“That’s…significant,” Chase replied. “Is Duramgort some top-notch designer or something?”
The tailor’s expression soured. “Duramgort is a twelve-armed sea beast capable of upending entire Navy fleets. The armour is an homage to ancient culture and the starry-eyed desperation of the human condition.”
Chase sat still, waiting for the tailor to explain the joke. When only silence ensued, he pointed to the next armour set. “Right. Is that one any better? I’m thinking more in the ballpark of five-thousand Credits.”
There was more tapping, then the conveyor belt of armour sets whirred back to life. The pristine, shimmering armours zipped behind curtains into a dark abyss of warehouse space. In their place were five mottled cloaks and an Army-issue hoodie.
“Mr Mendleton, this selection may be closer to your…capacity. They are man-made items of clothing, the only buffs provided by way of enchantments. These are items which wealthy Hunters may choose to wear outside of the Dungeon due to their lighter weight and easier manoeuvrability.” The man seemed agitated. He looked out into the lobby as if searching for more lucrative customers. “They are cheap compared to normal armours, but there is a catch.”
Chase got up from his seat and inspected the cloaks. The first was a mottled grey and green, a blend that would’ve suited the murky darkness of the mangrove. The second was splattered with varying shades of orange, as if it were dipped in orange juice, covered in sand, then set out to dry and absorb the colour of the setting sun. It was warm to touch — stiflingly so.
“A catch?”
“Yes. These items are not intended to be worn as armour, per say. They do not have the right sturdiness, and if ripped or ruined in any material way, they cannot simply be hammered back into shape. They would be ruined. Hence, they are for wealthy Hunters.”
Chase thought about the frog-boss, and how that had led to his intimate encounter with the rocky dirt floor and the sterile air of the hospital. If that kind of thing happened again, these cloaks would be ruined. He’d be back here, cheque book in one hand and hat in the other.
But buying one of these might help me avoid ever being put in that position again, he thought. And not being a dumbass might help even more.
“I get your point. Any chance I could try these on? I’d like to see the Stats on them.”
The tailor waved both arms at the mannequins. “Please, go ahead.”
Chase took the orange juice cloak from the mannequin and slung it over his shoulders. He felt lighter on his feet, like he was a tennis player bouncing on the balls of their feet, ready to receive a serve. He tried a standing long-jump and nearly bowled over the tailor.
“Shite! Sorry ‘bout that.”
The tailor was unfazed. “That’s okay. It’s bound to happen if you don’t check the Stats first.”
Chase could hear the subtle suggestion being made, so he obliged. It had been a long time since he’d ventured into his Stats screen — having an unbiased machine tell you exactly how you shape up to the rest of humanity could be quite the humbling affair, especially for a Talentless person who couldn’t raise those Stats without artificial enhancement.
The screen displayed the eleven numbers which dictated the lives of about 40% of humanity. These were the extremely simple figures over which that 40% obsessed, whether it be crying out in jubilation, weeping in despondency, or thrashing in anger. One could shore up their weaknesses or enhance their aptitudes, but a high baseline would always be every Talented person’s deepest and most ardent desire.
For Chase, it was an embarrassing show of mediocrity. The cloak’s buffs helped, but that assumed he was willing to pay whatever ungodly price the tailor threw at him.
{Stats}
Health:
* Regeneration: 1.9 (+1)
* Intelligence: 1.4 (+0.2)
* Speed: 1.9 (+1)
* Agility: 1.3 (+0.5)
* Dexterity: 1
Magic
* Magical Affinity: 1.2
* Magical Restoration: 1.5 (+0.5)
* Magical Defence: 1
Physical
* Physical Defence: 1.1
* Total Strength: .9
* Burst Strength: 1
Despite not addressing his need for Defence, the stat gains were impressive. The completely average human would have a 1 in every Stat, meaning the +1 bonus for Regeneration would make him twice as quick to recover in all circumstances. Wounds would clot twice as fast, bones would mend themselves before he’d been on crutches long enough to get used to them, he’d even recover from a ten-kilometre run without suffering through the multi-day tirade of his thighs and calves burning.
However, considering the events that led him here, the lack of Defence was a dealbreaker.
He cycled through the cloaks, admiring the way that they altered his capabilities. The plain brown one gave him a decent hit of Physical Defence, but it fell short in other ways — most pointedly its capability to enhance the one area he had the least use for: Magic.
At last, he came to the hoodie with the Army insignia on the shoulder. It was unassuming — compared to the heavy, billowing cloaks, it was closer to resembling the everyday wear of the masses. If it weren’t for the soft white glow emanating from the stitching around the arms and waist, he would’ve assumed it was just what it purported to be. A simple, run-of-the-mill hoodie.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“What’s the go with this one?” he asked.
“That’s Private Reinhard’s Uniform, as named by our arcanist. Made it for her son, originally.”
Chase took it off the mannequin and pulled it over his head. “So like a hand-me-down situation? Did he outgrow it or something?”
“He died.”
“Oh.” Suddenly the soft cotton and polyester on the interior of the hoodie felt like little bristles itching his skin. He stood with his arms poking out the bottom, hesitant to pull on the sleeves. “Would your arcanist be angry at me for wearing it?”
“No, no,” the tailor assured him. “She donated it herself. It would not be for sale otherwise.”
“Right.” With some trepidation, Chase pulled it on the rest of the way and checked out the wall-sized mirror to his left. The hoodie fit well and was actually quite comfortable after dispelling the phantom-itchiness he’d felt upon learning its history.
But Stats were more important than fashion or comfort. Stats were what made or broke a Hunter, at least the ones without magically enhanced modern weaponry at their disposal.
Hoping against hope that he would not have to settle for one of the other cloaks with useless buffs, he opened his Stats. This time, rather than looking at his overall numbers, he selected the hoodie under the Equipment/Apparel section.
{Private Reinhard’s Uniform} (Grade C)
Arcanist’s Notes: A crew-neck hoodie with a private’s patch embroidered on the left shoulder. Enchantments imbued into waist and arm stitching. REINHARD, DO NOT TUMBLE DRY OR BLEACH OR ELSE YOUR MOTHER WILL BE VERY ANGRY!
* Regeneration (+0.3)
* Speed (+0.7)
* Agility (+0.5)
* Magical Defence (+0.8)
* Physical Defence (+0.7)
Chase let out a sigh of relief. The hoodie was exactly what he needed, even though its total stat bonuses were a little less than that of the cloaks. A total of 3 extra stat points was a godsend, as long as he didn’t bleach or — God forbid — tumble dry the thing.
“This one’s perfect,” he said. “Please tell me I can afford this, or can you at least put in on hold for a while?”
Once again, the tailor adopted an expression which seemed to say that money was beneath him, like none of his clients had ever thought about such a paltry, insignificant thing as their Credit Balance.
“It is listed here as six-thousand-five-hundred Credits. If that price is not acceptable, I must ask you to remove the garment.”
Chase didn’t want to take off the hoodie. He’d just reached the critical point at which his body heat had warmed up the cotton from its initial chilly state, and now taking it off felt like a waste. He also didn’t want to part ways with six and a half big ones, but at this point…
“Fuck it, I’ll take it,” he said, feeling sorry for the Guild Treasury and fear for Jenny’s retribution. “But next time I’m back, I want those hors d’oeuvres to be bigger. I’m talking entrée size at least.”
The tailor scoffed, but a small smile appeared as he tapped away on his tablet. “If you would be so kind as to set an appointment, Mr Mendleton, I shall see what can be arranged.” He held out the tablet, ready for Chase’s fingerprint. “Please approve the payment.”
Chase gulped and signed away most of Ballistic’s Treasury.
*******
Seo-ah left the date thinking that a second one wouldn’t be the worst thing ever. Tardiness was borderline unacceptable, but the conversation was good, and it wasn’t like she had anything else lined up. One thing that the Four City GRA and her private life had in common was that they were both eerily quiet, like an old house where the only noise was the occasional drip of a leaky faucet.
Upon further investigation, she realised that some people didn’t even come back to the office after their lunch breaks. Hal kept up the visage of a high-performing, attentive employee, but she soon noticed that he seemed to be reading the same reports and files over and over. When she’d plucked a file from his hands, his eyes had continued scanning from left to right. He was using his System — reading messages and chatting to friends all day.
Unlike her past self, she didn’t resent him for it. In fact, she took it as a lesson — a parable that preached what one could achieve whilst getting paid to do nothing.
Seo-ah didn’t do ‘chatting’. Even if she had friends that were willing to partake in such a mindless, unproductive thing, she would rather rot at her desk in silence.
Instead, she researched.
Taking Hal’s brilliant scheme and improving upon it, she took a notepad and scrawled a few paragraphs of believable GRA jargon and uninteresting musings on a fictitious case. Next, she rested her pen on the pad, placed her arm on the desk, and thumped her head into the crook of her elbow as if in deep thought. No one would see her eyes flicking left-right-left-right as she toiled through articles on her System.
She started with the classics, warming up the stalker inside her.
‘Chase Mendleton’
The results of her search were uninspiring — details of his employment at Majesty, an assortment of ancient basketball and soccer scores from his schooling days (not a leading goal scorer in either sport, much to Seo-ah’s disappointment), and a video of a twelve-year-old Chase singing with a group of kids for some kind of charity event. His black hair was slightly curly, and his chin was littered with pimples as is so common for kids that age. He was still hitting the high notes in the video, so the current showing of pimples had to be the beginning of something bigger.
She laughed to herself, suddenly keen to hear and see the exploits of Chase’s blunder years.
As if they weren’t both still in them.
Next, she shored up her mental file with a few unlikely but important questions.
‘Chase Mendleton, criminal record’
No hits.
‘Chase Mendleton, girlfriend’
Nada.
‘Chase Mendleton, boyfriend’
Zilch. The detective in her had much more to look for (and some sneakier ways to go about it), but she had to be careful. If she knew too much, she ran the risk of exposing herself. If they began talking about their lives and she suddenly knew the first and last names of his schoolteachers all the way from kindergarten to high school, that could create problems.
There was one more thing, however. Something that she couldn’t use her System for. Raising her head from her elbow and blinking at the sudden onset of yellow fluorescent light, she opened up her GRA laptop. The GRA servers held information that was kept from the public eye. Scouring such information was considered unethical unless the subject was part of an investigation, but Seo-ah shrugged.
It kind of is an investigation, she decided. A personal one, in case he’s actually a serial killer.
She searched her date’s name on the GRA servers. The crappy old processor took its time, eventually serving up a few tidbits of data. She sorted the results by age. At the top was a link to an application form of some sort — the title was a flurry of words and numbers that the GRA’s filing system could probably decode, even if no one else could.
The content of the file itself was just a wall of text, like she’d opened it in the wrong format and her stupid laptop had converted everything back to code.
She used the search function and typed in Chase’s name. She hit ‘Enter’ a few times, trying to parse out the confusing text that came with each result.
Just before she gave up, she was brought close to the very bottom of the document. Chase’s full name was highlighted in yellow. For once, there were actual words next to his name, information she could understand.
But she couldn’t understand it. The words, though legible, did not apply to the Hauler she’d had lunch with. The file had to be wrong.
She looked again, squinting in case that would help.
‘Chase Mendleton : Guild Leader Application / APPROVED : Ballistic’
She frowned.
“Who are you?”