Status screen tweaked; or, to quote the British writer, "mischief managed."

Now was the time to make a decision. I could sit here until I healed up and then scoot deeper into my Dungeon. Or I could step out and heal up in the living room with the internet and TV.

Being inducted into the [System] meant that healing was accelerated everywhere. Some scientists claimed we weren't even fully human anymore. Forum dwellers had jokingly begun calling us Hominid[System] or HomusLitRPGicus Man. Anything was better than what 4Chan was calling us (Syssies). Academics who understood Latin would come up with something better. Probably after a few slower-moving or dumber Adventurers got themselves vivisected in a lab and studied. You know, for science.

As a group, we'd already been excommunicated by the Catholics, Mormons, Muslims, Evangelicals, and Scientologists. The Buddhists were on the fence. And the Orthodox and Reform Jewish communities were having vigorous discussions between angry Rabbis. The church of the flying spaghetti had declared a feast of pasta and pirates. Pastor Alex Jones had announced that dungeons were filled with very naughty chickens.

Ever since news of the [System], the religious of the world had gotten their panties into a mega twist. I don't know what the fuss was about. Everyone knew there was at least one Dungeon in Vatican City, several in Jerusalem, and a yeti-spawning snow-hole in Tibet. Oddly enough, another Yeti-spawning snowhole was also supposed to be in Salt Lake City. Dungeons weren't typical, but they weren't rare.

Their rarity wasn't just that these places only popped up willy-nilly and who knew where, nor was the difficulty getting into one dependent on the frequent no trespassing signs and [System] enhanced guys with guns and shoot-to-kill orders patrolling nearby perimeters. No, what made dungeons hard to get into was that they only allowed one team of delvers in at a time.

There were rumors were going around that more extensive dives were instanced. Still, most delvers agreed that all publicly available evidence and gossip pointed to one team entering at a time. And once the team left the Dungeon (or died), it would take one hour for the Dungeon to respawn.

This meant that if a team stepped into the Dungeon, then stepped back out again immediately. If they did this without battling mobs, looking for loot, whatever. Just stepped in, turned around, and stepped out; the maximum number of dungeon dives was 24 daily.

This means that people who got into one tended to stay inside them for as long as possible before leaving. They brought food, survival gear, camping equipment, and whatever it took to lengthen their stays. And only left when they were forced to or had achieved whatever objective they had set out to achieve. Because usually, when a team left their Dungeon, sitting meant going to the back of the line to get in again.

But this was my Dungeon.

And because nobody was waiting their turn outside, where I waited really didn't matter. Might as well wait outside and let the Dungeon respawn. Go over my first delve, and evaluate my performance. Maybe catch a game on TV. The choice to kick back out on the couch was an easy one. Healing in here or out there happened at [System] speed now. Eventually, I would like to go deeper than the first room. But on my first delve, I could let the scabs form over my bruises anywhere, and I might as well be comfy doing it.

Stepping out, I exited my guest room and said, "Alexa set the timer for an hour." In my bedroom, I took off my ripped chaps and jeans. Then I took a shower to wash away the blood. Freshly cleaned, I wrapped my leg in bandages and walked around naked, hoping my neighbor Marigold was peeping through the windows again. Then I put on a new pair of jeans and a t-shirt that read "Pete Davidson Stunt Shlong," I limped into the kitchen to make myself a grilled cheese.

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Realistically I hadn't done very well on this dive.

I'd allowed the verdant fuckers to flank me. One of the little shits had clawed up my leg. Retrospectives are the bedfellows of survival. I almost got felt up by a goblin. It had tried to gnaw and gnash on my junk. If I was going to do this, I needed to minimize my damage. Especially delving solo. What I had done was successful, but it was clearly also wrong.

First, the sword had been the wrong choice, at least for my skill. It was an excellent weapon. It looked wicked cool. I pictured myself going all Highlander -- "There can be only me!" -- That had been a dream and a half. But I had no skillz. And while the aluminum baseball bat I brought along had all the elegance of Al Capone, it might have been a better starter basher for someone as purely talentless as me. Big wide swings would have forced the little green bastards to keep their distance and would have done a better job splattering goblin brains.

Secondly, the obvious. I had no plan to go in because I had no idea what was inside. Now that I did, I could strategize.

Thirdly, should I consider finding a group? More importantly, should I call Sid? On the plus side, inviting Sid and his wife or some PUGs would let me push deeper faster. I would have someone to watch my back. WoW had instilled the idea that I should bring at least a dedicated tank, a healer, and a couple DPS to overcome the Boss. Unless you were massively over-leveled. But the more people I told about this little cavern of experience points, the more likely someone would blab. And if someone snitched, someone would inevitably deserve to get stitches, but much more likely, the government, an unfriendly corporation, or my condo board would take the contents of my guest room away from me.

There were a few things I could fix. As I sprawled out on the couch, I Googled "Kicking ass and taking names. Near me." Which inevitably led to a HEMA club, a Kendo Club, and an MMA school, all within a 20-mile radius. I decided that since the HEMA club was the closest and cheapest. I would try it first.

My next stop was going to one of the e-commerce sites I knew America's multitude of Gravy Seals shopped at. I put down an order for a complete ballistic armor outfit. A crossbow and a couple hundred quarrels. The current top-of-the-retail-line compound bow and a couple hundred arrows. A bunch of archery accessories. Arrowheads, arm guards, gloves, quivers, sights, tabs, targets, trucker hats, pullers, that kind of thing. I spent extra money on next-day shipping. Knowing that my purchases would come straight to my house since Governor DeSantis had eliminated most state weapon laws and background checks. Part of me was a little pissed because the gear I ordered only came in camouflage color, and I would look like a jackass, but that couldn't be helped. Some ex-girlfriends had claimed I was a jackass and narcissist, which was totally unfair but maybe also a bit true. Just saying I had gotten used to the observation a long time ago.

The alarm on Alexa eventually went off, and I put the new protective gear on and headed back into the Dungeon. My sword was sheathed but at my side. This time, I held a baseball bat in hand.

None of the loot I'd left behind was still there. Hopefully, it would be added to the Dungeon and drop randomly, improving the delving experience. The same three goblins were standing around shooting the goblin shit. They were passing about a bottle of Jack Daniels Blue Label. Motherfuckers. That was my booze drop they were backwashing into.

"Motherfuckers," I yelled as I charged, bat ready to swing for the fences.

This time it went smoother. When the first bastard closed in, I didn't immediately go in for the kill. Instead, I pushed it back with my bat. On the backswing, I hit one of the two trying to flank me, knocking it to the ground, but still no explicit kill. I then stepped back and hit the third one in the arm. Probably broke it, but it kept any of the little green shits from getting closer.

Dashing back to the first goblin, I conked him good on the head. Green gray matter splattered everywhere. The second goblin was getting to its feet, and the third was whimpering, clutching its arm.

Instead of bashing the goblin getting up, I yeeted him across the room. Then I turned and stomped over to the one clutching its arm. It whimpered and started crying before I bashed him real good. Dropping my bat, I walked over to the gob I had yeeted. It was twitching on the ground. So I pulled out my sword and stabbed him in the eye out of spite.

The loot sucked mega ass. I got a small bottle of Tylenol and a copy of my ex-girlfriend's Hitachi. I hadn't known she had left that around to get sucked in and populate this place. I wouldn't drink that backwashed JD, but I could probably pawn it off on someone, so at least there was that.