Chase signed himself in and entered the Dungeon. His Monster-Retriever waited for him on the other side. He flicked a few buttons, restarted its internal functions, then gave it a light kick on the rump for good measure. It started up and followed him into the depths.

It was a swamp dungeon. That was okay, but not ideal for his purposes. On one hand, there was less manual labour required — even Majesty didn’t ask its Haulers to wade into the gelatinous muck — but it meant that evidence of the Hunters’ battles would, in some cases, be submerged and unreachable. It wasn’t the end of the world; just a small stick lodged in the cogs of his plan.

Man and machine trundled further. Large bubbles rose to the surface of the dark green ponds, belching all sorts of colourful gasses. It was primarily methane, which meant all Hunters with fire-based Talents were excluded from the Raid. Chase had seen a Hunter get instantly fired from the guild when he stood next to one of these ponds and used his skill to light a cigarette.

“You’re not allowed to have an electrical fault, okay Mr. Retriever? I don’t fancy myself being barbequed.”

Chase punched in instructions for the machine to go fishing. Its arm lowered into the muck and whizzed around, picking up whatever mementos it could find down there. Meanwhile, Chase poked around. Getting caught by the skeleton crew of security was undesirable, unless one wanted to be shouted at and reported. The Hunters called this job ‘baby-sitting’, and they had such disdain for it that the guild had to create a mandatory rotation and coax the baby-sitters with extra pay.

For doing nothing except standing around gasbagging, Chase thought it was a pretty rad deal. He didn’t understand why anyone would shy away from easy Credits.

He scoured the dirt, looking for evidence of battle. His first specimen was a string of yellow goo that he was pretty sure one of the C-Ranks used. It was a crowd-control mechanism, layered over the floor of a Dungeon to slow down monsters. Although Chase didn’t fancy coating his bullets with glue, he grabbed a stick and flicked the substance into a bottle. He couldn’t be picky just yet.

Once the Retriever had finished its business, they moved on. Chase had dreams of going to the boss-room, where there would certainly be copious amounts of Talent residue (his newly minted term for what he was collecting) but decided that would be flying too close to the sun. There would be security in there who would have no problem with smashing his bottles and sending him away broken-hearted.

Luckily, his next find was more lucrative. A dead Marshguts lay half-in-half-out of its pond, the gaping hole through its chest partially covered by a tangle of vines. Its thick blue-green tentacles were gathered above its head as though it were throwing up its many arms in surprise or resignation.

Chase swiped his trusty stick around the entry and exit wound, trying to avoid the icky black gunk that coursed through most monsters. He pulled away and shoved the stick in a bottle, shaking both and making a hell of a racket. Small pieces of glittering dust gathered at the bottom of the bottle like fragments of a nanoscopic star.

“This is looking good, Mr. Retriever. Never thought I’d actually enjoy prying through monster guts.”

The Retriever didn’t reply. It simply scooped and sucked and swirled, dropping its valuable catches in the collection bin.

Over the next hour, Chase found more and more substances to experiment with. There was more of the yellow glue and star powder, but it didn’t end there. He found electric-blue bolts of raw mana, small silvery pebbles with smoke swirling through their translucent insides, and he filled a bottle with red liquid that looked like blood and had a similar consistency.

I better ask Jenny if there were any casualties in this Dungeon. Might be kind of weird if I’ve just collected a pint of someone’s life-juice.

Once the Retriever was filled, he made his way back, exited the Gate, and parked the machine next to a shipping container. A truck with a small crane-arm drove next to him and hoisted the bin into the open top of the container, easing it down with an ungodly sound of metal scraping metal. The bin was replaced, and Chase went back through the Gate.

After five more trips over the course of six hours (fifteen-minute lunchbreak included), their work was done for the day and Chase’s bottles were full to the brim. He was getting ready to leave when Marla waved him over. She stood with a pack of Haulers, near Jenny’s desk. The assistant was gone, but her desk and the rest of the equipment would be moved to tomorrow’s Gate during the night. The traffic was better then.

“There he is! Care for a drink?” she asked.

A sound like a gas leak escaped Chase’s throat. Internally, he grimaced, but on the outside he was sunshine and rainbows. “Sure! Somewhere nearby?”

Marla gave him a thumbs up. “Absolutely. You think we’re looking to walk far after today? Pete doesn’t even have shoes — both got sucked off his feet in a bog.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Chase raised one eyebrow. As Supervising Hauler, he was supposed to keep track of his underling’s incidents. With a bit of bad luck, Pete might’ve been sucked under entirely, and that meant paperwork. “Perfect. I’m pretty buggered, and Gramps is back home by himself so…”

“Oh, Chase! We haven’t even walked in the door and you’re already leaving! But I get it. I will personally cut you off at two beers. Looks like you’ve had a big day of it already.” She jerked her head at the neck of a Piltar Pale Ale poking out of his backpack.

He laughed. “These aren’t mine. Well, they are, but not for that purpose. They were empty when I got here this morn.”

“Bit thirsty on the train?”

“No.” He grinned. “Go away.”

Chase and Marla followed the crowd of Haulers out of the stadium. A young D-Rank Hunter drifted into their midst before being escorted away by an older Hunter. Chase was sure he’d receive a stern talking-to for associating with them.

The bar, situated only two blocks from the stadium, was called Porta-Bellow. There was no suggestion of what this was supposed to mean, but the other Haulers seemed excited. The inside was modern and sleek, quite a contrast to their splotchy overalls and plastic hard-hats. Three lounge areas bordered the left side of the room, each consisting of four white couches surrounding a low mahogany table. Across the walkway, the bartender delivered sparkling drinks to well-dressed customers with as much reverence as an angel serving ambrosia to gods. He looked up at the Haulers as they entered, then rounded the bar and strode over to them.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“You sure can,” Marla replied. “We’ve got a booking under the name Marla, M-A-R-L-A. ‘Bout twelve of us?”

“Sure…Marla.” The bartender swiped a tablet, stabbing at the buttons. “We have a beer garden out the back if you’d like to…”

“No, a lounge would be fine, thanks.”

The bartender’s smile widened, not reaching his eyes. He guided them to the lounge furthest from the entrance and spread out a pile of coasters. “Food?”

“No, thank you,” Marla said. “We’ll come to the bar for drinks very soon.”

Once left alone, the party got going. As unsophisticated and dirty as they were, they all knew how to drink, and the bartender’s mood changed once he realised it. Only Chase held out, merely sipping a ridiculously overpriced beer that would have him scraping the bottom of the Credit-barrel all week. He didn’t understand how the other Haulers could live so lavishly. They probably didn’t have an old man relying on them along with all the associated medical bills, but still.

“Why’a long faish, Chaishey-boy?” That was Pete. He was the shoe-less one, now up to his eyebrows in mojitos and mimosas. “S’not evry day you ged inna place li’ Porda-Bellow!”

“The drunk man is right!” Marla cried. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your singular beer going warm.”

“Nothing’s wrong, guys. Just thinking about money. Sorry for being a drag. I’ll get going soon.”

“Now hold it, Sonny Jim!” Marla exclaimed. “First tell me about the junk in your trunk. Planning on making a few extra Creds or somethin’?”

“Kind of,” Chase answered. “Just doing some experiments, seeing what works and what doesn’t. It probably won’t turn into much.”

“Ah-ha,” Marla said. “You sound like my little bro. Well, he’s still older than you, but he’s little to me.”

“Yeah? What’s he do?”

“Exactly what you’re doing,” she said. “Tinkers, fucks around a bit, blows shit up, calls it alchemy. Voila.”

Chase snapped to attention, nearly dropping his beer on the polished floor. “Alchemy? Is that a real thing, or just what he calls it?”

“Somewhere in the middle, I suppose. I don’t go into his basement much, I hate the smell. He calls it ‘The Stench of Science’.”

Chase nodded along, furrowing his eyebrows. The inklings of a good idea formed and then dissolved in his mind, coming and going until he decided he just needed some peace and quiet to work it all out.

“Is it weird if I ask for his address?”

**************

After leaving Porta-Bellow (the bartender stopped pouring some snob’s cocktail to wave goodbye), Chase hopped on a train to Two City. It was getting late, but his System browser assured him that his final destination was still open. He walked through Two City’s famous Botanical Gardens, waited a few lifetimes at the pedestrian crossings, then ambled down a dark alley where a dozen restaurants hid their giant trash bins. A grey cat skittered out of his way.

At the end of the alley was a small store nestled among skyscrapers. The front windows were well-lit, yellow light reaching out into the dingy black alley like a final bastion in the fight against darkness. In some ways, Chase supposed that the store was just that.

He stepped inside, cringing at the door-chime ringing in his ear. A thick carpet ran the length of the shop. It was bordered by glass cabinets holding knives, bags, ammunition, hiking boots and thermal monoculars, just to name a few. Jazz music jingled around the room, the speakers held in the jaws of snarling bear heads mounted to the walls. Behind the counter, a large lady and a larger man sat on cushioned stools, sharing a drink. The man took off his cap and fixed his hair before greeting Chase.

“What can I do ya for?” he asked. “Strange time o’ day to come into a hunting store — might need some night-vision goggles to get home!”

Chase laughed. “I saw the thermals — you have actual night vision goggles too?”

“Do we ever! Under lock and key, of course. Those new babies from Le Garton will set you back a few bob.” He hopped off his stool and leaned forward over the counter. Chase was worried he might crash right through the glass.

“I can imagine. Though I’m not quite there yet, I’m afraid. I read online that I can apply for a gun license here?”

The man deflated somewhat, annoyed that he wasn’t going to make a sale. The lady perked up in his place.

“Sure can, darl. Been doin ‘em since before the world went arse over tits with Dungeons and Predators and what not.”

“Hunters, Mary,” the man corrected. “They’re called Hunters, not Predators.”

Mary gave him side-eye. “Yeah, well, none of ‘em ain’t ever given us a lick of business, so I’ll call ‘em what I please, Darryl.”

Darryl rolled his eyes and took a sip of their drink, screwed up his face, then added some lemonade to the mix. “Anyway, wot’s your purpose for the license? I gotta note it down in this here ledger.” He pulled a dusty notebook from a filing cabinet and brandished it. “You’ve got a few to choose from; there’s private security, corporate, hunting, recreational, collectors…what’s your plan?”

Chase drummed his fingers on the counter and looked to the ceiling.

“Uhhhh…I suppose you’d call it hunting.”