” she says. “Though the French lost a few.”

“So the cazzies took the brunt,” I say.

Garnet sighs. “Yeah. But they know how dangerous this game is.”

I shake my head slowly and watch as our combined arms mop up the remainder of the goblins.

“I hope I don’t have to deal with any more of this,” I say. “I signed up to be an assassin, not a grunt.”

“Well, this is part of your job too,” says Garnet. “Defending the weak and all that.”

I shake my head. “Well. I’m just glad that we can keep moving along our schedule.”

Garnet turns away. “We’ll begin the grind tomorrow. For today, I think—”

Hob climbs up the building we’re standing on. “Hey!” he says. “There’s some sort of military puke who wants to see you guys!”

Garnet sighs. “It’s me they want. Just go buy some binder skins or whatever.” She climbs down the stairs to the roof, leaving me alone on the roof with Hob.

Hob puts his arm around me. “I misjudged you,” he says. “For a newbie, you definitely have the moves.”

“This isn’t my first combat scenario,” I say.

“I can see that!” says Hob. “As a gesture of our new friendship, I’ll treat you to some lunch!” He peels off and stands against the roof’s fencing. “The boys have been waiting for some fresh meat.”

“Ah, more Reball?” I say.

“Hah,” says Hob. “You beat me, but I’m the worst out of us.” He grins at me. “And this time we’ll put up something of value for the bet.” He walks to the stairs and begins to descend. “Meet me at the Graven Reball Parlor.”

I watch him go, and then turn to look at the helicopters buzzing around the city. I suppose that it’s because of them we survived with as few casualties as we did.

I turn to the stairs and descend from the building’s roof. After finding a town map posted on a billboard, I make my way to the Reball parlor.

The parlor is a small building with a large façade that evokes the neon signs of Las Vegas mixed with the back-alley red-light Hong Kong aesthetic. A clear signal that this is where ne’er do wells hang.

Oh well. I’ve been to worse places. I push my way through the door and into a dimly-lit dive-bar interior dominated by a dozen large reball tables. Most of them are occupied; I assume the cazzies who survived the battle are spending their loot money. I, too, obtained a sizable amount of gold from monster ‘drops.’ While I was fighting the goblins, whenever I killed one, a little ping notified me that I had earned some cash.

This is how video games work, after all. Kill monsters, get loot. I have enough that I’ll be able to handle the ‘something of value’ part of this event.

I approach the table where Hob is standing. He is flanked by a  burly-looking man; a thin, wiry man with a ruffled haircut; and a rather seedy-looking woman wearing a gaudy purple dress.

Hob shakes my hand as I approach. “This is Capo Two-Three-One,” he says pointing to the burly man. He points to the wiry man. “PeaksGold,” he says. He points to the woman. “Ramma.”

Ramma winks at me in a motion that, to me, is a bit off-putting. I really don’t know what she’s thinking. Capo grins, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I hear you beat Hob,” says Capo. “I’ll be your next challenger.”

I sigh. “Sure,” I say. “Binder.” I pull out my reball starter kit. “Drop.” The box appears on the table, ready to use.

  Capo summons his own reball army. “Let’s put something up to make this game more fun,” he says. “How about that armor you’re wearing?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think the brass would appreciate me gambling away their assets.” I hold out my hand. “But I’m a conjurer. I can summon quite a bit of useful stuff.” A small bar of silvery metal drops onto the table. It is coated with a purplish sheen.

“Bantanum, eh?” says Capo. “That’s quite a bit.” He chuckles. “All right. And I’ll put up this.” He places a dagger on the table. “A Regalus Plus Two.”

Hob scoffs, looking at Capo. “You’re really going to put that up? You don’t even know his power level yet.”

“I’m going to win,” says Capo. “And I only need one more bar of bantanum to complete my armor upgrade.”

I set up my army using what I learned from my previous game. Defend the flanks, protect the tanks, pierce enemy lines with heavy infantry. Even with the starter kit, which seems to be quite underpowered, I manage to defeat Capo in under ten minutes.

Capo, upon realizing his defeat, slams his fist against the table. “Seriously?” he says. “I’ve been playing reball for five years and this newbie with a starter kit beats me this badly?”

Hob pats Capo on the back. “It’s fine,” he says. “I warned you, and this is what you reap.”

Capo rubs his temples. “The knife is yours. Do with it what you will.”

I pick up the knife and the bar of bantanum. “Card,” I say. Both objects turn into card form. “Binder,” I say, and then I slip both cards into their slots.

“Since I won,” I say, “Would you direct me to a place where I can buy a skin for my binder?”

Capo sighs. “Sure.” He turns to Hob.

Hob nods. “I’ll come with you,” he says.

Hob and Capo lead me out of the reball parlor and through a series of winding streets. A small, hole-in-the wall shop is nestled in between two houses. A battered sign reads “South A Skins.”

“This shop is run by a player,” says Hob. “In The Realm, it’s possible to customize skins. This shop sells the best of the best.”

We step through a battered door and into a dusty, cluttered shop floor. A single player is reclining in a chair behind the counter, sleeping.

“Hey, Rick!” says Hob.

The man whom I assume is Rick jolts out of his slumber. “Oh, heya, Hob,” He says. “You here to pick up the skin you ordered?”

“Well, yeah, that,” says Hob, as he approaches the counter. “Plus I have to get this newbie a classy skin.”

“Binder, shop!” says Rick. His binder is decorated with an intricate tribal pattern. “Hm, right. Here’s the dragon fire skin you ordered.” He slips a card out of his binder and hands it to Hob. Then Rick looks at me. “What kind of skin strikes your fancy?”

“Um, I like cars,” I say. “You have any skins with sports cars on them?”

Hob shakes his head. “No,” he says. He pauses. “But wait. I do have a couple of binders with the logos of famous car companies.” He flips through his shop binder. “Ah, yes.” He takes out a card. “The Etemna logo.” He hands the card to me.

I look at it. Yes, it is the Etemna logo—a picture of a falcon carrying an engine.

“I’ll take it,” I say.

“That will be five gold,” says Rick.

I pay him his gold and receive the skin card. “Drop,” I say. The card puffs into a burst of colored smoke and is gone. “Binder.” My binder is now covered with a sleek, well-made skin presenting the Etemna logo on each face.

“I like it,” I say. I put my binder away.

Hob chuckles. “Classic,” he says. “Now you’re a real player. Welcome to the club.”

I thank Rick and head out into the street. Hob and Capo part ways with me, and I wander towards the center of town.

The cleanup from the goblin invasion is going on wherever the goblins managed to break through the walls. The portions of the palisade that were destroyed are now being repaired, and scaffolding covers most of its surface area.

A large building built with flowing architecture and covered in shining glass is at the center of the town. Lots of people are going in and out. I approach it out of curiosity. The sign hanging above the door, in big letters, reads Magic Inc. Below, in tiny letters, it reads South A Branch.

I push my way through the door and enter into a large, box-chain style sales floor filled from end to end with racks of cards. I wander past the entrance area and begin to browse some of the cards.

Reyvan Dagger +2; Selurian Armor; Box of Secrets; Common Sponge; there seems to be no end to the variety of objects that can be turned into cards.

I pick up a Bag of Apples and two Loaves of Bread for the low price of three silver. I slip the cards into my binder—who knows when I’ll need them?

After browsing around of a bit longer I leave Magic, Inc and head towards my lodgings.

I spend the rest of the day performing my Freax meditation and training as best as I can in the small room I’ve been given. I go to sleep at my normal time and wake up feeling refreshed.

When I leave my room and head to the inn’s common area, I see Garnet leaning back in a chair and enjoying her breakfast.

“You’re up early,” she says. “I wasn’t planning on waking you up for another half hour.”

I sit down across from her. “I usually get up even earlier than this,” I say.

“Today’s the day we start our grind,” says Garnet. “Since you’re a level one, we’re going to start at the bottom and work our way up.” She waves over the server. “Get this man a hearty breakfast.”

The server nods and, two minutes later, brings out a piping hot plate of pancakes, sausage, and eggs.

Even though The Realm is technically some sort of illusionary game formed from pure Freax, the food definitely tastes real. I finish my plate without much aplomb.

Garnet stands up, shouldering her crossbow. “Let’s go,” she says.

I follow her out of the inn and into the streets. For the first time, I head directly towards the monolith that dominates the skyline. The dungeon.

And soon, we enter.

The Lesser One Arc 1: Last Chapter: Ghost

Ghost

I wake up to a doorbell ringing. When I stand up, I realize all my clothes from yesterday are still on, complete with bloodstains. I want to change, but I have to answer the door first. It’s probably nothing.

I open the door to reveal a man in a bright red bellboy’s shirt. He bows and hands me two envelopes.

“I have been sent from her majesty’s court,” he says. “Please respond as soon as possible.” He then bows again and turns around.

I close the door, holding two envelopes in my hands. Both of them are marked with a royal seal.

I open the first.

You have been cordially invited to a specially scheduled Garden Party to celebrate the taming of Portal U-375. Present this invitation at the door.

Below is an address that I recognize to be Buckingham Palace.

Well then. They said there would be a party.

The next envelope is also from the Queen. It requests an audience tomorrow at two. I can make that!

The party is tonight. Before then, I have to fulfill my contract with Esmex, though at this point it feels a little bit anticlimactic considering what I’ve been through recently.

I take a hot shower, change into some clothes I find folded next to my bed, and make sure to put on deodorant. I walk out of the room and take the elevator to the floor with my lab. Since this is the Esmex building, I don’t even have to leave it.

Two conjurers are already there. The rest arrive before the day officially starts, and I spend the rest of my working hours trying to teach these people how to make Rearden Metal.

I think they’re showing promise!

When I return to my apartment after the working day is over, I see a formal dress neatly folded on the table in the living room. I put it on and look at myself in the mirror. I look a lot better than I thought I would, though I’m still not satisfied with my hairstyle.

Oh well. I’ll get someone to fix it eventually. I head to the elevator.

Sebastian meets me in the entrance lobby. He bows. “Master,” he says.

I follow him into the limousine, and we drive through London until we reach Buckingham Palace. There are already a lot of fancy cars waiting to drop off their important people.

I am dropped off at the entrance to the palace. A pair of men dressed in red uniforms escort me to the garden inside the castle. There are already several dozen dignitaries and high-level adventurers milling about, drinking fine wine and eating hors d’ouevres.

I see Crayton, but I don’t see Alice. I approach Crayton and greet him politely.

“Ah, Markus,” says Crayton. “I assume you want to know how Alice is doing.”

I nod. It’s no use beating around the bush. “Is she okay?” I say.

Crayton shakes his head. “She took a huge blast of psionic energy. She should be medically fine, but she just won’t wake up.” He shakes his head, though I can tell he is very, very worried about her. Then he seems to brighten up a bit. “I hear your efforts with Rearden Metal are coming to fruition,” he says.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I think at least some of the conjurers you hired are getting it.”

“Well, then keep at it,” says Crayton. He seems to want to avoid talking about anything but superficial things regarding Alice.

I don’t know what to talk about next. The party seems to be going well, and everyone looks happy, but I have a feeling that everything here is fake and plastic. But what could I expect? This is high English society at its finest.

A man wearing a tan suit approaches me. He extends his hand, a smile on his face.

“I’m Raputin Drommel,” he says.

I shake his hand.

Raputin nods. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Everyone is talking about what you did for the country. And you’re from America! I never knew those Yankees had it in them!”

“Well, we did win both World Wars,” I say, mostly intending it as a joke.

Raputin frowns for a split second and then is smiling at me again. “Ha! A fine sense of humor we have here.” He tilts his head. “So tell me. How did a young man, so clearly still in high school, attain the sought-after designation as an S-class adventurer?”

“I killed a balrog,” I say. “With a little help. A, uh, Dungeon Striker missile did most of the work, but I was the one who pointed it.”

Raputin gives me a false grin. “Very interesting! I’ll do my best to convince the government to invest in more of those! I heard they were very instrumental at the Battle of Crickhowell?”

I am about to shake my head, but then think better of it. I don’t want to reveal how small the effect of those super-expensive missiles was against an army of A-class monsters. I certainly don’t want to burst the military’s bubble and discourage more research into anti-dungeon monster technology.

I do my best to smile. “Yes, they certainly turned the tide.” I pause. “I recognize you. You were at the battle, right?”

“Just for a moment,” says Raputin. “I’m the guild leader of the Green Blazes. They evacuated me when it got too hectic.” He sighs. “I wish I could have seen those beautiful Dungeon Striker missiles in action.” He winks at me. “I helped design them, after all.”

“Just a little bit,” says another man, who approaches from the center of the garden. He extends his hand. “Icarus Oppenburg. Leader of the Rocking Shooters’ Guild.” He puts his arm around Raputin. “Don’t listen to this man’s bragging. He barely did anything for the Dungeon Striker program.”

Raputin seems to be taking the downsizing well. “Ha! And you didn’t do anything,” he says. “At least my guild fought better than yours at the battle!”

Icarus smirks. “Of course, my good sir,” he says. “But our guild had the oh-so-important job of evacuating citizens. How many peoples’ lives did you directly save by charging in there like a mad beast?”

Raputin winks. “More than you would imagine,” he says. “My guild is formed of only the best adventurers!” He looks at me with a strange expression. “Would you like to join the Green Blazes?”

I shake my head. “I’ve already made a deal with the Blue Dryads. Plus, I belong to another guild back home, the Riding Valkyries.”

“Pah,” says Raputin. “That corporate bunch leading the Blue Dryads has no soul. They’re like the McDonalds’ of adventuring guilds,” he says. “And I don’t know anything about American guilds, but I don’t recognize the Riding Valkyries.”

“You wouldn’t,” I say. “It’s a small guild.”

Raputin frowns. “You’re an S-class adventurer,” he says. “You should be with a big, famous, and well-led guild. Like mine!”

Icarus shakes his head. “No, your guild isn’t as famous as mine,” he says.

“When you read the last guild popularity poll,” Raputin says, “The Green Blazes top the Rocking Shooters!”

“That was a recent upset!” says Icarus. “The Rocking Shooters have been on top a lot more than you!’

I bow, and retreat from the oncoming storm, taking it upon myself to wander around the garden’s edges. The people at this party seem to be ignoring me for the most part. Perhaps I just don’t have the pedigree to deal with these kinds of people. I’m a commoner from America and I don’t understand how British high society works.

A man wearing a normal-looking suit approaches me. He stands next to me without saying anything, sipping champagne out of a glass.

“You have qualified,” he says, after a long pause. “You must choose a side. White or Black.”

I turn to ask him what he means, but he is gone, like a ghost.

And I am left wondering what will happen next.

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.

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.