Shredder was a fairly well off biker shop near the edge of South Kings Head, and the location was very important. Being nearby South Kings Head meant that the more rough and tumble customers were willing to swing by, and not being in South Kings Head, a place with skyrocketing crime rates that moved farther North every year, ment that law enforcement was possible.

The bard, wizard, and barbarian knew none of that, however. The bard dragged the boys in because she saw leather jackets on sale, they even had metal spikes! Metal spikes weren’t exactly in fashion, but at this point the bard was going to take whatever she could get.

Erik Paulson, a heavy set man with a thick, wild beard, was not used to this. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen wandered into his shop, a man who no doubt had super strength, and a scrawny nerd wearing pajamas. The trio ignored him, wandering over to the racks of biking gear. The woman grabbed a leather jacket off the rack, and pressed her thumb onto the shoulder spikes as hard as she could.

Customers who wanted to be left alone to shop were nothing new to Erik. People who were obviously trying to injure themselves were a problem, and Erik rushed over as quickly as he could.

“What kind of rip-off is this!” the bard demanded, whipping around to face the shopkeeper, “Five hundred gold for this!” the bard shoved the jacket in the shopkeeper’s face. “Look at these spikes! The steel is so weak I could leave a thumbprint on it! Is this leather even boiled?”

“That’s not steel-” the shopkeeper said.

“Why not?” the bard demanded.

“Because weapons grade steel is expensive,” the shopkeeper explained, “The studs on our jackets are aluminum with a chrome plating.”

“Look, I’ll give you eleven gold for this,” the bard said, shoving a stack of coins into the shopkeeper’s face, “And not a silver more!”

“That-” the shopkeeper said, gingerly grabbing the gold to count it, “Who are you people?”

“We’re adventurers,” the barbarian said.

“The Adventurers,” the shopkeepers said, “Well, let me give you a tip. If you’re looking for super suits, you don’t want to be shopping here.”

“Ugh, where do we want to be shopping?” the bard demanded.

“I don’t know,” the shopkeeper said, “I just know you don’t want to be shopping here. Sure, we sell tough road leathers, but I’ve seen a number of fights that had people getting punched through buildings. What we sell really isn’t-”

“Alright fine,” the bard said, “You sold me. Or unsold me. Or whatever.”

“Do you,” the shopkeeper muttered, watching the bard struggle with buttoning up her new jacket, “Do you want me to look for something in your size?”

“I’d- appreciate- that-” the bard grunted, struggling to pull the buttons across her chest.

“We don’t normally cater to people with your, uh, figure,” the shopkeeper said, grabbing an extra large off the rack, “This might be a bit loose, but I’d hate to see you get a road rash.”

“Right,” the bard said, putting on the new jacket and working the top few buttons.

The bard checked herself in the mirror. The jacket did fit over her chest, which was nice, but ballooned away from her torso and waist. She would need to refit it. She could refit it, but it would be a hassle all the same. It offered her barely more protection than the shirt, but all the same it was still more protection.

“I’ll take it,” the bard said, “Team, we’re leaving.”

“Wait!” Erik shouted as the bard, the wizard, and the barbarian strode off and down the street.

“When did it get so hard to find an armorer?” the bard whined, “Whatever happened to the big, wooden signs with pictures of armor? Look at that place! What does “MilSurp” even sell?”

“Who knows?” the barbarian grumbled.

“Do we want to check it out?” the wizard asked.

“No!” the bard barked.

“Then where are we going?” the wizard asked.

“We’re going on recon, I don’t know where we’re going!” the bard shouted, “We’re going wherever the recon takes us. And where adventuring gear is.”

“You know-” the barbarian said.

“I often do,” the wizard said.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Most of the gear we use is lifted off people we beat,” the barbarian mused, “Nobody ever sells anything in line with the gear we actually use.”

“I know, that’s what frustrates me,” the bard said, “Even if I do find gear, it won’t be useful compared to the challenges we’re going to face. All because you wanted to cast spells.”

“Of course I want to cast spells!” the wizard protested, “I’m a wizard!”

“Well, I’m a bard!” the bard said, “And I want to do bard things!”

“Hey, an instrument shop,” the barbarian remarked.

“Alright, let’s see what they have,” the bard grumbled, wandering into the shop.

“What can I do for you?” the shopkeeper said, giving the bard a cheerful smile.

“I need a string instrument,” the bard said, “Preferably something that takes one hand.”

“Well, I don’t know how you would play instruments with one hand,” the shopkeeper said, leading the bard around, “But we do have a fine selection of electric guitars, including authentic Mig Stratocasters. The same kind used by Heart String in Honey Folio.”

“Please do not rave about them again,” the shopkeeper said, “You already play K-Pop over the intercom. Onslaught is better anyway. Hey, hot girl, you should listen to Onslaught.”

“If you dare call that Scandinavian garbage better than Honey Folio again, I’m calling the manager on you,” the shopkeeper retorted, “It’s just a bunch of angry meatheads screaming at you in Scandinavian. You don’t even speak Scandinavian!”

“Oh, and you picked up Korean?” the shopkeeper countered.

“Besides, Honey Folio is metal,” the shopkeeper declared.

“No, it is not,” the shopkeeper said, “Just because they have electric guitars and heavy chords doesn’t make them a metal band. What would you even call that?”

“Cute Metal,” the shopkeeper answered.

“Metal isn’t cute!” the shopkeeper growled, “It’s metal!”

“Hey,” the bard said, “Why’s there two of you?”

“What?” the shopkeeper asked.

“Excuse me?” the shopkeeper demanded.

“This is a shop, you’re the shopkeeper,” the bard said, pointing to the shopkeeper, “So, who are you? You’re not some kind of shapechanger or faery or hag, are you? Wizard, cast dispel magic.”

“I already did,” the wizard said, “The other one might be some kind of psychic construct. Tell me, do you have long term memories of her?”

“She’s worked here for about three years?” the shopkeeper offered.

“Any notable events?” the barbarian asked.

“There was-” the shopkeeper said.

“No!” the barbarian barked, “When you speak, it plants new memories into people.”

“She just works here,” the shopkeeper pleaded, “One time she called out of work for nearly a whole week because a supervillain punched a hole through the engine of her car! Please, we just sell instruments and aren’t insured! I can’t be attacked by supervillains!”

“Supervillains?” the barbarian whispered to the wizard.

“I think it’s some kind of local dialect,” the wizard said, “Referencing destructive power, similar to how we would call something a greater undead.”

“We don’t even have a safe, or money at all!” the shopkeeper said, “And all the instruments we sell are actually cheap knockoffs!”

“We’re not here to rob you,” the wizard explained, “The bard needs equipment. If that thing would just explain its existence-”

“That’s racist,” the shopkeeper said.

“Then we will make our purchases and leave,” the wizard finished.

“Really?” the shopkeeper asked.

“Yes,” the barbarian said.

“Oh, well, sorry about all that,” the shopkeeper said, “Um, all of our instruments are genuine, by the way. And she works here so that we can provide quality customer service to a broader audience. Normally we’re busier than this, and it takes two of us to handle all the customers that come in. Please, don’t kill her.”

“Uhuh,” the bard muttered. The strings made a sad “plink!” when she plucked them, a noise that the bard scowled at.

“You don’t have it plugged in,” the shopkeeper offered, pushing a black cord into the guitar, “Try it now.”

The bard plucked a string, and the “plink!” was replaced by a deep, powerful thrumm. The bard liked it, it was a sound that wanted to be heard. The sound was not, however, coming from the guitar. Though her highly trained ears could ignore it, the “plink!” was still there and the sound was coming from the large black box beside her.

“How does that work?” the bard demanded, pointing to the speaker, “Why does it make noise?”

“There’s an electromagnet that moves the fabric cone back and forth to make sound,” the other shopkeeper said, still skating on thin ice.

It was the speaker the guitar was connected to, but the bard didn’t understand the technology of it. The bard and the wizard, with minds geared towards unravelling arcane secrets, understood the concept of it. The guitar sent instructions to the box for what sound to make, and the box played loud sounds. The concepts were simple, and the wizard would have no trouble creating it.

“Alright,” the bard said, pushing the guitar into the shopkeeper’s hands, “I’ll buy it. How much is this?”

The bard had counted out roughly three hundred gold coins before the shopkeeper said that was plenty, and the bard walked out with a happy smile and a jaunty gait.

“Well,” Alexa said, watching the adventurers leave, “That sure was something.”

“Why’d you tell her to stop?” Diane asked, eyeing the pile of gold coins.

“Because that’s more than enough,” Alexa said, “And frankly I just wanted her out of here. Those people are bad news.”

“If she paid the full number, we’d be set for life! Our boss would be set for life!” Diane said. “

We’d retire to yachts!”

“And you know what happens to people who are set for life,” Alexa warned, “They become magnets for the exact thing I want to avoid.”