After four hours of lugging bins full of monster-parts out of the Gate and arranging them in the dingy alley, Marla proclaimed the Raid to be officially finished. The work had gone faster with the assistance of the security team, and there wasn’t too much grumbling. Chase was glad he’d hired Hunters that were new to the scene — they weren’t old enough to be infected by the prejudice that older Hunters so often tried to spread.
The mammoth task of taking their loot to the local Exchange was made easier by the fact that the nearest was only two blocks away. Throngs of Seven Town pedestrians gave them funny looks as they stampeded down the sidewalk, the tunka tunk of their wheelie bins filling the air.
Chase had to wait a few hours for the Exchange to sell their haul and send the funds to the guild coffers. He opened a tab on his System which gave him a rundown of Ballistic’s activities. Just below the ‘Guild’ tab was his Stats — a place he rarely entered because it still stung to do so.
He scrolled through to see the Guild Treasury. For larger, more complex guilds, only an accountant with sufficient training could hope to decode the endless list of transactions housed in this space. For Ballistic, however, there was just one entry.
{3rd March, 2088 : Raid Proceeds}
Revenue: 5,940 Credits
Operating Costs: TBD
Chase was ordering an overpriced beer at Porta-Bellow (their mandatory new stomping ground, per Marla’s edict) when he checked the amount. His knees turned to jelly, and he clutched the bar for support. The bartender gave him a look.
“You alright? Isn’t this only your second?”
Chase waved him off. “Third. And I’m not drunk or anything, I just…read something ridiculous.” He swiped a hand down his face, trying to hide the smile growing there. It refused to go. He returned to their lounge in a state of stupor. As he walked, the Operating Costs for the Raid trickled in. Jenny had given him a rough estimate, so he already knew they’d made a decent profit, but getting confirmation made it all the more real.
The total of everyone’s wages, as well as the added costs for the headsets, wheelie bins, and the bid for Gate Access was 3,660 Credits.
2,280 Credits of profit.
The amount was unreal. They were running the guild at bare bones, of course, but it was absurd for one day’s work. Most of it would go to various investments (a Monster-Retriever would set him back a staggering 4,000 Credits), but Chase was going to allot a small parcel of the profits for himself to enjoy. He was thinking of a nice dinner for Gramps and himself, maybe a giant tomahawk steak basted with lashings of garlic butter and rosemary. Gramps’ doctor would have a fit, but the old man would deem it worthwhile.
He managed to extricate himself from the comfortable lounges of Porta-Bellow after paying for only three rounds of everyone’s drinks. At that point, he knew they’d all be tipsy enough to throw around their own money instead of mooching off the guild bank account. As he left, Jenny caught his arm and asked if he’d kept the receipts for all the drinks.
“I didn’t, no. Are they important?”
His Raid Manager gave him a confusing look — something between pity and exasperation. “Yes, they’re important. Tax returns, man!” She punched his arm, something she’d never do without the wonderful social lubricant called alcohol. “I hereby declare this party tax-deductible. Yeah!”
She wandered back to the ‘party’, walking in less than a straight line.
Chase just sighed. Tax. Why didn’t they tell me about that before I became the Guild Leader?
*******
The next morning, Chase woke up to a message from Jenny telling him that Ballistic had lost the various Gate Auctions they’d bid on. They’d put up 600 Credits on a reasonably small Gate in Five Town, and 400 Credits on a longshot in Two City. Because of the easier working conditions and better transport infrastructure, Gates in the Cities usually sold at prices that were unsustainable for smaller guilds. Ballistic would find better luck in the cramped alleys and poorly maintained soccer fields of the Towns.
For the first time in a while, Chase felt a desire to return to their old apartment in Eight Town. The commute to the Towns wasn’t particularly long from Two City, but he’d lost the feeling of being a local. When he’d travelled to Seven Town the day before, he felt guilty — as though Ballistic was a franchise of some fast-food chain, setting up shop in a small community and stealing customers from the local businesses.
That would change once the apartment was rebuilt and deemed safe (there was apparently still pieces of rubble randomly plunging from the rooftops), but it was something to look forward to.
Nevertheless, with a free day on his hands, he planned to use it productively. He caught the train to Two City, then made the familiar trip to Darryl and Mary’s. The Luger had served him well, but it was time for an upgrade.
Darryl greeted him in his booming baritone. “Chase Mendleton in the house! How goes the hunting, young fella? Chewed through those 9 mil yet?”
Chase freaked out for a moment, thinking his exploits had somehow circulated back to Darryl. Then he remembered that he’d gotten his gun license by saying he would use it for ‘hunting’. Technically, he wasn’t lying.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I very nearly have, actually. I’m going to need a few more boxes.”
The big shopkeeper drummed on the glass counter, making things shake and rattle. “Beautiful. I’ve got some up here from doing stocktake — anything else?” There was a gleam in his eyes, like he was craving a sale.
“Well, I was considering an upgrade…”
Darryl was so happy he nearly fainted. He darted around the counter with surprising agility for a man his size, appearing at Chase’s side in seconds.
“Pistol? Rifle? Looking for attachments, extra gear, camping stuff? We got tripods, night vision, fox whistles, camp ovens—”
“Darryl!” Mary called from the back of the shop. “You’re doing it again, you great lump of doddery!”
Chase had no idea what a ‘doddery’ was, but she said it with passion, so it probably meant something. Darryl stepped back, took a deep breath, and began anew.
“Apologies, mate. Might’ve lost my cool for a liddle second there.”
Chase grinned. “Nothing wrong with passion for one’s craft. And the thing I’m looking for was in there somewhere. You mentioned pistols?”
“Aye, I did. You got problems with the Luger, eh?”
“I wouldn’t call them problems,” Chase said. “More just inefficiencies. I want a more modern weapon so I don’t have to sail the seven seas if I want spare parts. And I’d really like a hand cleaning the thing, too. You know how to disassemble one?”
Darryl shined. His jowls bobbed up and down as he nodded. “Never owned a Luger, but boy oh boy I seen enough videos of ‘em to do it with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. We can do that later, though. If you’re gonna buy a new weapon, there be something we gotta do first.”
“What’s that?” Chase cocked his head sideways. He’d already gotten his license and done all the paperwork. “I’ve had a police-check done recently, so that’s all up to date.”
The big man tut-tutted and waved crossways across his body. His pinky fingers were thicker than Chase’s thumbs.
“Nah, nah, nah. None o’ that bullcrap. We’re goin’ to the range.”
***
Darryl was going the extra mile for this sale. He drove them out to a large piece of land on the outskirts of New Melbourne’s borders — a forty-five-minute drive where the last fifteen-minutes were dominated by endless fields and chugging farm equipment.
There was a reasonably modern building constructed on one of these plots. They swung into a park and walked along the tarmac to the door. Chase entered, expecting to see a very particular subset of people. He’d braced for a room full of old white guys with hot dogs in one hand and rifles in the other, but what he found couldn’t have been further from the truth. They were greeted by a young lady with a gun bag slung over each shoulder. She slapped Darryl on the arm and shook Chase’s hand.
“Any luck today?” Darryl asked.
“A bit,” the lady answered. “Was shooting well with the .303, but I went out to do clays with Andy and barely hit a thing.”
“Using the .303 for clays?”
“Nah, 16-gauge. I’m not stupid. Toodles!”
Darryl smiled, waving as she left through the same door. They ventured further in, where one of the staff met them and asked for Darryl’s membership card. He grumbled as he fished through his wallet.
“And your guest?”
“This is Chase.” He turned. “Let him scan your license, mate. Gotta keep track of who does what in this place. CIU orders and whatnot.”
After a quick stop by the cafeteria (the chefs were indeed selling hot dogs like they were going for a record), Darryl selected several weapons from a locker. A staff member pulled out each gun then guided them through another set of doors to an open field where the shooters did their thing. There were a few other people out there — an Asian lady with a rifle taller than her, and a guy who could’ve been Darryl’s twin brother. He was identical from tip to toe, even dressed in the same tired blue jeans and farmer shirt.
For the next two hours, Chase cycled through all manner of pistols, ranging from an M1911 that was barely younger than his Luger, to a Beretta APX that was closer to Gramps’ era.
“That’s a goodun,” Darryl whispered. “Not really intended as a hunting pistol, more military, but I got one in the store. Don’t tell anyone.”
Chase smiled and switched to a rifle. The staff member showed him how to stand, steadying the gun against the meaty part of his pectoral to absorb the recoil. From the number of shots he’d taken, he was expecting a sizeable bruise the next morning.
The rifle felt good, but it was a beast to lug around and nigh impossible to conceal. Even still, he made a mental note to buy some 7.62mm ammo and hand it off to Herb. Considering the larger size of the bullet, he wanted to know how much magical paste it would take to make it usable for Hunting.
To his dismay, neither Darryl nor the shooting range had any fully automatic weaponry. Using such a beast against monsters would be ridiculously expensive, but with the profit from the Raid burning a hole in the Guild Treasury, he didn’t mind so much. More bullets meant more damage, and after his redundancy in the last boss fight, he thought that might be useful.
After a full-on morning, they returned to Darryl and Mary’s shop. The speakers (still lodged in the jaws of a wall-mounted bear head) played The Planets, by Gustav Holst, a collection of classical pieces that Chase only knew because Gramps raved about the guy. Mary was sitting at the counter, swishing her hands as though she was conducting the orchestra through Jupiter’s soaring crescendos.
“I’m going to make a sale, dear!” called Darryl.
His wife looked up from her pseudo-conducting and smiled. “I made seven while you were gone. But that’s lovely, Sweetcheeks.”
Chase tried very briefly to reconcile Darryl with the nickname bestowed upon him. The shopkeeper disappeared out the back, and soon the whirling sound of the gun safe being opened floated out to the shopfront. When he returned, he presented Chase with an unloaded Beretta APX and the cardboard box it came in. Although completely reasonable, it seemed odd to think that the gun came in its own little box, as if it were a puzzle or a board game one could purchase off a shelf.
“Watcha think?”
“Looks good. Didn’t hurt too much to shoot it, which helps. Those rifles though, jeez.”
Darryl laughed. “Hey-men to that. Now, she’s twelve-hundred Credits, but I’ll throw in an extra mag for free, just for you.”
Chase balked. He could afford it, but that didn’t necessarily make it affordable. He suddenly had the realisation that he wouldn’t be able to hide this purchase from Jenny. Not unless he drew money from the Guild Treasury and paid himself an exorbitant salary first. He didn’t want to go behind her back — not when she was already proving to be such an asset to the guild.
Oh well. That was a problem for another day.
“Two mags and we’ll call it even?”
“Done deal. Tell you what, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were throwing these things in the trash after you emptied ‘em!”
“Not quite,” Chase assured him. “I care enough for the environment to put them in the recycling, not the trash.”
Darryl looked bewildered for a split second before he realised Chase was joking. He produced an extra magazine, made the sale, then registered the weapon under Chase’s name.
“The collection begins,” he said, handing over all the items. “You got plans for the rest of the day?”
Chase checked the time, then swore under his breath. “I do, actually. And I’m already late for them.” He hurried out the door as he stashed his new purchases in his bag. “Cheers for these, I’ll see you next time!”
He sprinted down the alley and rushed to the train station, knowing he was already fifteen minutes behind schedule.
He chided himself.
Terrible impression for a first date.