About an hour later Peter strolled back through the gates of Averton, slapping at the leg of his armour where it was still smouldering. “Thaaaat could have gone better.” He nodded to the guards as he passed.
Dani ran her fingers through her hair, picking out bits of chitin and singed strands. “I told you before, they’re FIREflies. What else would you expect? Hey Roberts, how’s your day going?”
“I’m just saying that next time we go after tiny flying napalm sacks we should probably bring fire extinguishers. Or ice magic or something.” Peter winced as the clingy armour pulled at a scalded patch on his good arm. “Tell me we at least got paid well for it.”
Pulling the quest contract from a pouch, Dani scanned the document. “Fifty silver? Does that buy you some chill?”
Mollified, Peter nodded. The last quest before Dani had needed to call time required them to chase down some very volatile insects, catch them and separate their abdomens before they exploded. As well as the monetary reward, Peter had earned several ranks in Sneak, Weapon Specialisation: Polearm, Elemental Resistance: Fire and a metric buttload of XP. When he chinned his Traveller’s Mark Dani had mocked him mercilessly, but also he had discovered he was verging on level three. Less than a hundred XP to go. “Got time for one last run?”
“Sorry pal, gotta run.” Dani pulled out her whistle and played a unique note on it. “Hang on to my share, will you. I reckon Mum’s already getting antsy. See you here tomorrow?”
As Dani’s mount spawned in Peter considered the question. “Yeah, after school. I’ll find bloody Warren and see if he will help. See you tomorrow.” He watched Dani ride off into the distance and smiled. It had been a hard morning for such a short one. He was covered in nicks, cuts, bruises and burns any yet couldn’t help the feeling that he had just cleared a huge hurdle. Floating on a cloud, he found each of the townsfolk who had posted the quests to the board and handed them in. The fifty silver for the FireFly abdomens joined the pile in his pocket, along with the reward for the Deathcap fangs and the disgusting mess of tangled spider silk. I so hate spiders, he grimaced, too happy to really put his heart into it though.
The clinking of the metal disks in his pocket that were weighing down his trousers made him appreciate how much he missed having easy access to his inventory. Maybe some pouches like Dani has? He considered. Maybe that’s why she has so many. It’s gotta be easier than messing about with your mark all the time. Peter made a mental note to get some pouches made for him so that he could make use of items in, and out of, combat.
By this time he had reached the temple and entered Bani’s house. Waiting on the writing desk were three timers, ready for him to add to the house’s resource pool. Only three? I used the Aspect skill as often as I could! When Peter approached, however, a tiny stack of miniature timers had been obscured by one of the larger ones. Oh. That makes sense, tiny lives would make tiny souls. I wonder what they’re worth? He inserted each timer into the recess in turn and checked the total as it climbed. The full sized ones had only a fraction of the sand of the previous ones, providing a single soul point. The smaller versions were even less, the full one only adding 0.2 to the total, and the first of the partially filled timers resulting in a 0.05 increment. Peter held onto the second little timer, feeling for the memories it should contain. He was gifted with a fleeting sense of birth from an egg, flight, feeding on flowers that tasted of reminiscent of the drink his father had let him have the night he got really sick, and then a short sharp death. I guess that was a FireFly. Such a tiny existence, no wonder they aren’t worth much to the system. Peter finished entering the timers and settled DB into his nest. “Sorry there wasn’t much for you to do today DB,” Peter flopped onto the couch. “If you knew how to fight I’d see about getting you a mini scythe of your own.” He grinned at the thought. “You know what? I just might anyway. You can use it to harvest your own berries even if you can’t fight.”
DB huffed and settled down deeper into his nest. Clearly the idea did not float his boat nor tote his goat. Tickled pickles were right out.
“Fine, well, I’m out yo.” Peter logged off, exhausted.
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Picking himself up off the bed, Peter peeled his sheets from his sticky body. Dang, I should have had a shower first. He stripped off his clothes, and as an afterthought stripped the bed too. When he exited the bedroom he ran straight into his mother coming the other way.
“Oi you, where’s your trousers?” His mother looked askance at the pile of fabric in his hands. “And what’s with this?”
Peter covered his embarrassment and nakedness as best he could, shrugging and trying not to drop the pile. “I guess it’s a bit hot in my room?”
“Well, toss that lot in the basket and clean up, I was coming to let you know dinner is on its way.” She turned back to the kitchen as though nothing was amiss.
After disposing of his load and a quick shower Peter took a seat at the table. Dinner, as it were, had arrived. Spread across the table top was a diverse assortment of salads, vegetables in bowls, fruit and other instruments of torture. Peter scanned the field of battle, seeking the safe havens of carbohydrates and proteins and finding little to comfort him. “Mum, did I do something wrong?”
Pausing in the middle of salad forking a sizable helping of something predominantly green onto a plate, his mother frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” he accepted his plate, and his fate. “When’s Dad coming home?”
A furtive look crossed his mother’s face so fast that Peter almost missed it. She coughed and added an extra helping of leafy grossness to his plate. “Your father will be home when he’s ready. How are your studies coming? Your first exam is tomorrow.”
Peter smiled, he had been ready for that one. “It’s going great, Mum. I spent most of the afternoon working on Shop A. That’s woodwork,” he added helpfully. “There’s a tonne of crossover with Shop B, the screws are the same, for example.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” his mother countered, handing over the plate and sitting down. “Why would they have wood screws and metal screws if they’re the same?”
Grimacing and trying to delay tasting his dinner, Peter explained. “They’re made of different metals, but the head types are the same, the threads are counted the same way, metal screws have a finer pitch and wood screws have a deeper thread, but there’s a heap of overlap.”
His mother swallowed without a hint of distaste before replying. “Well, it sounds like you’ve got this all in hand. I’m assuming your exams tomorrow are for those two subjects, yes?”
Peter poked around the plate, hoping for bacon bits or even a crouton. “Mm-hm. All over it.” He did his best to infuse the confidence he absolutely did not feel into the words. In the pit of his stomach a small ball had started to form.
The rest of dinner passed in desultory conversation. Giving up trying to avoid consuming the salad and vegetable based torture device, Peter accepted that this was his punishment for having spent the whole weekend playing games. His mother appeared to relish the chance to have a meat-free meal, proving the old adage: vitamins are for wives and children.
Eventually his mother excused herself to take a phone call and left Peter to clean up. He hunted through the scraps on the off chance he had overlooked something, or his mother had just accidentally forgotten to serve up the good stuff. No such luck, he lamented as he carried the dishes to the sink. Wash up was easy however, the remaining leaves simply sliding off and down the drain under a deluge from the tap. Metaphor for my life, Peter watched the last specks circle the plug hole, could it get any worse? He stashed the leftovers in the fridge, while desperately wising he could have stashed them in the disposal, and retired to his room.
He threw himself onto his unmade bed, rolling around on the unfamiliar texture of the bare mattress. The bio-suture on his arm caught on a loose fibre and tore off a short section, prompting him to pry himself from the soft surface and fetch fresh linen. Fortunately the newly exposed scar tissue was undamaged, so apart from stinging a bit he hadn’t hurt himself again. Peter stared at the pink ridge at the top of his arm, briefly imagining the whole limb as skeletal as the one his digital self sported at the moment. He poked at the exposed flesh and found it tender, then sighed and got to work making the bed.
His mother poked her head around the door shortly after. “Well, will wonders never cease?”
With his back to her, Peter rolled his eyes then turned around. “Hey Mum. What’s up?”
“I have to duck out and pick up some paperwork for tomorrow. You going to be okay?”
Peter half-heartedly attempted a shrug. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Will you be long?”
If his mother noticed his attempt she didn’t show it. She looked a bit jittery, like she’d had five cups of coffee since dinner. “Couldn’t say, bucko. Could be after bedtime when I get back. Mind the time, alright? You need to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for tomorrow.”
“Sure Mum.” Peter watched his mother’s retreating back, doubting she had even heard the response. Shortly after he heard the front door slam and threw himself onto the bed again, abandoning the process of making it halfway through. “Sure Mum. Go, I’ll be fine.”
He hauled himself out of bed momentarily to turn off the light and crashed. Tomorrow could take care of itself, Peter was dead tired.