“Kronke go talk Gwen?” The troll looked concerned as he gazed down the hallway that led to the dormitories.

The Department provided housing for its employees, ranging from tiny closet-sized rooms to luxurious suites. Since the managers and executives all chose to live off-site in their own dwellings, Audit Team One had the nicest rooms on the floor. Cal and his team had tiny, mostly windowless apartments nearby.

Gwen had equipped hers with lethal traps, and given her temper, she definitely would have armed those traps to ward off visitors right now. Cal patted Kronke on his meaty forearm. He couldn’t easily reach the troll’s shoulder. “I know you’re worried about her, but let’s give her some time to cool off first. You two go find that box Weavelord told us to file so we can get started, otherwise, this might take forever. I’ll go grab our snacks and meet you down there.”

“Kronke help carry cookies,” the troll offered.

Cal shook his head. “I promise, I won’t eat any until I get there.”

Helga brandished one tiny fist in the air. “We shall find the box of unfiled paperwork and conquer it!” A sly grin crossed her face. “I have a feeling it won’t take as long as ye fear.”

Cal narrowed his eyes at her. “We can’t simply let Hurricane eat the files.”

“Are ye sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Fine.” Helga’s shoulders slumped and Hurricane bleated in disappointment as they led Kronke down the hallway.

With a sigh, Cal headed toward the break room. Cookies weren’t the only thing on his mind. The threats from AT1 had shaken him. They were deadly dungeon guardians, each with a core gem built to channel the Apothos that flowed from the tree.

Normal dungeoneers possessed everyday souls instead of a core. That’s why they needed to destroy dungeon guardians and siphon the Apothos out to become more powerful.

Cal had left himself defenseless by rejecting that career and abandoning his only path to power. But he’d felt a trickle of Apothos run through him during their last audit. He needed to check his soul matrix to see if anything had changed.

He ducked into the break room and looked around warily. Cal had learned that he needed to stay alert after nearly losing his hand the first time he tried to retrieve a frozen meal.

The fridge was Karl’s realm—his dungeon core gem was embedded in an ornate housing on top of the freezer. Karl had been a dungeon core centuries earlier—an Ice Elemental—but he’d gotten his core cracked. Most of the time, that killed a dungeon guardian. But sometimes, like with Karl and other former dungeons, they were so powerful their force endured.

Such unfortunate souls looked for work after that—they still wanted to be useful.

Karl made himself very useful—he kept the fridge humming and occasionally devoured random TV dinners. He was a disaster for everyone’s diet. Always quick with a snippy comment on how it was better to go out than eat the solidly frozen Skinny Chicken and Broccoli. Karl also made a game of tempting employees into eating other people’s leftovers, especially if it was pizza.

Forbidden pizza was the sweetest of meals.

Most people went straight to the coffee machine, which was powered by a former dungeon core by the name of Fullgeers. In life, he’d been a morose Steampunk Kitchen Ghast. In death, he was just difficult. A maze of spinning gears and steaming valves, the coffee machine couldn’t be operated without the help of the Apothos entity running it. And he was a little more cracked than the rest.

Cal tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice. Fullgeers could sense weakness. “Just coffee, Fullgeers. Just drip coffee.”

The cracked onyx gem in the center of the contraption gleamed, flashing the image of a steaming paper cup marked with a skull.

Cal pressed the start button, knowing better than to allow hope into his heart.

A cup dropped from the machine under the spigot. The machine hissed and spat and milk shot out. Spoiled milk by the smell of it.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Come on, Fullgeers.” Cal grabbed the cup, sniffed it—yep, spoiled and slightly green—and tossed it into the sink.

He tried again. “Not a latte. Just coffee.”

Another cup dropped and scalding black liquid splashed down.

That was promising. Until Cal smelled it. “Black licorice flavoring? Are you kidding?”

The gem glistened merrily. The paper cup skull’s mouth opened and mechanical laughter echoed around the room.

Cal wasn’t in the mood to fight with the thing. “At least tell me there’s caffeine in it. It’s going to be a long night of filing.”

Fullgeers only laughed louder.

Grabbing the cup, Cal sat down at a wobbly Formica table and sipped the mixture. It was coffee-ish, though the black licorice had a bite that he’d be tasting for days.

He pulled up his matrix, scanning it for changes.

<<<>>>

Calcannis Illudere

Funk Soul Matrix

Race: Elven

Main Profession: Accounting Clerk

Champion Path: Pathetic Illusionist

Level: Deep Root Cultivator; E-Class, Rank 1

Primary Elemental Affinities: Luminosus/Umbra

Racial Abilities:

* Exceptional Senses

* Silent Foot

* Minor Boosted Charisma

Profession Powers:

* Advanced Apothos Analysis

* Ignorable Informational Image

* Identify Apothos

Champion Augmentations:

* Questionable Simulation

<<<>>>

He scowled at it. Most elves had Major Boosted Charisma and were beautiful and ethereal. Not Cal. With his Minor Boosted Charisma, the points of his ears were a little too sharp, and his platinum hair wasn’t quite platinum enough, like he was the dingy cousin to the rest of his race.

Being labeled a clerk annoyed him more. He longed to be a full accountant. At least his Profession Powers supported his passion for numbers. He could identify and analyze Apothos flow and usage and broadcast those numbers as data visualizations, images that people could see and understand.

The Questionable Simulation augmentation was what made him an illusionist. Try as he might, Cal’s illusions weren’t the best, so the matrix had the questionable part right. He’d talked to other dungeoneers who had similar negative Champion Class descriptions, but those normally changed when they reached C-Class. Cal was unlikely to reach even those mid-tier levels of power, unless something changed drastically.

He reread his matrix, hoping to see a difference, but it wasn’t until a third examination that he spotted it. The title of the display had changed, something he hadn’t known was even possible, so he’d skipped right over it before. His Soul Matrix was now called a Funk Soul Matrix.

“What does that mean?” he muttered. “The word ‘funk’ tells me very little.”

Karl piped up. “Hey, Cal, why you talkin’ to yourself? Maybe you need some pilfered food to fix yer brain. Amorfo left some leftover chicken Alfredo on linguine noodles. He’s probably forgotten all about it.”

Cal ignored Karl’s suggestion, responding with a question of his own. “Hey, do you have any idea what a funk soul is?”

The fridge’s motor chugged to life. “Funk soul? Is this some kind of weird dungeoneer thing? All I know is that you guys are the enemy.”

“I’m an auditor, Karl. I’m not the enemy. Not anymore. And when I was a champion, I didn’t know—”

Karl and Fullgeers laughed. Even the sink faucet turned on and the gushing water turned into a face burbling with laughter. Daphne was a former Seawater Revenant. Her cracked gem was embedded right behind the sink faucet. The water always came out salty, and dirty dishes always filled the sink, even though it was her job to clean them. Daphne would just point a watery finger at a sign that proclaimed, YOUR MOTHER ISN’T HERE, SO CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF!

“As if dungeoneers are the champions of anything other than their own greed,” Karl snapped. “Maybe you’re a bit different. But I doubt it.”

“Thanks, that’s very helpful.” Cal sipped his terrible licorice coffee and tuned them out. “The word funk has many different meanings. Grime. A bad odor. Or a type of music that is noted for being soulful. In Eldariana, where I grew up, there were minstrels from another reality that shared a venue with my family. It had something to do with a peculiar form of government. A parliament of some kind. I think one of the band members was called George—”

Karl interrupted his musings. “A bad odor, you say? I can attest to that. Your soul stinks. It smells funky. There was a fungaloid around a while back who really enjoyed some milk funk.”

No closer to understanding the change, Cal closed his matrix. It was different, but as far as he could tell, it offered no solutions for getting his team out of filing and back to active duty. For now, he’d keep the change to himself.

He stood up and tossed the cup away.

The freezer door opened and cold air flooded out. “How about some Aldaleeran flatbread pizza? It’s topped with basilisk pepperoni. It’s spicy. You bite it. It bites back.”

“No, thanks, but I will take the food I packed earlier.” Cal reached into the fridge and snatched out an insulated bag before the door grew teeth and slammed shut on his hand.

Karl wasn’t about to stop. “You and your team could go out for tacos and beer. Just forget about the filing. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“We could get fired,” Cal said.

“Would that be so bad? You’re never going to fit in around here.”

“Our commitment will not waver,” Cal declared. “We will earn a place of respect here.”

That brought gales of laughter from all the appliances, but Cal paid them no heed. He wasn’t about to quit. He believed in the important work that the Department was doing. He only hoped he could convince his team not to give up.

They’d win a place at the Department—he was sure of it. All they had to do was prove how effective they were, and despite their history, and his own questionable powers, he believed they could become the best audit team in the multiverse.

But first, filing.