After the funeral, Lawrence seemed more focused, when we dived into dungeons. In contrast, after the funeral, my motivation fell more and more. We started getting to dungeons that have already had the first floors cleared, and the people milling about all patted us on the backs like we were the ones to do it.

The memories of the boss monsters all begging for mercy, begging to be kept alive ran through my mind again and again. The glimmer of fear in their teary eyes as they looked at me. As they shrieked, begging Lawrence, who looked almost cruel as he took my bat from my loosened grip and ended the lives of the monsters I got along well with. Their cries for help still rang in my ears, growing louder with every dungeon we went into.

The only thing keeping me going wasn’t saving the world, or saving America—the citizens now standing up to do so themselves. I wasn’t needed, anymore. Not there. No, another motivation was slowly born within me. As more and more loot dropped, as more and more rewards were handed out, my joking idea I’d thought at the very beginning of the dungeon apocalypse grew bigger.

As it grew harder and harder for me to get out of bed each day, my motivations only empowered themselves. The joking what if grew until I could finally form words.

A cure.

I was looking for a cure. The chances of dungeons dropping the cure as some sort of loot inspired me greatly. It was the only reason I could still get up, every month. Because every time I wanted to rest, wanted to curl up and hide away from the world, a whisper ghosted throughout my mind.

What if today I found the cure for this feeling? What if today I found the cure for my neverending torture at the hands of my depression?

Every day, I got up at that thought. After Lawrence and I were mostly done with the west, only having California left, about to begin entering our last dungeon in Oregon—one many hadn’t returned from—I found Jerry, the janitor’s name. I’d been trying to reach out to the good voice actor and ex-army man. A bitter taste reached my tongue at the list I’d found him on.

Missing or Unaccounted for. I was also on that list, I mused, sighing as I stared at my name in the beginning fourth of the list. Maybe it was for the best, though. It wasn’t like anyone would miss me.

“You ready?” Lawrence asked as I glanced up from my new phone. He was standing there, wearing a blue t-shirt and thick working man’s jeans. Over his t-shirt was a gray sweatshirt, a black backpack—my black backpack—slung over his shoulder.

His brown hair was messy and unbrushed, the ends frayed and standing out just above his shoulders, fluffy like a lion’s mane. His warm chocolate gaze was confident and steady, his skin tanned by several shades. I could see his muscles rippling beneath his blue t-shirt. Glancing down, I quickly turned on the Bluetooth for my helmet, playing some music on my phone and putting it in my pocket. Checking my outfit—still the same black dirtbike armor, though with thin metal plates covering the areas the reinforced plastic was—I saw that it was as good as it would get.

I shrugged, looking back up, “Let’s go.”

Lawrence nodded, eyes growing focused and shoulders straightening as he followed me into the dungeon, walking behind me. The dungeon was in the form of a mansion, this time. The floors were checkered with red and black tiles. There was a gold-gilded black carpet in the entryway of the mansion—which is where we were walking into. Across the entryway was a weird cove embedded in a split staircase, two doors leading further into the mansion. The staircases started at the exits of two hallways, the halls on either side of the room at the far end. One on the left, one on the right. Just like the doors, and just like the stairs. Looking around, I realized everything except the contents of the paintings were symmetrical in the dark brown wood, royal red, and golden-gilded room.

“Looks like someone’s house,” I muttered, eyes scanning the area.

As I took a step forward, I was seeing all the golden-framed pictures of various torture weapons and grotesque humanoid monsters with horns and sharp wolf-like teeth around. The monsters in the photos all had glowing eyes of many different shades, from yellows to reds to oranges to pinks and all in between.

“Think the paintings come to life?” I theorized.

Before I could walk more than three steps, an arm wrapped around me from behind, and I was stopped. I froze, confused as I looked down, seeing Lawrence’s arm there.

“Trapped mansion,” Lawrence refused, “There’s a tripwire, and the carpet is nailed down but bowing in the center. Likely a pitfall.”

I looked down, seeing that I’d been about to trip the tripwire. I took a step back, Lawrence releasing me as we walked to the side, stepping over the tripwire. Reaching out, Lawrence picked up a decorative vase. He tossed it onto the carpet. The carpet tore in the corners, falling down. The vase shattered. We walked over, looking down. At the bottom of the pitfall were spikes, as well as the twenty people that the townsfolk had been concerned about.

Before we could look too hard, the carpet faded out of existence, fading into existence where it had been before. I glanced around, not seeing any damage to the mansion itself.

“What does the tripwire do?” I wondered, looking at the wire. Reaching out, I kicked it, ignoring Lawrence’s strangled cry in his attempts to prevent me. I glanced around as it thrummed, but nothing happened. Then I realized where it was, “Ah. It trips people. A tripwire.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Lawrence sighed, running a hand through his hair, “Do you have to try and trip every tripwire we encounter? You’ve gotten lucky so far, but one day it’ll be actual explosives. We can’t survive that!”

I shrugged as I turned, walking forward, toward the leftmost hallway, “You can’t survive.”

Lawrence cried out as I stepped on something. My entire body was thrown forward, and I glanced behind me, eyes wide. I watched as something hit Lawrence.

“No!” I dived forward, grabbing him just before he was flung into the pitfall. My heart hammered as I stared at the red coating Lawrence’s side, “You idiot! Why would you do that?!”

Lawrence wasn’t doing well, a large and deep gash slanting up his stomach. Hopefully, it missed all the vital areas. My eyes were wide even as Lawrence’s face grew excessively pale, red pouring from him.

“Y-you would have died,” Lawrence slurred, panting quickly, each breath shallow. His eyes were already glazed over.

I shoved my hands over his stomach, ignoring his groan as I adjusted to use my knee to press down on the wound, tearing the backpack off of him and digging through it with trembling fingers.

“That’s not a good fucking excuse! You should have just let me get hit! I have armor, you don’t! Now you might die and I could’ve been completely fine!” I yelled out, fingers shifting through all the broken glass.

Fuck, fuck, no, not now, not here, not like this. Come on. Panicking, I grabbed the violent and deep, bloody red vial of liquid. This was a healing thing, right? One of those dangerous acid slime things dropped it last dungeon. Uncorking it, I poured some of it on the wound, but it didn’t work like a healing potion.

I looked up, eyes wide. It wasn’t working. No, he wouldn’t actually die here, would he? I swallowed as I met his gaze, seeing that he was looking at me warmly, a strained smile on his face.

“I’ll protect you. Forever,” Lawrence choked out, voice a croak.

What the hell did that mean? “We’ve only known each other for two fucking months you idiot! Don’t make stupid promises—Keep yourself a-fuckin-live before you do dumb ass shit!” I snapped out, shoving the liquid into his mouth before he could respond.

Hopefully, it wasn’t poison.

Lawrence choked and gagged, struggling, one of his hands reaching up. I forced the glass further into his mouth, his blood-slicked fingers useless to prevent me from force-feeding him the suspicious red liquid. I looked down, focusing on the gash in his side. The reddish-pink flesh on the inside was puffing out, the skin peeled back, blood pouring from the wound. As I watched, the puffy inner muscle of Lawrence’s abdomen pulled back inside, the skin stretching out and slowly reconnecting itself, looking like blood-soaked Swiss cheese for a moment before thin strands covered the wound.

A minute later, Lawrence had the abdominal strength to shove the empty glass bottle from his mouth, gasping for air. His breathing was a lot deeper, his tense muscles relaxing, his head thudding against the floor as he looked at me through lidded eyes.

My entire body was shaking, my heart hammering and my stomach twisting. I swallowed, gasping for air myself, tears burning in my eyes.

Christ, I’d actually begun to care for this obnoxiously anxious wreck, hadn’t I? When had that happened? Fuck.

I remained crouched, breathing slowly evening out as I relaxed, glancing around to ensure monsters or other traps weren’t about to kill us both. Nothing was moving outside of us, a spiked metal ball having torn a hole through the carpet, part of the fabric flapped open, clinging to the spiked ball denting the right wall.

Color slowly returned to Lawrence’s face, his glassy brown gaze growing both warmer and sharper, focusing on me.

“It’s good to see that you care about me as much as I care about you,” Lawrence said softly, sitting up with a groan.

The man’s groan only increased when I reached forward without thought, clinging to the man tightly with my eyes closed. My arms were still trembling.

“What are you doing?” Lawrence complained, arms wrapping tightly around me despite what he’d said.

The tight comfort of his embrace helped me relax further, and after a few long seconds, I pulled back. Fury filled me at his smile, my hands reaching up and fisting in his shirt.

“If you do that again I’m going to fucking tie you up and drag you behind me,” I growled, pulling and shoving him, shaking him back and forth roughly. Lawrence’s head bobbed forward and snapped back at my actions as he reached up, “You’re supposed to be healing me, not the other way around! You’re my support, not my fucking meat shield! Don’t jump in the way of a spiked cannon ball!” My voice grew louder as I continued shaking him, “Who has armor here, you idiot!? I do! I DO!”

Lawrence wrested my hands from his shoulders, gentle smile only increasing as his cheeks grew red, shoulders relaxed as he held my hands to prevent me from shaking him. When he spoke, his voice was soft and fond, “I’m your protector, too. I can’t let you get yourself killed. We’re doing this to save people, remember?”

I huffed, shaking my head violently and standing up, dragging my idiotic partner in crime to his feet. He allowed me to, staggering for a moment. Then he bent his knees, looking to the side to pick up the backpack I’d opened, closing it.

“That isn’t why I’m doing this, anymore,” I muttered, “The people have risen up to protect themselves, they don’t need me anymore. I’m doing this to find a c—to-to find something.”

I couldn’t just say I wanted to find a cure. This idiot was anxious about everything and everyone, there’s no way he wouldn’t freak out if I said I was looking for a cure, and I didn’t feel like explaining my suicidal ideation to him.

“To find something?” Lawrence asked as he glanced up from where he was brushing at the hole in his shirt, now. His muscular abdomen soaked in blood was now visible through the gash in his shirt.

I nodded, turning, “A specific reward from the dungeons. You can do this to save people all you like, it’s just a happy coincidence my changing goals still line up with diving into dungeons.”

I turned to face the mansion, eyes more focused as I strode forward. I would find a cure. Then I would stop throwing Lawrence into these dangerous situations, and we could go back to our lives. Who knows, maybe we’d even remain friends after I found the cure. That…

That would be really nice.