Avarice: The Realm Chapter six: First Job

First Job

Grinding our way through the dungeon’s lower floors is a tedious, uninteresting job that involves killing infinitely-respawning monsters while following a repeating pattern that maximizes our kill rate and minimizes our expenditure of energy. I gain about twenty-five levels in the first week of grinding, and it takes me another three weeks to reach level fifty.

Fifty is the lowest that one can be and maintain a workable advantage in the “Player-Versus-Player” realm—which is, of course, my ultimate goal.

When I finally reach level fifty, I take a moment to celebrate and then return to Fort Lincoln via fast travel. It is there that I am to receive my first assignment.

I stand in the briefing room with some of the top brass at Fort Lincoln. They stand in a row around the projection screen.

A picture of a man appears on the screen. Pierre points to it with a laser pointer.

“This is Mandrake Signa,” says Pierre, “Known in-game as Mother of Death.” He clicks the presentation. “He is known for being able to plant bombs anywhere he touches and detonate them remotely.” Pierre clicks the presentation again. “As you can probably guess, the ability to create and plant bombs at will goes really well with the job of being a terrorist.”

“This man is responsible for five attacks on US soil,” says one of the brass standing against the wall. “And seven attacks on other countries. He has an INTERPOL arrest warrant out for him. However, INTERPOL doesn’t deal inside The Realm.”

“Right,” says Pierre. “Don’t underestimate this man. He has multiple accomplices, all of whom are dangerous in their own right.”

I salute. “I can handle him,” I say.

“We don’t doubt you can,” says Pierre. “Your track record is impressive. Three targets last year, twenty-two in total.”

“Thank you for that assessment,” I say.

Pierre nods. “Great. We’ll give you all the information we know about Mandrake Signa and let you do what you do best.” He pulls a paper file out of a cabinet. “Here’s the dossier,” he says. “One for Mandrake and three for his known accomplices.”

I take the files. “Is there anything else?” I ask.

Pierre shakes his head. “No. That’s everything we know.” He salutes. “Good luck.”

I leave the room and head to my personal room in the officers’ barracks. I lock the door and sit down at the room’s wooden desk. Spreading out the files in front of myself, I put up a cork board and begin sticking pins in it.

It looks like Mother of Death’s three accomplices are Ronald Delinsky, known as ReaperGoon; Brandi Knock, known as Ratsi; and Peter Draws, known as ColorfulAmber.

ReaperGoon is a watermancer who can produce high-pressure streams of water, enough to cut through flesh and bone. Ratsi can summon gigantic rats. ColorfulAmber can draw things on a piece of paper and have them become real.

Mother of Death’s goons might not be as difficult to take down, but I still need to keep my guard up. The things I learned about card battles while grinding in the dungeon will definitely affect how I go about my hunt.

I prepare a strategy. I’m going to take out Mother of Death’s three goons before I go after him. From what I’ve experienced, when a kingpin has powerful underlings, he’s more likely to run and hide and let his underlings do his work for him.

I plan on striking ReaperGoon first.

“Binder,” I say. I flip through my binder until I find the Unconnected Track card. It allows me to see the general location of a player. In order to see more detailed information, I would have to use the Tracking Beacon card and attach it to them. However, just knowing which part of The Realm they’re in is good enough for me.

It appears ReaperGoon is currently somewhere in the western portion of the Eastern Biome, somewhat near the entrance gates.

I head to Fort Lincoln’s fast travel tower.

“Roghponanov!” I say. A ball of light surrounds me a spirits me across the landscape. The desert turns into a post-apocalyptic city, complete with mossy buildings and rows of abandoned cars. I land at the fast travel tower in the center of Roghponanov, one of the two biggest cities in the Eastern Biome.

This is where the hunt begins. Right now, it’s probable that ReaperGoon does not know I’m coming after him.

The best way to deal with a mook is to kill them from a distance. Any Freax user worth their salt has a sensing barrier around them at all times, and as such can’t be sniped or killed in a surprise shooting. I myself am always watching for that sort of thing.

As well as this, I have to keep my identity anonymous. If the organization that supports a terrorist knows who I am and what I’ve done, they’ll go to the ends of the Earth to kill me. So far, I’ve been able to do my job without revealing my identity.

I meander through the city until I find what I need—an information broker. This incarnation of the trade is a man dressed in a pinstripe suit sitting against a pile of crates next to a clothing shop. I know he’s an information broker because of the mark above him, etched into the wood. It’s a universal symbol that brokers use to distinguish themselves.

I approach the man.

The man tips his hat. “How can I help you?” he says.

I show the small badge I have sewn into the inside of my undershirt.

The man’s lips curl up. “Of course.” He takes a cigar out of his pocket, cuts, it, and lights it. “What do you want to know?”

I lean against the shop wall. “ReaperGoon,” I say.

The man chuckles. “Ah, yes. Lots of people want the Goon dead.” He rubs his hands. “Fifty gold.”

I transfer the money. The information broker grins, taking a puff of his cigar. “Well now,” he says. “I seem to remember hearing that ReaperGoon is in the business of running an illegal unicorn brawl. Somewhere here in Ropov. If you head to the right establishment the owner might point you towards your target.”

“Unicorn brawl,” is say, rolling the name on my tongue. “I know you information brokers charge for everything, but I have to ask. What’s illegal about it?”

“I’ll give you this one for five silver,” says the man.

I flip him his money.

“Unicorns are one of The Realm’s protected species,” says the man. “The game’s own police system protects them and hunts those who harm them.” He shrugs. “But I guess there are shady applications for everything and everybody.” He flicks the ashes off of his cigar. “Anything else?”

“No,” I say. I turn away. “Ashente.”

“Ashente,” says the information broker.

We part ways, and I walk to the most seedy eating establishment I can find within half a mile of the broker. I find the Hidden Bowl, a remarkably dangerous-looking pub that is surrounded by ruffians and villains.

I walk past the gang of petty thieves around the door, watching my pockets.

“Steal,” I hear someone whisper.

“Binder. Counterspell,” I say. A small flicker of light sparkles around my binder. I turn to face the thief who tried to steal from me.

“Blinding light,” I say. Two orbs of light appear in front of the thief’s eyes. I then deliver him an uppercut that’s sure to break his jaw and send most of his teeth flying.

The little white bits of bone clatter to the ground around me. The thief collapses.

A big, burly man who must be the leader of the gang steps up to me, his chest puffed out.

“What was that for, dead meat?” he says.

I knock his teeth out, too, with a hard right hook. I don’t have time to deal with petty criminals.

The rest of the thieves surround me. There are five still standing.

I sigh, and conjure my trusty bantanum sword.

“Unless you want to know what bantanum looks like with blood on it,” I say, “You’d better back off.”

Two of the thieves pick up their boss by the shoulders. The whole gang backs off. “We’ll remember this,” says one of the thieves, and then the group peels away. The thief I hit first regains consciousness, looks around frantically, and then scrambles to his feet, sprinting into the street and around the corner.

I sigh and turn to the door.

A man in a red vest is leaning against the wall. “You have a way with a fist,” he says. “Those butt-licking pickpockets have been lingering here for weeks.” He grins. “Not that anyone inside is any more moral.” He winks. “I assume you’re not here for the booze.” He points to himself. “The name’s Reggie.”

I frown, trying my best to evaluate the man. “RoundTable,” I say.

“Well, Mr. Roundtable,” says Reggie. “Let’s get down to business. You want to buy some FB-twelve, right?”

“I have no idea what that is,” I say, “And I don’t want any.”

Reggie scoffs. “Well then, why else would you be here?”

“I’m looking for the unicorn fight club,” I say.

Reggie raises an eyebrow. “The location of that place is common knowledge around here,” he says. “Did someone pull a prank on you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me where it is,” I say.

Reggie points to something behind me. I turn around.

“That building?” I say. It’s a building that looks much like all the others in this post-apocalyptic biome.

“Yeah,” says Reggie. “You’ll have a great time. I recommend betting on James the Rabbit. He’s been on a losing streak, but I feel like his time is coming.”

“Thanks,” I say. I flip him a gold.

Reggie grins, and winks. “Well, if you ever do need any FB-twelve, come stop by.”

I cross the street and approach the building’s door. It’s a large steel construction, with a small slit at eye level. I knock.

The slit opens and I can see two bloodshot eyes. “Who’re you?” the man says.

“I’m here to bet on James the Rabbit,” I say. “I hear he’s going to start winning soon.”

The man behind the door chuckles. “Well, I’m not going to stop you from doing that,” he says.

The door creaks open. I pass through, past the fat man guarding it, and into a crowded open space with a rodeo-style arena in its center. The place is packed, and bright searchlights flit back and forth. Two unicorns are romping around the rodeo arena, kicking up blood-stained dirt. The crowd undulates every time a unicorn scores a hit.

A scabby man shuffles up to me, his one good eye flitting up and down my person. “Who’re ya bettin’ on?” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m—” I reconsider. “I’ll bet ten gold on James the Rabbit.”

“Eh, heh,” says the man. “Everyone seems to think Mr. Rabbit will come out of this one ahead.” He turns away, waving his crabbed hand. “Good luck!” He cackles.

I sit down at an empty seat near the back of the bleachers and watch the battle unfold before me for a minute. Then I stand up and tap the shoulder of the man sitting in front of me. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his chest is covered in alcohol.

“Whaddya want?” he says, his eyes glazed over.

“Who runs this place?” I ask.

The man spits. “Why’d I ever tell you that?”

I flip him a gold.

The man’s eyes light up and he seems to be pulled from some other world. “Well, ya really want to know, dontcha?” he says. He points up. I follow his finger and see a suite, covered by bulletproof glass, and through the glass I see the man himself, ReaperGoon.

Target acquired.

I flip the stoned man another five silver and then climb the bleachers until I am directly underneath the booth.

“Binder,” I say. I take the Periscope card and activate it. It splits into two parts, and I toss the camera half into the air where it floats just at the bottom of the window to the club.

I watch ReaperGoon drink wine and eat a succulent roast pig like he’s at a royal banquet. I guess being one of Mandrake Signa’s underlings has its bonuses.

I take the Footlock card and attach it to a Delayed Activation card. I then slip into an employees-only door and climb up a set of maintenance stairs.

There are no guards. It looks like ReaperGoon is being lax with his protections.

I stand next to the door to the club room. Opening it slightly, I peek through the crack and observe. It’s the same as before. ReaperGoon at the west corner with a woman on both arms, two underlings sitting at a table playing cards, and a stripper doing a pole dance in the south corner. Classic “bad guy lair” vibes. My target is ReaperGoon. While I am cleared to kill anyone who tries to attack me, I want to make as small a mess as possible. The two underlings probably haven’t done anything to merit death, and if they have it’s not my job to mete out justice for that.

I activate the Bug Familiar card and let it buzz into the center of the room. At my command, the bug explodes into a thick cloud of smoke.

I burst into the room. As I pass the room’s center, ReaperGoon comes out of the smoke and aims a fist at my face.

I activate the Footlock effect. ReaperGoon’s feet lock to the floor, and he faceplants into the concrete. I pull out an apprehension module, attach the wires, and ReaperGoon turns into a ball of light that is then sucked into the module. The module beeps.

Target apprehended. Bagged and tagged. I retreat out of the room before the smoke clears, and two minutes later I am safely on the street.

I won’t need to go through the whole information broker thing to get to the rest of my targets—the government can interrogate ReaperGoon and get info out of him.

I walk to the fast travel pillar and take out my Traveler’s Pass.

“Fort Lincoln,” I say. I am carried away in a pillar of light.

Nice coat, will I get one too? (Durham School Services Day One)

So basically there's two ways to get a real nice "neon coat" for bus driving. You know, some bus drivers have that sort of meshy, webbed vest that just goes over their clothes, right? Well apparently if you are accident-free for three years, you'll get a full-sized overcoat that looks really spiffing. Or you can order one online for sixty bucks.

Both of the ladies who trained me today (my first day of bus driver training) wore that kind of coat. I asked, naively, after they gave me the simple mesh vest: "am I getting one of those?"

Nope. I'm not getting one of those. But the lady who had the non "special safety" vest (that she bought for sixty or so bucks) said she would sell it to me when her special "safety coat" arrived, which it was due to arrive.

I don't know how serious she was but I'm totally willing to take her up on her offer.

I learned a bit about school buses from training videos that were reminiscent of that Spongebob episode where they showed the Krusty Krab training video. The kind of stuff you watch before each new job. I've been through a lot of those.

But the bus, the bus is different about this job. This job requires a full knowledge of how buses work so that we can keep them in good shape. Because, if a school bus driver screws up, they put a whole lot of kids in trouble. And we're all about protecting those students.

The bus inspection is done through a scanner and a series of little RFID tags that are attached to the bus at various inspection locations. The system is called "Zonar" and it replaced the paper and pencil method of pre and post-trip inspections, which I assume is a good thing, because the paper method looked tedious.

The inside of the bus isn't as mind-boggling as a Boing 747 cockpit, but it does have a bunch of buttons. I'll eventually learn what they do.

I'm happy to try something new and I hope that everything leads to a positive outcome.

The Adventurers of Moray: Book Two Chapter Two: Restaraunt

Restaurant

The aftermath of the sniper attack is only slightly more prolonged than the attack itself. Mandrake summons a sheet of glass to replace the broken one and puts it in place with a couple of slaps. The broken glass pieces are shoved into a trash bin and I am the one to carry it into the street.

Mandrake grins. “That damn bastard. The sniper was probably hired by the Darks to give us a scare.” He holds the bullet he caught between two fingers up to the light. “But I must say, using pure gold bullets sure stinks of petty overspending.”

As he says, the bullet is indeed made of gold.

“Well,” says Mandrake. “At least we know that the Darks have a good source of funding. But we could have guessed that, right?”

I nod. “Can I see the bullet?”

“Sure,” says Mandrake, dropping the solid gold nugget into my hand. It is a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Since it was caught perfectly between two fingers, it hasn’t been deformed much by impact.

“Can I keep this?” I ask.

Mandrake chuckles. “Sure. Though I don’t know what a kid who can easily buy as much gold as they desire would do with a tiny nugget like this. For me this is a lot but for you? No.” He pauses. “It would take some serious capital to buy enough of these to win in a sustained firefight. Plus, it’s just wasteful.”

I cup the gold bullet in my hand. It is warm.

Mandrake rummages through a bin and pulls out a sheet of metal.

“This is a prototype I’m working on,” he says. He hands it to me. “Since you’re the metals expert here, I was wondering what you’d think of it.”

I rub my thumb along the metal. “It’s fine,” I say. To tell the truth, I actually do not know as much about metal as Mandrake seems to think I do.

Though I have studied up a lot in my quest to find a way to teach those conjurers Crayton hired for me.

“Good,” says Mandrake. He takes the sheet and tacks it to the window with nails. Now the only light in the room is coming from a desk lamp. Mandrake sits in the recliner properly this time. He takes out a cigar and cuts it. After a thorough examination, he lights it with an antique lighter. After a single puff he lets it hang out of his fingers.

“I trust you have a strong conscience,” says Mandrake. “You were able to avoid causing trouble even with the huge amount of resources at your disposal.”

“Um, I’m not sure they’re so huge,” I say.

Mandrake takes another puff of his cigar. “Nonsense. You are the master of the entire contents of an S-class portal. Including the bosses. With that power you could conquer the world.”

I shake my head. “But I don’t want to.”

“Exactly,” says Mandrake. “However, your power makes you a sought-after figure. Everyone will want you to be on their side, and they will offer very tempting things in return.”

Besides reviving Alice, which I don’t think anyone would be able to do, I really don’t know what I want deep down inside. I just want to relax and enjoy life while I have it.

Mandrake stands up from the chair and walks to the kitchen. He is still holding his cigar.

“I was going to offer you something to eat,” he says, “But this safe house hasn’t been restocked in a while.” He opens the fridge. “All we have is a couple of microwave dinners.”

I shake my head, and then turn to Sebastian. “What’s the fanciest restaurant in London?”

Sebastian seems to think for a moment. Then he smiles. “A restaurant opened not too long ago that serves conjured meals. They recently gained their third Michelin Star.” He puts his finger to his temple. “I think it was called ‘Conjuratus.’”

I grin. “Great,” I say. “Let’s take Mandrake there.”

Mandrake walks out of the kitchen. “So, do you want something to eat or not?” He looks between me and Sebastian. “What?”

“We’re going to take you out to eat,” I say.

“Well then!” says Mandrake. “I hope it’s somewhere not too expensive!”

“We’re heading to Conjuratus,” I say.

Mandrake’s eyes open wide. “I would love to,” he says. “Are you sure you want to be spending that kind of money on me?”

“You’re a silverbones,” I say. “Don’t you have a lot of money anyways?”

Mandrake shakes his head. “No. As a matter of fact, I make just enough money to live on.”

I am confused. With his power, he could be doing anything, making a ton of money.

Mandrake tilts his head. “I see you’re confused. It’s just a personal creed of mine. I’m very against the idea of wealth.” He shrugs. “But I can’t refuse the kindness of others, either.” He smiles. “Let’s go!”

Sebastian leads Mandrake and I through the building until we reach the street. Our limo is already pulled up next to the sidewalk. Sebastian opens the doors for Mandrake and me. I get in first.

Mandrake sits down.

I open the mini fridge. “Do you like alcohol?” I ask.

Mandrake raises an eyebrow. “What’s a minor like you doing with vintage whiskeys?”

“There’s also brandies and gin,” says Sebastian, from the front seat.

“I’ll take the gin,” says Mandrake. He grabs a bottle of gin and pours himself a glass. Glancing at me, he smiles. “Well, I suppose you need something to drink as well.”

I open the hidden fridge and pull out a diet root beer, popping it open with a snap.

Mandrake chuckles. “Diet root beer. Good choice, lad.”

Sebastian sighs from the front seat. Yeah, yeah. Diet root beer isn’t exactly suited for a rich young prince like me. Appearances and all that. I take a guilty sip of the beverage and set it down on the table with high edges.

Mandrake watches the cars beside us, not saying a word. I am left wondering what he is thinking.

“You haven’t told me directly,” I say, “But what’s the purpose of the Silverbones?”

“Immortality,” says Mandrake. “Or, at least, the search for it.” He sighs. “Plus a lot of other things. Look, lad. Don’t worry about what we do before you’ve made a decision.”

“But it’s obvious what I want to do,” I say. “I’m no bad guy.”

“So they all say,” says Mandrake. “I’m not counting on your presence until after the Darks contact you. We’ll see how moral you are after you’re presented with their offer.”

We pull into the parking lot of Conjuratus. It’s a fancy building in the London suburbs that is decorated as one would expect a high-class restaurant to look.

Sebastian opens the door for me, and I step out. Mandrake follows.

Sebastian bows. “I will not be accompanying you this time,” he says. He hands me a card. “Here is the method of payment.”

It looks like a simple debit card. I shrug and put it in my pocket.

“That’s a British Express Platinum, my boy,” says Mandrake. He seems genuinely impressed.

I take the card back out of my pocket and examine it. It doesn’t look that special to me. Sure, it’s shiny and has good build, but I would expect that of any payment plastic. I place it back in my pocket.

Mandrake chuckles, and then turns to the entrance of the restaurant. “This will be the first time I’ve eaten high-class conjured food,” he says.

We both step in. I am dressed sharply—it’s been a habit of mine ever since I realized I could—and, of course, Mandrake is wearing a black suit and fedora. We are dressed for the establishment.

A waiter approaches us.

“Reservation for Mr. Red, correct?” he says.

I nod.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” says the waiter. He leads us to a rather private table near the back of the establishment. I can catch a glimpse of the kitchen from here.

We both sit down. The waiter hands us our menus.

I read through it and decide to try the Duck Flambe.

“So, what are you going to have?” I say, to Mandrake.

“Just a steak,” says Mandrake. “I’m not very used to establishments like this.”

“Neither am I,” I say. “But I suppose at chances like this I have to try something brave.”

“That’s a good way to think about it,” says Mandrake, as he puts his menu down. He folds his hands and rests his elbows on the table.

“I have to ask,” he says. “Do you know where your money is coming from?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I say. “I just accept the fact that the portal beings working for me aren’t causing too much trouble.”

“Hrm,” says Mandrake. “You also have your Rearden Metal, right?” he says.

I nod.

Mandrake crosses his arms. “It’s normal for any human who has absorbed a multi-thousand-year ring to manifest many special powers. Entrance to the Silverbones requires absorption of at least a five-thousand-year spirit,” he says. He taps his finger on the table. “I myself have acquired a twelve-thousand-year spirit. I was originally the owner of an organic compound manifestation. A certain polymer that doesn’t have an official name. I was assigned to be an adventurer because I could use the polymer to create shields.”

“So you’re a tank-class,” I say.

“Correct,” says Mandrake. “And I manifested a wide range of powers having to do with plastics and organic compounds. That metal sheet I showed you is actually an organometal.”

I whistle. “I should try making something like that.”

Mandrake chuckles. “I don’t doubt you could. Rearden Metal and my creation are in different classes, but both are strong.”

The waiter comes to the table and we order. After the waiter leaves, Mandrake folds his hands.

“So, you’re here in London for just another month, right?” Mandrake says.

I nod. “Just long enough to teach the conjurers Esmex hired to produce Rearden Metal.”

Mandrake sighs. “I don’t know if that will come to good or not, but it’s part of my personal creed to neve profit from what I can produce.”

I shake my head. “I don’t really want to profit,” I say. “I just want to be useful to the world.”

“Well, that’s noble of you,” says Mandrake, with a small smile.

The waiter arrives with our dinners.

“That was quick!” says Mandrake, as the food is placed on the table.

The waiter gives a professional smile. “All our food is conjured in its final form by our head chef.”

I look at the beautiful duck roast in front of me. As the waiter leaves, I take a bite, making sure to adhere to the English etiquette I was taught not long ago.

There is a loud screech and a crash. A car comes barreling through the front of the restaurant and smashes the wall, sending tables and dishes flying.

A couple seconds of silence pass. The car doors open and a gigantic, beefy man with Schwarzenegger-class muscles steps out. He is holding a chaingun.

“Get down!” yells Mandrake, as he tips the table in the direction of the attacker. He forms a semi-clear barrier of organic material between us and the gunman.

The gun opens fire, sounding less like individual bullets and more like the tearing of a cosmic sheet of paper. Screams are everywhere. Broken dishes and tracer rounds fly all over the place. One of the restaurant goers seems to be an adventurer and tries to fight back. Before he can take out his weapon, he is turned into a fine red mist.

“Damn Ronald,” says Mandrake, as he crouches behind the table and his shield.

“Is that his name?” I say, as I watch the restaurant explode.

Hundreds of bullets are pinging against Mandrake’s shield.

Mandrake’s face is deadly serious. “Yes. He’s not someone you want to mess with.” He pauses. “Not that anyone in the Darks is to begin with.”

The chain gun is still firing. I’m pretty sure that, by now, everyone in the room is dead. And yet the gun keeps firing.

Finally, the chain gun stops. All that is left is the sound of it spinning, and then that stops.

Ronald takes a couple of steps towards us, shells clinking beneath his feet. He stops in the middle of the room.

“Come out, come out!” he says, with a thick German accent. His eyes lock on us. He grins. “We need to borrow little Markus for a moment,” he says. “If you don’t turn him over,” Ronald holds up a bomb detonator, “I will put a hole in this street. Many people will die!”

“You’ve already killed enough,” says Mandrake. “Why do you want to kill more?”

“Kill?” says Ronald. “I do not kill. I stomp. I crush. I flatten.” He turns the chain gun towards us. It begins to spin again.

Mandrake whispers to me. “If he directs the gun against my shield, I won’t be able to hold long.” He cringes. “I’m going to have to let you go. They won’t kill you or torture you. You’re too valuable.”

I shake my head. “I have an idea.” I reach into my personal dimension and find the stone golem boss from the S-class portal. It’s still there. When I see it in my mind’s eye, it stands up from a sitting position and kneels before me.

“Master,” it says.

I snap my fingers.

A white portal appears on the restaurant floor, covering several broken tables and dead bodies. The golem begins to rise from the ground. First its head, then its shoulders. When it is at its waist, it tears a hole in the ceiling. With two gigantic steps, it walks out of the portal and tramps towards Ronald.

“You bastard!” yells Ronald, as the golem picks him up in both hands.

“Guns don’t work against portal beings,” I say, grinning slightly.

Of course, my grin falls when I see the dead bodies.

It returns for a split second when the golem throws Ronald like a professional baseball pitcher and sends the killer flying over the city skyline. Then the golem bows to me, returns to the portal, and sinks back into the floor.

“That won’t kill him,” says Mandrake. “It will barely scratch him.” He sighs. “Now they’re probably going to punish you at some point. And they won’t be attacking you alone anymore. If you try the golem trick on Blastoid, you’ll end up with a cloud of steam and a pile of broken rocks.” Mandrake wipes his forehead with a handkerchief.

Police sirens wail in the distance.

“Well,” says Mandrake, “After the theft at the National Gallery, the news will have a lot of things to report today.” He turns to the dozens of dead bodies covering the restaurant floor. “Namaste,” he says, holding his hands together.

“Rest in peace,” I say, holding my own hands together.

It looks like the war has just begun.

The Lesser One: Chapter 16: Network

Network

“So,” says Dr. Rihner, through the phone I’m holding up to my ear. “The CEO of Esmex International would like to meet with you. Now.”

“But—” I say, but I am interrupted.

“Now,” says Dr. Rihner. “We have sent you a driver. He will be arriving shortly. Please be outside your hotel within five minutes. We will discuss more later.”

The phone clicks. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. This isn’t going to be something big, is it?

I walk to the front doors of the hotel. Right when I get out a limousine pulls up to the doorway. A doorman steps out—I instantly recognize him as one of my devils. Man, they are everywhere! I step into the car and the door closes. The doorman gets into the driver’s seat and we roll along the London roads. On the left side, of course, which is a little disorienting.

We roll up to a tall building in London’s central downtown area. This building is of the “neo relic” architectural style, with lots of shining crystal glass and overhanging platforms. There is even a waterfall going down the building.

The limo pulls up to the front entrance. The devil who is driving has said nothing to me. He gets out and pulls open the door for me.

I step out. Two men in suits stand beside the door. Both nod at me and motion with their arms for me to enter.

I enter the building.

“Markus!” says a man dressed in a tan pinstripe suit. I have never seen this man before. He walks up to me and claps me on the shoulder. “Heya! I knew you would come!” He motions to the elevator. “Let’s take the express.” He looks really into his speech, and winks. “I know you’ll love it.”

We step into the express elevator. As soon as it starts rising one half of the shaft is bounded by glass. I watch the London skyline sinking beneath me.

The man in the pinstripe suit rubs his hands together. “The name’s Crayton. I’m the CEO of Esmex International. We do lots of things, but one of the things we’re real proud of is our research into conjuration.”

The elevator arrives at the building’s top floor. We step out into a glass bridge through which the entirety of London is visible. At the end of the bridge is a door. The waterfall that I saw earlier flows beneath us.

Two men in black step out of a door I didn’t see before and open the penthouse for us.

I step into a beautiful panoramic living room with high-class modern-style furniture and, if I’m not mistaken, an actual Picasso hanging on the wall. I walk up to the painting.

“Don’t touch,” says Crayton. “That’s Picasso’s Little Flower.”

“Um, how much is it worth?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Who counts these days anyways?” Crayton winks again. He sits down on the modern couch and pulls Champagne from an ice bucket. “Would you like a drink?” he asks.

“I’m sixteen,” I tell him. “There’s no way I would be able to drink that.”

“No one will know,” says Crayton.

I shake my head.

“Then sit,” says Crayton. “I have many things to talk to you about.” He rubs his hands together. “Like this Rearden Metal you happen to have.”

I sit down. “Um, yeah,” I say. “I developed it to help with the CCC.”

“Well, you did the world a big favor, buddy, because your Rearden Metal has a higher tolerance of stress and strain than any other known metal, while being about a third the weight of titanium. I don’t even know how you managed to create it out of pure copper and steel.”

“Well, it’s all about the crystalline structure—” I say.

“Yes, yes, I know, I studied mechanical engineering before I became a CEO. I just want to understand how you came up with such an alloy. It’s almost alien.” Crayton’s eyes gleam. “And, I can see it being very valuable …” He sighs. “But, alas, you can only produce so much of the material.” He stands up and walks up to the window, holding a glass of Champagne. “The good news is that I can obtain a number of copper-steel dual class conjurers. If you would be willing to train them to produce this metal, you would be very handsomely compensated.”

“I already have a lot of money,” I say.

“Yes, I know,” says Crayton. “I did my research. Somehow, a sixteen-year old kid from New York happens to have several million dollars on the stock market as well as another cool ten million sitting in Swiss bank accounts.” He turns to me, sipping from his glass. “I’m not talking about monetary compensation. I’m talking about power. Connections. The freedom to do things that one would normally not be able to do. I can grant your every wish.”

I shake my head. “I don’t even know what I would do with power.”

Crayton puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me towards a door. He opens it. It resembles batman’s Batcave, but with Ferraris. Three supercars sit on rotating podiums. A car elevator is installed in one corner, presumably to get the cars from a penthouse to the street. Expensive trophies and signed home run balls line the shelves.

“This is wealth,” says Crayton. “But this, this decadence, is just a means to an end.” He meanders past the supercars and opens a small door that is hidden amongst expensive art prints.

I step inside. The doors close, and the walls turn transparent. I feel myself rising. The city shines around us. A simple glass room, appearing to float in the sky, contains a single wooden table. Crayton sits. There are two chairs, facing each other across the surface. Crayton pats the wood.

“Come, sit,” he says.

I sit, pulling my chair up. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” I ask.

Crayton shakes his head. “This room is just to build ambience. This is where I take my most valuable clients and those most beautiful of women.”

“Oh, women,” I say. I feel a little strange about that.

Crayton nods with a little bit of a knowing grin. “Yes, but you probably aren’t ready to think about that. I’ve met presidents, prime ministers, and royalty here.” He waves his hand, pointing to the skyline around us. “And you, a little sixteen-year-old boy from the States, are one of the most special.” Crayton winks. “And I don’t tell that to everyone.”

“Okay,” I say, finally deciding to do something. “What do you want me to do?”

“Obviously money won’t motivate you,” says Crayton. “But I know you have some sort of network that is working for you. I haven’t been able to pin any of your agents down, and because of this I know that they are all experts among experts.” His eyes become a bit dangerous. “Who did you hire? The KGB? The M15? The CIA? Well, not that one. No good spies work for the CIA.” He sighs, turning a bit to watch the city beneath and around him. “Whatever your connections, I know from your minions that you are an especially powerful person.” He pauses.

Then he slams his fist against the table. “But why? You came with me like a rabbit after a carrot.” He turns to me, his eyes blazing. “You have no sense of danger. You do not know who you have caught the eyes of. Dangerous people are after you, your power, and your ability. The only reason why you are not working as a slave to some mafia don is because of this infernal … Network that you have working for you.”

“Wait,” I say. “Did you say mafia?”

Crayton appears irritated. “Yes! Of course! Your powers are no real secret! The mafia, the triad, the yakuza, the ruskies—they’re all after you! Well, the governments are too, but they don’t pose any real threat.” Crayton sighs, reaching for a Champagne bottle placed on a clear glass stand next to the table. He pours himself a glass. “I want to be the first to capture … No, obtain? … No, work with you to create a better world for everyone.” He sighs. “I’m bored. I haven’t had fun in ages. I want to do something spectacular, even if that means gaining the ire of the underworld.”

Crayton turns to me. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

I think I do. But I don’t know how to put it into words. “I’m not the person you think I am,” I say. “I have no idea what’s going on with my … Network. If you can call it that.”

“Oh, yes, you can call it that,” says Crayton. He sighs. “I thought as much. You don’t seem the kind of person to have enough guile to pull off some of the stunts your network is pulling off.”

Whoa. I hadn’t expected Jirgrar and his devils to be this effective. I want to ask what has happened, but I know it will only make me look weaker and stupider to this man. I’ll ask Jirgrar for a full rundown of what he’s doing when I get the chance. Maybe I should have been paying more attention.

“Okay,” I say. “I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“Name the terms,” says Crayton. “You know that old ‘half the kingdom’ bit? I’m thinking on that scale right now.”

I mentally reevaluate the value of what I have been given. I then sigh. “This is going to get complicated, right?”

I get a text.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I know who it is before I look.

It’s Jirgrar.

Jirgrar: Don’t make any decisions. Let our lawyer handle it.

Me: Thanks. When is he going to be here?

Jirgrar: Stall for two minutes.

I look away from my phone. “Sorry, that was my parents.”

Crayton looks offended. “Obviously it wasn’t,” he says. He seems to think for a minute. “Why did you think I would believe that?”

Well, this tangent is as good as any.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just a stupid sixteen-year-old without any experience in the real world.”

“You’re stalling, aren’t you?”

“Well, what if I am?”

Crayton sighs, rubbing his temples. A beep sounds on his pager. He picks it up.

“Hello?” he says. “Yes, yes.” He frowns. “Let her in then. No, don’t keep her out. This was going to happen anyways. The kid is smarter than we gave him credit for. Barely.” Crayton looks up at me.

Looks I didn’t have to stall for long after all. Jirgrar sure works fast.

Crayton is still talking into his phone pager. “I’m still having a hard time reading him. Be ready for anything.” Crayton then hangs up. He steeples his fingers.

“We’ll wait for your lawyer to arrive. Mine will too. Then we can discuss this on the record.” He pauses. “Let’s be clear. I want your recipe, and I know you are capable of producing more. More of the same caliber. This is what I really want. I want a monopoly.” His eyes are looking sharper every second. He taps his fingers on the table. “And though I don’t have the power to take it from you—because of your damned good intelligence network—I can at the very least offer you the sweetest deal you will ever see.” He pauses. “You see, I can make you famous.” He grins. “I can make you powerful.” He looks at me with an expectant expression and then turns to face the door to the glass observatory room.

Two people walk into the room. One is a strikingly beautiful woman, and the other is a balding middle-aged man with a paunch. Both are wearing suits.

The woman approaches me. “Markus,” she says. “I have been hired as your lawyer. As your lawyer, I recommend that you immediately leave with me so that we can have a discussion with the other party in an official context.”

I stand up. “Seems legitimate to me,” I say, and I turn to the woman. “You, uh …”

“Lacy. Lacy Stevens, head partner of Stevens, Mallard, and Duck.”

Seeing that no one is laughing at this, I take it to mean that the company is very prestigious. This is not a funny situation.

Lacy stands with her Redweld and nods at the other lawyer and Crayton. “Come,” she says, extending her hand to me.

My phone rings. I pick it up as I walk towards Lacy.

“Markus!” It is May. “Where did you go? Brandon says you left to get some air and haven’t come back!”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say. “I just went for a ride to see the Thames.”

“Did you take a cab? Do you even have that kind of money? Oh, wait, we do. Hum. Well, get back here as soon as you can.”

I hang up, bowing to Crayton. “Well, it seems like my teammates are missing me.” I walk away from the room in the sky with my lawyer next to me.

As we are in the elevator, Lacy frowns.

“You have some powerful people on your side,” she says. “It’s not often that I get called this late for a new client. I wasn’t going to accept until a member of the House of Lords asked me to do a favor.” She sighs. “Since you are obviously the child of some important people, I will say this once, and you can figure out what to do with me. I don’t like dealing with spoiled brats who don’t know anything about the world.”

I shake my head. “My parents are office workers in Manhattan,” I say. “They’re not rich of important.”

Lacy looks confused. “But you can’t have bought out someone that high up in government without some sort of pull, and you’re a sixteen-year-old adventurer from out of the country. I don’t understand.” She rubs the bags under her eyes. “I read the report. Apparently, you created some sort of new metal alloy that could upset the world market. I think you called it … Rearden Metal?” She grimaces. “I don’t really understand your taste. I mean, Ayn Rand?” She shakes her head.

“Um, Crayton offered me, like, power or something?” I say.

Lacy looks troubled. “Look. Crayton is a bona-fide industrialist. He brought himself from a college dropout to one of the richest men in England. He’s exactly the kind of guy Ayn Rand would have loved. But he’s not a good guy.” Lacy sighs. “He’s after entry into …” She pauses. “Let’s not talk about that.”

We reach the ground floor. As we step out, I notice one of my devil-agents as a guard standing beside the main entrance. I am starting to get wierded out by how pervasive they are around me. What are they getting up to without my knowledge?

Well, for the moment, they seem to be holding my best interests in mind. I decide to defer judgement until I ask Jirgrar what’s going on behind the scenes.

Lacy calls a taxi and hands me a twenty-pound note. “The hotel you’re staying at is close. I’ll pick you up tomorrow in order to start negotiations. You’re going to stay here in London longer than you probably planned. Talk to your parents to see if this is possible. I’ll contact you by phone and tell you when I arrive.”

“I, um, have honorary adventurer status. I don’t know if that will change things, but …”

“Yes, I know. I still want you to talk to your parents. You might need them if your visa preparations go south.”

“Visa?” I say.

The taxi pulls up. “Yes, visa,” says Lacy. “As well as a host of other things.” She pauses, as I am about to get into the cab. “Stay safe,” she says.

She watches as the cab pulls away.

Five minutes later we are at the hotel. I step out and give the driver the twenty. “Keep the change,” I say.

“Well thanks, lad!” says the cabbie. He pulls away.

May is standing bedside the hotel entrance. “Thank god!” she says. She approaches me. “I thought you had been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” I ask.

May appears scared. “There were all these men in black, they said they were from the government—”

“The government?” I ask. I don’t see any government people around here.

“They left ten minutes ago. They told me to ask you to come to an address …” She pulls out a piece of paper. “I don’t know how spy stuff works, but I think it has something to do with your power.” She hands me the paper.

There is an address written on it, as well as a time. It will probably overlap with the negotiations I’m going to make with Esmex if I’m not careful. I slip the paper into my pocket. I am suddenly very tired.

May looks sheepish, casting her gaze around. “I think there might have also been mafia.”

I feel a distant danger approaching me. I am getting in much, much deeper than I ever thought I would.

The Lesser One: Chapter 7: School for Preps

School for Preps

I finish my first semester at Ixtham without incident. Every week or so I head off to the dungeons with my guild. I do research with Dr. Barrimore, who, despite several papers that should have revolutionized the field, is stuck publishing in a backwards, tiny journal that nobody reads. Somehow he manages to collect enough funding to continue at least his basic research. As I learn more about the field, I begin to understand how revolutionary his ideas are. They just go against the grain of accepted dogma.

It’s as if a scientist tried telling the world DNA is a triple-helix, not a double one. Without any clout to back him up, the only things people see when they read his papers are his mistakes. He doesn’t make many, but every single paper he writes has some sort of “flaw” that allows the mainstream to dismiss it. Even though the biggest one is no more than a nitpick, it has grounded Dr. Barrimore’s influence and career.

I also spend a lot of time at Half Moon, socializing. I’m half a decade away from drinking age, but the place just seems to calm me down.

As I work harder at my shooting skills, I begin to show results. Though I’m nowhere near the power level of Rey and Dres, I can at least land all my shots within the second ring of the target at standard shooting range.

After Fall break, I find myself in Practical Field Experience.

I stand in the middle of a group of about twenty students. Jane Bossman arrives five minutes before class starts. The “classroom” isn’t actually a room, but rather an entire floor of the basement levels dedicated entirely to what appears to be obstacle courses. In one corner is a simulated jungle. In another is a crumbling castle. There are also simulated oceans, an icy cavern, and a volcano surrounded by a lava moat. The whole room must be at least ten football fields of space. I’m surprised a room this size could exist in the city of New York.

Ms. Bossman surveys the twenty or so students before her with a grim expression on her face.

“I expect at least a quarter of you to drop out of this class,” she says, her voice iron hard. She takes her sword out and plants it in the gravel in front of her, movie-style. “I will not give quarter. If you fail, you will be kicked out of the academy. I have every discretion when it comes to deciding your fate. Thus, you must work. This class is designed to weed out the soft from the strong.” Her deep blue eyes drill into the class. “Your spirit will not protect you here. I don’t care if you are a dragon or a polar bear. You are going to have to go through the same thing everyone else does.”

The whole class seems stunned. I was warned about Ms. Bossman’s drill-sergeant teaching method, but seeing it up close is intimidating. I shrink back in myself and try not to be noticed.

Ms. Bossman lifts up her chin. “I will give you ten minutes to find a group of five. You will stay with this group for the rest of the semester.” She points to one of the testing areas. “These areas you see here are portals that lead to full-dive environments, some the size of an entire city. Your final exam will be surviving a week in one of them. Until then, I will drill as much survival and combat knowledge into your brain that you will be leaking hardtack out of your ears.” She crosses her arms. No one says anything.

I take this to mean that she wants us to gather into groups now. I spot Esla in the corner of the crowd and gravitate towards her.

“Hey,” I say, as I approach her. “You’re a junior, aren’t you?”

Esla nods, a sheepish grin on her face. “Yeah,” she says.

“Why are you here in a phase one class?”

Esla shrugs. “I just put this class off for a while. You know, since everyone said it would be so hard.” She claps her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, though. I’m not stupid or weak. I just happen to be somewhat of a … Careful person.”

I nod. Though Esla’s self-description is suspect, knowing what I know about her, I continue unfazed. “So, do you want to join my group?”

“Of course,” says Esla. “You an me together. No one can stop us.”

“My spirit is an anima,” I deadpan.

Esla shrugs. She doesn’t say anything.

A group of three students approach us. “You two know each other?” says the guy who appears to be the leader. He is tall, blonde, with a dark complexion—he might be Filipino. He extends his hand, a healthy smile on his face.

Esla shakes it without hesitation. “Hey!” she says. “I’m Esla. This here is Markus.” She slaps me on the back.

I bob my head, almost a bow but not quite. “Hello,” I say.

The tall blonde guy grins even bigger. “My name is Corbin.” He points to a red-haired girl who has a bit of stock to her. “This is Koen.” He points to a short, muscled student with a thick goatee. “This is Mattys.”

“Hiya, nice to meet you,” says Mattys, extending his rather meaty hand. I shake. His grip is iron.

“Now that you have all chosen your groups,” says Jane Bossman, her voice carrying over the collected students, “tell each other about your spirit. You have five minutes. After that you will face your first challenge.”

Corbin nods, taking charge of the mood for our group. “My spirit is steel. Specifically, martensite.” He holds up his hand and a steel rod appears in his palm. He wraps his fingers around it. “I can change this weapon to any form.” He flicks the rod and it turns into a scimitar, long and curved. “At the moment it takes a lot of effort to assume a new form, so I only have three that I cycle through.” He flips the sword around and it dissipates back into psion energy.

There is an uncomfortable silence.

Esla steps up. “My spirit is a typhoon,” she says. She claps her hands together and a wind picks up, tussling the clothes and hair of everyone in the class.

“I said talk about your powers,” says Ms. Bossman, her eyes filled with fire. “Not give us all wind chill.”

“Oops,” says Esla. She smiles sheepishly.

“Ha!” says Mattys. “That’s quite the power!” he slaps his hands together and bends over, planting his palms on the ground. A layer of ice shoots forward, creating a thin, slippery road. Mattys then stands up and surfs the road, moving much faster than any human is capable of running.

As he is skating across the room, throwing at least a foot of ice road ahead of him, he holds his fingers out in a “surfer dude” symbol. He rides the ice back towards us and stops in a puff of little white spots. “My spirit is ice. Specifically, ice-friction. It’s kind of complicated but I can move things fast by changing their coefficient of friction using my spirit.” He winks at Esla.

Esla mutters and rolls her eyes.

Koen, the red-haired girl, snaps her fingers. Within five seconds we are standing in a cage made of tall, green bamboo. It happened so fast I’m not even sure how it got there. She nods, appearing pleased, and then snaps her fingers again. The bamboo retracts into the ground, as if it had never been there. She grins.

“As you can see,” says Corbin, “Her spirit is bamboo.”

There is another awkward pause.

“What can you do?” says Corbin, to me.

I shrug. “My spirit is, well, blue anima.”

Corbin tilts his head. “And?” he says.

I point to where Jane Bossman is standing. “She’s going to itch her nose in about five seconds.”

Corbin stares at me, appearing perplexed. Then he looks over at Jane Bossman.

Ms. Bossman, at that moment, itches her nose.

“So you see the future,” says Corbin, taking it in stride.

“Not necessarily,” I say. “I’m just really sensitive to fluctuations in spacetime.”

“And that’s a fluctuation in spacetime,” says Corbin.

There’s a lot more to it than that—I learned a lot about my power from Dr. Barrimore’s research—but, like how they handled their technicalities, I refrain from discussing how consciousness and spacetime interact. I shrug.

“Well,” says Corbin. “I suppose we can use that.” He pauses. “Occasionally.”

“All right,” says Ms. Bossman. “Your time is up. For your first lesson, you’ll be learning how to navigate our first terrain type, a forest. This is basic stuff. About twenty-five percent of dungeons are some kind of forest-based environment.”

Ms. Bossman proceeds to give us instructions on how to navigate forest terrain. About an hour later, at the end of class, my head is stuffed full of information about forests. Foraging, bushwhacking, climbing trees. Tomorrow is our first field test.

After work, club, and visiting the Half Moon, I go to sleep at three in preparation for waking at seven.

After Portal Theory I, Monster Taxonomy, and Equipment Movement, it is finally time for my first field exam. I arrive about five minutes before Ms. Bossman.

The rest of my group, including Esla, all arrive just before class starts.

Esla holds up her hand. “High five?” she says.

I give her a high-five, reluctantly. I don’t understand what she is so fired-up about.

Esla tilts her head. “What’s wrong?” she says. “You don’t look too excited.”

Mattys puts his hands on his hips. “Yeah, man. Esla here is all ready to go and here you are, brining the mood down.” His eyes, though, are glimmering with cheer.

Corbin sighs. “We can’t have you brining us down. I know today is probably going to be easy, but if you’re not up for it you may as well drop out now.”

A clink of armor sounds behind me. I turn around, and see Jane Bossman standing with her arms crossed over her steel breastplate.

“Who said it was going to be easy?” said Ms. Bossman. She taps one finger on the arm of her other hand. “If that’s the attitude you have, you won’t be getting anywhere in this class.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Corbin. He bows. “I apologize.” His attitude turns quick.

Ms. Bossman seems to be placated. The corners of her lips turn up. “Good,” she says. “Since you seem so eager to go, I’ll have you go first.” She raises her voice, facing the whole class. “Your first mission is to clear the simulated arboreal dungeon in under an hour. There will not be any monsters in this class, but neither will there be support if you get stuck or lost. The time limit is strict. Break it and you will get an F for this assignment.” She turns to my group. “Door three,” she says, pointing to a small patch of forest in the center of the gigantic field.

“We will be sending two teams per class period,” says Ms. Bossman. “One hour each.” She nods at my group, her lips tightly pursed.

“All right then,” says Corbin. “Should we get started?”

“Yeah!” says Esla, pumping her fist. “We can do this!”

Mattys nods, and then shrugs, an amused expression on his face.

Koen turns away and starts walking towards the patch of forest.

I follow, along with the rest of the group. The atmosphere among us is jovial, though I am at its edges. I keep getting the feeling like I’m not being accepted.

But that’s usual for me. I’m not going to cry about it.

Our group reaches the artificial portal in the center of the forest block. From what I have learned in Portal Theory so far, this portal is the man-made equivalent of an F-class portal. The yellow color and specific triangular markings give it away.

Corbin steps up to it. He pulls out his steel rod and forms it into a spear. “Let’s go,” he says, stepping forwards. The portal swallows him with a soap-bubble like effect. A ripple passes through it and disappears.

Esla shrugs, her eyes glittering. “Now or never,” she says, stepping through.

Mattys cracks his knuckles, smiling with a glint of hardness, and walks through.

Koen tilts her head, nods once, and enters.

I am alone in front of the shimmering gateway to the forest realm. I count my blessings, take a few deep breaths, and pass into the world of the green.

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.

Day 2 of looking for a job: Soybeans, Long Walks, and Bright Orange Milk

Okay, you'll never believe this, but I found BRIGHT ORANGE MILK for sale at the grocery store yesterday. If you don't believe me look at this.

Orange cream! A Halloween special! (It's actually pretty good.)

Long walks are no fun, especially in the heat of summer. For some reason, even though fall has already started, the place where I'm at feels like summer in Louisiana. It's not as humid, no, but it has the same feeling of sweaty heat that I've actually been told is rather a rarity in the state of Wisconsin. So leave it to the weather to make it seem like home.

I walked past some soybeans on the way to the doctor's office today!

I've never actually lived in an area that produces food. They grew pine trees back in Ruston, but those don't really "look" like farms, even with all the trucks piled high with logs. But here! Here is an indication of the process that feeds us all!

I found myself wondering how many people this field can feed. If it is for feeding people at all. It could be for cattle feed or even to make industrial chemicals. But whatever the case, I thought it was interesting and even took a little clipping of soybeans to keep as a keepsake.

Still looking for a job. I have an interview tomorrow with a live-in elderly care business, which I'm going to have to take an Uber to. They have jobs all over the county and I'm pretty sure I'll be assigned jobs close to where I'm at.

I applied to the Walgreens here and in the town over--I actually have most of a license to practice as a pharmacy tech. All I need is hours on the job and then I'll be a fully licensed pharmacy tech. Making use of that fact would be a great boon for me!

Walking around town filling out applications and giving out resumes is, of course, a hard thing to do in the heat.

But with my bright orange creamsicle milk, I will overcome!

Postscript: An Honest Talk about What I Think about this Situation

I think, for one, that I'll keep posting stuff on this blog because, for the most part, I want to keep writing at least something every day. For another, I want to see how far I can take this project and if it will bring me any opportunities. I want to write for a living--I love doing it--and at the moment I don't have anything in particular that I can do. This is about to change as I move into the local job market (which is actually very manufacturing-focused) but, for now, I have a free will to push towards whatever goal I deem appropriate.

This will no longer be a blog where I focus blow by blow on what happens during my day (unless the new job I find is as interesting as the instrument repair shop I left). Instead, I will be writing about stuff that I think other people will find interesting. I think I have a lot to say about the world that I haven't said yet (or hasn't been heard by anyone yet.) And since I have a couple of dedicated readers--mostly people who I know and am close with--I don't want to leave them hanging simply because I lost the opportunity that I was pursuing here in Wisconsin.

I guess this blog has been therapeutic for me. Certainly it has helped other people understand what I am doing and why I am doing it. Without this blog, I don't think anyone would have really understood why I got let go from the repair school like I was. I think this is a good outcome. If you read my whole backlog you can feel and go through what I went through as I gradually realized my own capabilities and the things that were demanded from me by the people in charge.

Now that I'm on the lookout for a job in the local market, I have a new challenge to overcome.

The place that seems most likely at this point is a trumpet manufacturing company called Getzen. I don't think I've heard of their instruments before (I don't remember ever seeing a Getzen trumpet) it seems like they are an established "small" brand.

The problem is that it seems the only open jobs are in the buffing department and the shipping department. On the one hand, I really don't like buffing. I'll do it, but it's the wrong combination of tedious and involved that makes it impossible to forget yourself in your work (as with more complex jobs) and yet impossible to turn your mind off (as with very simple jobs.) It sits in that little space where you have to pay attention just enough to make it hard to daydream but you also do the same thing over and over again without anything to stimulate your mind. Thus, I don't like doing it and don't see how I could do it forty hours a week.

On the other hand, though I've never worked in a shipping department before, it looks to me like that would be a lot less boring and perhaps even a little bit rewarding.

It works like this: I'd rather bag groceries than buff the same dongle over and over again. But packaging and managing a shipping department would be a little bit better than bagging groceries.

Though, ultimately, I want to find a job where my talents at the written word will come into play. For one, I like the ability to control my own schedule and work at my own pace without thinking about what other people see in me. As long as I complete my jobs on time and to the standard that is needed, that is all that matters. I can take a half-hour break whenever I want par the necessity to hit deadlines. If I work faster and more efficiently, I get to reap the rewards in the vein of more results and more free time. I will be judged based on what I produce, not how I appear to be while producing it.

And, I'm just good at writing. I think. At the very least I type fast and am articulate.

The ultimate outcome here would be if I were able to write fiction and sell my books online to keep myself fed and housed. I don't want to make millions or become famous. I just want to perpetuate my love of writing. As long as I make enough to keep myself alive and continuing to write, I will be fine.

The only problem is that no one reads my stuff. I haven't sold a book online in a year, and I've sold maybe a total of ten books online in my entire career. Though I have sold a lot of physical copies at events and festivals, those events only happen once or twice a year, and I don't make nearly enough from them to make it feasible to support myself through that avenue.

I can lose myself in writing for hours. I can take breaks whenever I want for as long as I want as long as I meet the deadlines and quality requirements. This is the perfect scenario for me. Nobody to judge me for being "fidgety" and "not paying attention." A job where I am rewarded for doing the thing I love doing most. This is my ultimate outcome.

Of course, I like repairing instruments as well. That is something that I can see myself doing. But, because of my own incompatibility with the school that I was supposed to train at, I am sitting in a void where I can't chase that outcome.

Even if I were to promise to write ten thousand words every workday (which is about eight hours of writing) I don't think my parents would support that. Maybe they would, but my thinking is that simply writing for writing's sake while hoping to sell what I've written one day doesn't constitute an acceptable job.

Here would be my proposal in that situation: I  produce a certain number of words of a novel or book every day, and that can be a replacement for working full time at some other job, like Getzen or the local grocery store. Would that be acceptable?

I don't know. That path is a strange one.

I could also be a freelance writer. I've done freelance writing jobs before, and have made a little bit of money from it--though I also have been scammed. Will this be enough to support me? I don't know.

The only thing I know is that I'd rather do a job that takes skill and allows me to forget the clock to the point where I don't feel the hours drag by. That's the feeling I hate most. Dragging hours. That's why I don't like working jobs where I'm acutely aware of passing time. Any job where I don't experience the phenomena of dragging hours is one that I would love.

Whatever the case, I will try my best.

Quid pro quo, as the saying goes. You get out what you put in.