I open my eyes. I’m staring at the transparent glass-and-plastic ceiling. Except the cage is at an angle. Thick cracks spiderweb through the glass. The ground shakes, making dust fall from the ceiling. I hear distant sounds like thunder outside the box.

Rocks fall from the ceiling, which is an inelegant way of describing it. I’ll try again. Pieces of concrete separate from the ceiling and drop, impacting the box. The ground continues shaking, making the floor feel as if it is moving.

I’ve always wanted to experience an earthquake. But now that I’m trapped in one, I want it to end. Another rock separates from the ceiling, hitting the ceiling hard enough to crack it. I slid off my bed and curl up under it. After a moment, I sneak my hand up and snatch my pillow and blanket. I may be here a while.

In the dark space, I put my back to the cool glass and draw the thin material the building considers a “blanket” up to my face. My pillow is not the thick, fluffy kind stuffed with feathers one buys at a store. It is thin, more like a thick slab of rubber. But it’s better than the cold, hard ground, which is where my body lies.

It could be worse. It could always be worse. I stare across the box at the bowl of prisoner feed. Nutri…stuff. Or red rice. Soylent Green. Plant product plus color. Corn, rice, wheat or barley, chunks of mystery meat in a world with no cows, and water to mix it all. Ew. But my stomach aches.

How long has it been since I’ve eaten? How many days? Time is fluid in a dream. I must have been walking for hours. I don’t think it’s been longer than a day, tops, but it feels like a week. I close my eyes and try to go back to sleep. But the pleasant dreaming quality I felt is overtaken by a gnawing pain. I am starving.

No. No, I don’t want to. I roll over and face the wall. I jam my eyes shut and will myself back to that wonderful place. The Sewers are dark, yes, and dangerous. But the smell is so overpowering it reminds me of what it means to be alive. Some people smell flowers. Some people have cologne or perfume. I have the steaming contents of a congealed waste receptacle. It’s not pretty, but it’s potent.

It eludes me. I don’t try to cast the cantrip again, I don’t have the energy. My eyelids are heavy, but not with exhaustion. My stomach is in pain. Food is right there. The floor continues shaking.

The box continues cracking. The rocks continue falling. I continue hearing thunder as elsewhere in the building, things come tumbling down. I try to enjoy the weird feeling of helplessness. I try to savor the sense that this strange phenomenon is happening and I’m powerless to stop it if only so the experience is more real in my mind.

And now, it’s over. I wait a minute, but the shaking has stopped. The earthquake is over. It was an experience. Memorable. It made me feel small in a way this prison hasn’t. On the other hand, these bars give a man time to think.

I’ve been thinking too long. If I want to return to that place, I’ll need more energy. Resting at this point will not give me the energy I require. I will lose more by doing nothing than doing something. There is one thing to do. I have one thing to occupy my time. I’m not fully awake, more like in that weird in-between state. It feels like I’m sleepwalking.

No. I cannot.

I do not want to.

I must resist.

Why though? Why must I resist? What is to be gained? What is to be retained? My humanity is the obvious answer. If I give in, I sacrifice the thing I still have left: my pride. My feeling of independence. My, well, everything. I want to go back to that world. But I want to not eat that food. I can’t have one without the other. And now, I’m dying.

Not fast, but it is happening. I will live a few days without water. I can survive longer sucking up moisture and little amounts of food. But the result is the same. I can refuse, and slowly die. Or I can give in. And go back to [Dreaming].

I… must… not… give…

My stomach is in agony. I’m so hungry. So, so hungry. I cannot. I must not. If the Class system is in this world, and I’m pretty sure it is, no doubt there is a cost for some things. All class levels must be selected. This implies a low-level cap, meaning people must make their choices count. Regardless, there must be something set aside for… this. I can’t. I mustn’t.

I slide out.

I move in a trance. My body moves as if I’m sleepwalking. I dream I’m walking down the buffet line at a restaurant. I grab a bowl of cereal and open the faucet. Slick aluminum slides under my fingers. Thick, sludge-like water comes down. In my dream, I see water. I smell the aluminum pipes that need cleaning.

I take my bowl over to an unoccupied table and sit down. I pick up a fork. I smile. After a long day of teaching undergrads, minute rice is a terrible reprieve. And it was expensive. But eating brown or white rice is better than red rice. I don’t even like cereal. Black coffee and a glass of water, that’s my normal breakfast. But I’m too hungry to care.

I raise my fork to my mouth. I close my eyes. I take a bite. The material is watery, bland, and tasteless. The blandness is engineered. There is no taste in this food whatsoever. Eating it is a chore. A distasteful, tedious thing done for no reward. I’ve never had chores. I’m not about to start now. No thank you.

I chew. And swallow. You know—no. I will not contemplate this line of thinking. Let us get this over with and done. I take another bite. Lumps of corn. A few mysterious chunks. I will not continue this line of thinking.

I finish the bowl. I set it down. Using the fork, I scrape it clean. After going without food for however long, my stomach shrank. The knowledge is pleasing because I’m full after a single serving. I am…not…not…contemplating this. I am tired. I am—not continuing.

I crawl back under the bed and face the wall. I flip the thin pillow over. The underside is cool against my cheek after so long touching the cement floor. It feels… pleasing. Calming. I close my eyes. I don’t even bother saying the words. I picture the spell in my head, apply some mental willpower and think hard about what I want.

The notification appears in my head even before I start drifting into the sea of dreams. I open it without thinking, a quick affirmation of my subconscious. The window appears in my mind’s eye with less information than expected. I don’t see an actual window or words. But the information is etched on my soul.

[Consumer] class acquired. [Consumer]: Rank One. Field of Study: [Arcanist] removed. [Scholar] class removed. Arcanist and Scholar Abilities removed. Arcanist and Scholar Conditions removed. Arcanist and Scholar Spells removed. Arcanist and Scholar Skills removed. Scholar Secret removed.

Random Skill Chain acquired. [Consumer] Chain, [Aura] acquired. Random link acquired. [Aura] Link: 3, [Magnetic].

[Consumer] Conditions acquired: [Unease: Others’] and [Ranks Reduce Levels].

-

I blink. I’m in the tunnel. My stomach is… well… all I want to do now is sleep. Take a nap, and then in a few hours, I’ll wake up and get back to work. But I can’t do that. I lost my class. I—my Scholar class. I liked that class. No wonder the government suppresses knowledge of the System. If that’s the diet everyone’s on… how many people would sit down and live their lives? How many would stand?

I fall to my knees. The ground is disgusting, but I ignore it. Consumers. Ranks. Chains. I—I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. And yet—the guy brought me here. What did he say? Something about me doing something in the days ahead? But I had to take his class. I had to level his class. Leveling his class would get me the strength needed to escape. Therefore, sitting in that box and eating would give me powerful Skills. But if they’re random, then how?

I hear a sound like a dog huffing. Thinking it’s a wolver, I raise my head. The face staring at me is narrow with a long muzzle. Unlike a wolver, its fur is shaggy gray along the top and sides. The creature has yellow eyes. Its mouth opens to reveal big, sharp teeth.

“A wolf,” I say, dumbfounded. “I am so dead.”

The wolf is almost as large as me. Wolves communicate through body language as much as sounds. This one stands tall, with stiff legs and its tail sticking out, a posture of authority. I lower my eyes and hunch myself down, trying to mimic the posture of humility. I keep my eyes on its feet. For some creatures, looking them in the eye is all that’s needed to provoke an attack.

The wolf regards me for a long moment, its eyes glowing with yellow light in the darkness. It takes a step backward. Then another. Its eyes never leave my face, but it retreats.

I let out a long breath. I don’t hear anything. But I hope it is gone.

Consumers. Ranks. Chains. Random wild animals in a place that is completely foreign to them. My head hurts. What was I doing again? I was… I was on a crawl. I was trying to find my party members and then… help them? Do something? They’re not my party. A black knight, a muscle-bound earth mage, a hobbit private eye, and a… woman. A pretty woman, not a girl. At least my age. And her class. I sniff, but the rancid air makes that a mistake. I gag.

When my stomach settles I get up and walk. I was on a crawl. I was trying to get some experience before I finally expired. I wanted to hit level 2 to see if I could. Taking everything into account, the most surprising thing is that in the real world, I’m still alive. That must be Carmine’s doing. So many things to research, and so little time. So many confusing things happening at once. I hear voices up ahead and lengthen my stride.

“…should have gone the other way, Tolvern. This is the wrong area for it.”

“We don’t have the time, Belly. The Spiral Knights are ahead of us. If they get to the boss chamber first it’s over.”

“I told you not to call me that,” a deeper voice sounds annoyed. “My name is Belphegor. The markings on the wall don’t match the map. We should be right on top of it.”

“You should cast [Translate Languages],” a cool female voice says. “Do you even know how to read that?”

“Of course, I do,” the deeper voice snaps. “It’s Latin. Everyone speaks it.”

“Everyone with horns speaks it,” the female voice says. “But we don’t. Give it here.”

“I don’t think so. What do you hope to see?”

I walk into the chamber. A river of stuff cuts a deep channel across the floor. Two parties stand on one side of the room. The members check their equipment or fidget, while the leaders hunch over a scrap of paper.

“Did someone say Latin?” I say to the room. Heads snap up. The sound of steel weapons being drawn fills the air. Mixed in are the handguns and rifles being drawn from holsters or slings. The adventurers level swords and guns at my head, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the woman says. Cassandra Archstar. Short but stocky. Next to her is a man with a red bird on his shoulder and a black knight, the latter a giant among men. “What are you doing here?”

“I teleported in when I went to sleep. I’m a dreamer.” I keep still. No sudden movements. Twenty-seven men and women look me up and down.

“You think he’s a spy?”

“For who? The Kids? Those things hate working with anyone who isn’t them.”

“He said he’s a dreamer? Like, a dreamer with a capital ‘D’ Dreamer?”

“Impossible. All Dreamers start in the forest.”

“It’s true,” I say. “I started in the forest. I was down here, but I woke up like halfway…” I trail off. I am a professor. As an archaeologist, I was required to teach, not because I wanted to be there. Thirty pairs of eyes are sweat-inducing whether they’re undergrads or armed men.

Most of the students—well, none of my students ever swooned over me like Indiana Jones and his coeds. Most of my students were my age or older. They disliked having to learn from one who was younger. Let alone one who didn’t want to be there any more than they did.

“You speak Latin?” Cassandra asks. She points at me. She lowers—but does not holster—her weapon.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We can use him,” she murmurs to the big man.

“We have too many people as it is,” the man in red says. He wears red robes, whereas the rest of his party wears red armor. His bird squawks.

“I don’t need a share of the loot,” I say. “I can’t take anything with me anyway.”

“Oh, you don’t?” the red mage cocks his head.

“No.” I shake my head. None of the adventurers look nice. But with the immediate threat revealed to be no danger, they relax.

The short girl approaches. Not the subleader, the dwarfish one. She flicks her wrist, sending up a ball of light. Her eyes narrow. I look down at myself, self-conscious. I am still wearing gray scrubs and slippers. I have a magnetic aura, right? I try smiling.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she says, a little slow. Measured, not dumb.

“My name is Lawrence. What’s yours?”

“Sherry,” she says, squinting at me. “Hmm. Hmph.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m a [Detective].”

“Oh. Is that a good class?” My smile freezes.

“I can detect guilt. It’s not as effective as detecting lies, but it works. Strange. Your class is red, but I don’t see guilt.” Her brow furrows. “I don’t know what a [Consumer] is. Someone who eats too much?”

“I do like chocolate,” I say, sweating bullets.

“What did you say his class was?” Cassandra says, coming over.

“[Consumer]. And it’s a Horror Rank, not an actual class.”

“A Horror Rank?” someone echoes. The other adventurers take a collective step back.

“What is a [Consumer]?” Belphegor asks, looking at me.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

The black knight places one dinner plate-sized hand on the hilt of his huge sword.

“It means I eat too much chocolate,” I lie. “Look, I even have a spell for it.” I hold up my hand, preparing to cast. A bar-shaped lump appears over my palm, blunt and soft.

“What is that?” the phoenix tamer asks.

“A chocolate dart,” I say, smiling despite the circumstances. A strange sense of pride fills me. “I also have [Insect Swarm]. And I unlocked a higher tier version of it.”

The mages look at each other.

“He’s a rank one,” Sherry says. She stops squinting at me and seems to accept something. “If he ranks up, he might unlock better chocolate spells.”

“Bel,” Cassandra says. “We should have him read the map. He said he could read Latin.”

“Applications go through the main guild, Cassandra. We’re not accepting new members.”

“So, don’t let him join as a full member,” she says. She puts away her weapon.

“I said I didn’t need a share of the treasure,” I put in. “The experience of going on a crawl is treasure enough.”

“What is your class, kid?” Tolvern gestures with his staff.

“My current class is [Consumer]. I guess because I eat a lot.”

The adventurers look at my half-starved frame, then at each other. Suspicion is clear on their faces.

“Yesterday, I was a Level 1 [Scholar]. I had the [Arcanist] subclass. [Basic Casting] and stuff. But my background and original subclass was [Archaeologist]. I am university-trained and graduated. I speak multiple languages. I was a trap-finder and rogue archetype before being a mage.

“Tomorrow, I’ll renounce my Class and retake [Scholar]. Keep leveling in that.”

“I don’t like it,” Tolvern shakes his head. On his shoulder, his phoenix clicks its beak. “Middle of the dungeon, alone, and he has the skill we need to find this thing?”

“It is kinda sus,” one of his fighters agrees.

“Bel,” Cassandra says. “We need the help. He can’t steal it and run off. Randall, back me up.” She looks at the shirtless earth mage.

“Don’t look at me. I don’t think we need another mage. I can do the job.” He looks away.

“What other languages can you speak?” a quiet voice asks.

A woman appears to rise from the floor. I almost jump out of my skin. It’s as if the floor is liquid and covers her like a sheet. Three eyes with barbel-shaped pupils zero in on me.

“Gah,” the detective and earth mage jump back. The phoenix tamer curses. The black knight doesn’t appear to react.

“Gods,” Cassandra shrieks. “Don’t do that.”

“English, Ancient Greek, Atlantean, Hebrew, Latin, some Eldar, and a little Makyr. The last one is hard ‘cause there aren’t many artifacts to study.”

Everyone looks a little impressed. The mages blink. Everyone with either experience or education reevaluates me.

“I was an archaeologist before joining the System and taking the class. I wrote my dissertation on the idea that ancient humans had a space-faring civilization in my world tens of thousands of years ago. I did underwater archaeology and found submerged artifacts with Atlantean inscriptions. Pretty sure the Atlantean species is not native to my world, either.

The adventurers stare at me as I continue chattering.

“Ancient Greek and Hebrew are both languages that a certain religious text was originally written. Other researchers claim that Atlantean was a variant derived from Ancient Greek. My research leads me to believe that the situation was reversed. Atlantean came first, then it was adopted by land-dwelling people.

“Eldar is a geographic off-shoot spoken in one specific area famous for producing many magical scrolls and tablets. Most of the scrolls were destroyed in a great library fire thousands of years ago, but the tablets turn up occasionally. I like to call it the language of magic because vocalizing is how spells are cast.

“Latin was how people originally studied theology. I mastered it because I found a record containing references to a forest-dwelling civilization that spoke Marsi, which is a lost dialect referenced in several Eldar and Atlantean records. Sadly, I never found any Marsian artifacts or things.

“And finally, Makyr is the one thing that precludes all other languages except Sumerian. I found an ivory sculpture with it, but the information didn’t make any sense.”

“What did it talk about?” Cassandra asks. I blink at the interruption, pausing mid-thought. The abrupt stop halts my train of thought. At that moment, I notice most of the people’s eyes have that glazed look students get when I’ve been droning for too long on something boring. But a few people—Cassandra, Lilith, Randall, and Tolvern—look interested.

“Oh, a list of incomprehensible titles and stuff. Based on the context they may have been deities.” I chuckle. “All fictitious. Kinda disappointing. All that work for a load of gibberish. Everyone knows gods aren’t real.”

Belphegor unravels a scrap of paper. Coming over, he holds it out.

“This map is in Latin. We are looking for the treasure chamber. Can you find it?”

I take the paper. It is a rough square, old. Not ancient, by any standard. I’m kind of afraid to touch it with my hands.

“You should handle this with sterilized gloves from now on,” I say.

“Why?”

“The oils in your fingers will destroy the ink. Look. You can see here where it’s smudged, here and here.”

“Yes, but what does it say?” Cassandra and Belphegor look over my shoulder. Tolvern does the same on my other side.

“So… whoever made this was some kind of [Dungeon Cartographer]. You can see the Spiral Knight dungeons over here. And they intersect with the regular sewers over here. The setup of the two is weird, like whoever built these places took something else and bolted it on. The channel in front of us leads to a reservoir or something. We are here.”

I point to a spot on the map. Yes, the symbols are Latin. But parts of the map are damaged.

“It looks like there are multiple spots to loot. One treasure chamber here,” I indicate a little room not far from us. “And a bigger one over here. Getting to them is easy, but it looks like some hidden passageways act as backdoors. Or shortcuts out of the main dungeon complex. Each room is at the end of a series of smaller rooms that don’t connect to anything. Sort of like mini-dungeons.

“If we access the shortcuts from outside, we can bypass all the monsters and traps, skip the boss fights, and take the loot.”

“Those passageways are most likely blocked from the inside,” Tolvern adds. “We’d have to blast our way in.”

“Not unless someone unlocked them,” I say. “I have Dreamstride as an ability. I may be able to walk through walls.”

“But have you done it?” Cassandra inquires, looking at me.

“I have not.”

The adventurers look at each other. Belphegor takes the map and rolls it up. He stows it in a pouch at his waist.

“The minor dungeon, then?” Cassandra asks.

“Yes,” Tolvern says. “Let’s conquer the weak one first so we all get a bigger share. Then, we’ll go after the main boss. Belly?”

“It’s Belphegor,” the black knight says. “Brotherhood of Bacon, move out.”

“Can I come?” I ask, smiling.

“You’re the guide,” Belphegor says. “You walk in front.”

“Oh. Um.” My smile fades a bit. People on point are the first to spot traps. The death rate is higher. “Well, I was thinking. See, the thing is. I don’t have any trap-detection abilities. I’m technically a [Consumer], not a [Scholar], even though that’s my background.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“All the more reason for you to be upfront,” the black knight doesn’t bother looking at me. No one does.

I drag my feet a little bit. The entire party of people files into the tunnel. On my left is a nonhuman female with her skin disguised as part of the wall.

“It’s the color of blood.”

“What?” I ask. I almost didn’t hear her.

“Your class. It’s the color of blood, isn’t it?” Her question is phrased like a statement, and her voice is quiet. Behind us, the adventurers conversate, unconcerned. Being underground, voices echo a long way. But I still have difficulty hearing the assassin.

“How’d you know?” I lower my voice but don’t look at her. “You’re an… [Assassin], right?”

“I am. Do not speak of others’ Classes without their permission.” She pauses for a long minute, scanning the floor, walls, and ceiling. “Your class can be lost. Or removed in other ways.”

“Thank you,” I murmur. I sort of knew that already. “What, uh, what species are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I am a Humboldt Cecaelia from a water planet. Having multiple legs does not impede my abilities in any way.”

“That’s awesome. Sooo, does your squid species augment your assassin skills? You know, like with shapeshifting colors and stuff?” I look sideways at her.

“It can, but that is not what I use it for,” she states. Her tone indicates the conversation is over.

I lapse into silence. We pause here and there to skirt the edge of a space on the floor. I wish I still had trap detection. Being at the head of the party wouldn’t be so bad if I had that, but without it, I’m sort of nude. No, that’s not the word. Nude is what one feels when all eyes are on one. This is… flying blind. Yeah, that’s it. I’m flying blind.

“Stop,” Lilith calls. She raises one webbed hand, bringing the party to a halt.

“What is it?” Belphegor asks.

“A grate on the floor,” Lilith points with a dagger. Her nostrils dilate as she sniffs. “I smell death.”

“An acid trap with rain coming down from the ceiling?” Cassandra approaches. “Light, please.” Several balls of light fly up. Tilting her head, she scans the ceiling.

“There,” Lilith gestures. “See those holes? Valves.”

“All right, ladies.” Cassandra turns to the party. “Randall, can you make a ball of webbing?”

“We’re going to trip it?” he asks, raising his arms.

“Yup. Back away, trip the trap, let it run out of mana.”

“Sounds good.”

I watch as sticky webs materialize from the earth mage’s hands. He forms them into a ball about the size of my head and kicks it across the floor. Lilith and the others retreat. I watch with interest as the ball rolls past me and over the grate.

“Hey kid,” Cassandra shouts. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?” I look at her, confused. Her face is white. More than one person is waving their hands in a ‘come here’ gesture.

“Get away from there,” Cassandra yells.

It takes another moment to realize I’m too close to the grate. In that precious second, the ball of webbing rolls across the metal. The obvious trap registers the weight and sinks a good inch into the floor. A solid steel door erupts from the wall and slams into the opposing wall like a five-ton guillotine.

“Oh no,” I whisper. I look on in horror at the blocked passage. I raise my fist and hammer on the door. I holler, “Open up. Hey, let me out.” I hear a hammering coming from the other side, but the door doesn’t budge.

“[Spray of Flames],” I press my palm to the door. Can I melt it? I hear something wet hitting the ground. Looking around, I see an identical steel door down the hall. I’m trapped.

Water hits my head. Sprinklers hang from the ceiling. The flow takes a moment, but soon a dark, foul-smelling liquid is spraying down. I wrinkle my nose. I raise a hand to shield my face. Tiredness creeps over me. I cancel the spell. The metal isn’t even warm.

Well, if this is where I die again, at least the party didn’t get hit by the trap. No. I’d be lying if I said I cared about them. They don’t care about me. Joining them or not, as soon as they learned about my Class, they applied a label to me based on their presuppositions and then judged.

I won’t be revealing my class again. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m a generalist mage or something. Low level, but that’s plausible. The real problem is gaining a real class while I continue with this diet. And—coming to this world. Carmine said he wanted me to come here in person. But to do it, I must take his class. I don’t want to. I don’t want to be… a monster. But I want to be here. Why can’t I have both? Why can’t I have my normal class and stuff? It’s not fair.

I’m disappointed. I wanted to go further this time. My Prowess will rise from the fighting, but not a lot. Dreaming and adventuring are not synergistic. If I could spawn anywhere I pleased, then yes, I could [Dream] my way to the top of the proverbial ladder. It would be less like an astral projection and more like a respawn. But it appears the rules of the world are prohibitive.

Anyway, the sprinklers coat everything in a film of liquid. Rivulets run down the walls and sloping floor toward the grate. The smell is awful. But for some reason, I’m not melting yet. Dreamers are immune to acid? The sprinklers turn off. Everything in the tunnel is coated in foul-smelling acid. I wipe my face, but that turns out to be a mistake.

The steel doors retract into the wall. Both parties pause, in the middle of conversating. A few of them lean against the wall.

“You are not dead,” Tolvern exclaims.

“Nope,” I say. Everyone gags. The entire group takes a collective step back.

“Not acid,” Cassandra says, pressing an arm to her face. “Not acid.”

“Not acid.” Other people take up the chant. Someone flings a ball of light over my shoulder, illuminating the liquid-soaked brick walls and floor. The thing about brick is that it’s porous. Like a sponge, it soaks up moisture. One cannot clean brick with a hose the way one does one’s body. The liquid may wash off, but the sponge is already soaked.

“I guess the acid pipes rusted away. We are in a sewer, after all.” I smile at them. I walk forward. I have the satisfaction of seeing faces contort. The adventurers retreat.

“Stop,” someone screams. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Why?” I ask, grinning. “It’s not that bad. A little poo water. It’s your guys’ fault for making me walk in front.”

Randall and the mages blast me with water. I turn around to avoid the spray. They hose down my back and the hallway.

“Mr. Lawrence,” Belphegor says. His hands are clamped over the metal screen in his helmet. “Please attempt to trip the trap again.”

I step onto the grate. It sinks an inch, but the doors don’t slam shut. I put more weight on it, but nothing happens.

“Good. Lilith, can you cut through the grate?” Belphegor approaches. He is careful not to step on her trailing tentacles.

“I do not have the tools.” She shakes her head. “If this crawl is profitable, I will buy some.”

“Tolvern? Can your team?”

“We’re fighters and mages, Belly. No go.”

“Don’t call me that,” Belphegor snaps. “It’s Belphegor. Doesn’t anyone have a trap disabling Skill?”

“Belphegor,” Cassandra walks up beside him, quiet. “It’s non-lethal and out of mana. Let’s keep moving.”

The larger man huffs, but he gives up. He pushes me aside and stomps down the hall. I stumble but avoid falling. Both parties walk past me in a loose group. The warriors from Bacon chat with the scarlet-clad fighters from Phoenix Fire. Randall is hitting on the bustiest of the ladies, talking about himself and flexing more than asking about her.

Mingling, but not together. Lilith walks up front with Belphegor, checking for more traps. Cassandra waits until the rest of the group passes and jerks her head. I follow.

“Thank you for waiting,” she says without preamble. “I don’t think the others would have liked it if they had to walk behind you.”

“I figured as much. Not nice people are they?” I remember how far sound travels underground and keep my voice low.

“They are when you get to know them.” Cassandra’s mouth quirks. “We’re a new party. A squad under another party’s banner. Everyone has a reputation they’re trying to build.”

“Camaraderie isn’t something that new parties have much of, I take it.” A pang of hunger stabs through my gut. Something warm envelopes me, as the dream fades. I push it down and focus.

“It builds over time. By the end of this, we’ll be a party.” Cassandra exhales through her mouth. “Gosh, you stink, you know that?”

“I fought a giant undead rat earlier. And a fatberg slime-rock-monster.” I study the walls. the tunnel is sloping downward. Traps hang from the walls and ceiling. Spiked walls, bear traps, pressure plates, the odd falling battering ram, even some rotating saw blades—all rusted through and broken. “My nose must have shut off a while ago. When I first got here, I was incapacitated. Now, it doesn’t even bother me that much.”

“Good for you. Can you transfer that resistance to me as a buff spell or something?” she smiles, showing perfect teeth.

“It’s something to look into.” A long moment passes. “Are parties… are support-style people uncommon around here?”

“Oh, not as common as you’d think. Most people prefer to be mages or fighters. Once in a while, there’s a rogue or crossbowman. Professional [Healers] are rare. Generalist mages with buffing spells are sort of common, but it’s something that most mages pick as they go.”

“Interesting.” I stare at Randall’s chiseled back as he brags about stone-surfing the sand-waves on a desert world. The story is interesting. But the thought of a desert planet where the sand behaves like water sparks something in my chest. I see the girl’s expression and realize I’m being introverted again. I tilt my head toward Cassandra.

“So, what is it that you do? What’s your Class if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m a [Lieutenant],” she says. “I use my service handgun to fight. I specialized in leadership and crisis management, environmental disasters.”

“That’s cool.” I try to keep my tone upbeat. Remember Doctor, take an interest in other people’s lives. Learn to like them. Ask questions about them. That’s how you make friends. Fiery trials like a crawl test those acquaintanceships. They either melt like impurities in metal or they purify and become stronger. Where was I?

“So, what drove you to become an adventurer?”

“I was looking for a change. I transitioned to the reserves from active duty. I had a disagreement with my boss and decided it was time to find something else. Kind of a shame. I loved the Army, and I liked the Reserves. I loved my job and the people I worked with. I’d like to go back, but that door is closed.”

I look sideways. Cassandra’s chin is lowered. Her eyes are downcast as if lost in a sad memory.

“But I always say, when one door closes, another one opens.” In a flash, the cloud vanishes and is replaced by a lifted chin and a winning smile. “Belphegor was looking for competent leaders, and I signed up. I wish there was more combat.”

She traces the pattern on the stock of her Coyote Tan Sig Sauer M18.

“I thought Marines carried rifles? ‘Every Marine is a rifleman,’ right?”

“I wasn’t a Marine,” she corrects. Her brow furrows and she looks at me, stern. “I was an Army [Infantry Officer]. And I could carry a rifle; it wasn’t necessary to do my job. Therefore, I didn’t have one. I had a handgun for personal defense because I was deployed. But I spent almost all my time on the base.”

“Sorry. I guess you want me to refer to things in the army jargon from now on when I’m speaking to you?” I smile in her direction, a little playful. “Like if I need to hit the head, or my blouse is untucked.”

Cassandra laughs.

“I’m not going to get snippy about it. But yeah, using army lingo is a sure way to get on a soldier’s good side. A head is a latrine. A deck is a floor. A blouse is a shirt. A bulkhead is a wall. A fighting hole is a fox hole. Unauthorized Absence is Absence WithOut Leave. Sergeants are serge. Corpsmen are medics. Cammies are ACUs.”

“What’s an ACU?”

“Army Combat Uniform. Try to keep up with the acronyms. The army calls it retreat, but the marines don’t have a word for that. And you’re the FNG.”

“What’s an FNG?”

Now, we’re both smiling.

“The F-ing New Guy. You’re the effing new guy.” Cassandra has a good, hearty chuckle. So do half the men and women ahead of us. “What did you say your name was?”

“Doctor Lawrence.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Lawrence.”

We continue walking. My spirits are lifted, though Cassandra still gags on occasion. I must be developing a resistance to waste because I don’t smell.

“Enemy sighted,” Lilith calls.

“What is it? What do you see?” Belphegor demands.

“Undead. Zombies.”

“Trash enemies,” Tolvern comments. “Stand back plebians. I’ve got this. Phoenix Fire, ready up.”

Men and women in flame-colored robes form a line. They raise their staffs or wands. Fire sparks from each spell focus as the mages prepare to cast. Ahead of them, a wall of shambling shapes comes charging.

“Fire spells on three. One, two, three.” Several mages shout their spells in unison.

“[Spray of Flames].”

“[Fire Orb].”

“[Flame Wheel].”

“[Fireball].”

A circle of flames rolls down the hall. Over it, two spheres and a flamethrower fill the air. The undead stampede into the fire. Many stumble, whether from the wheel bowling them over or the spheres’ explosions. The undead appear to be zombies. Their tattered clothing catches fire, spreading the flames. Despite the heat and damage, they keep coming.

“Warriors,” Belphegor roars. There is a shout as a line of fighters overtakes the mages. There is no disciplined shield wall marching forward. There is nothing like a team fighting in unison. Belphegor and his warriors run next to Phoenix Fire’s people. Together, but separate, they smash into the undead and keep moving.

The black knight is a bulldozer. He uses his shield like a plow, knocking bodies left and right. Beside and behind him, warriors slice or stomp as needed. Each person fights their neighbor as much as the undead, pushing and shoving to get at the enemies.

Cassandra watches the show with detached boredom. I stare with morbid fascination. I see the red bars over each zombie’s head dropping. Upon hitting zero the creature falls to pieces.

“We have too many people,” I say.

“You’re now realizing that?”

“Wolvers,” Belphegor roars. “Alpha Wolvers. Brotherhood, prepare to charge.” His shout thunders down the tunnels. Behind him, everyone engaging in the melee bellows a challenge.

“Phoenix Fire,” Tolvern screams. “Engage the enemy more closely.”

The remaining mages and non-fighter classes move up. Everyone draws their weapon, including Cassandra. Even the halfling detective Sherry draws her pocket revolver.

“We’re probably not going to see much profit,” Cassandra mutters. She keeps both hands on her weapon, pointing at the ground, with her finger flat along the gun’s barrel. “There’s a miniboss ahead.”

“Alpha Wolvers.” I consider summoning a vine, then look at my new acquaintance. Or rather, at the real, lethal weapon she’s holding. A firearm in a world of magic and monsters. I wonder what the System did to accommodate.

“You have spells, right?” Cassandra’s smile vanishes.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t waste them.”

I hear a quick, high-pitched yelp of pain. The remaining creatures scatter.

“It’s over?” I say. We approach the miniboss’s remains. The Alpha Wolver is twice as large as normal Wolvers, with a mouth full of sharp teeth to match. Despite that, Belphegor’s boot is bigger. I eye the liquifying corpse, curious about the nature of the liquid. Is it mana? Energy? Primordial ooze?

“Don’t relax yet,” Cassandra says, unsmiling. “Wolvers are pack predators.”

Sure enough, from down the tunnels comes a howling.

“Behind us,” Cassandra roars. For having a diminutive body, she’s got some lungs. Spinning, she drops to one knee and levels her arms. “Fingers in your ears.”

I jam my fingers in. Now that I’m paying attention, I see the orange plugs sticking out of hers. She fires. Under normal circumstances, her weapon would make my ears ring. In the confined space, the sound reflects off the narrow walls, multiplying the decibels. More than one person exclaims.

I see a pack of Alpha Wolvers with shaggy brown hair. One’s health bar appears and empties in the same instant. The creature collapses. Its friends flinch from the noise. Cassandra shoots another one. Its health is obliterated.

The remaining creatures rear on their hind legs and howl. It is a long, piercing, mournful sound. One that makes my ears ring and my eyes tear up.

“[Fire Orb].”

A ball of flame arcs over my head, close enough the heat sears. It impacts the lead Alpha, staggering the creature. Its health drops to a third, but it does not retreat. Instead, it rises and howls.

“[Fire Orb].”

“[Stone Dart].”

“[Arrows of Light].”

Cassandra lowers her weapon. I take my fingers out of my ears. Shards of rock and beams of light shred the creatures.

“That was easy,” I say. No one seems to hear me. Someone throws a ball of light down the tunnel. A horde of furry bodies rushes toward us. People curse. Cassandra fires. I get my fingers in too late. The fighters shove me aside in a bid to put up a shield wall.

Wolvers pour down the tunnel. Unlike the previous kind, these have green-tinged hides and an inability to swallow.

Belphegor and Tolvern bellow, but I don’t hear. A sound like a thousand screaming cats charges toward us from both sides.

“Behind us.”

I look in the direction we were going. A horde of sickly wolvers assisted by slow-moving, tree-like robots and swift, blue, butterfly-bats approaches. Belphegor whirls to face the oncoming wave.

“AMBUSH.”

The confines of the tunnel make it difficult to have a proper battle. There is no room to spread out, and little room to fight. The fighters are stuck on one side. The mages are scattered along the middle and rear. The support classes are in the back. Cassandra and I and a few of the weaker fighters battle the rearward horde. I say battle. I mean struggle.

The few fighters we have do manage to get a shield wall up. They have two problems. One: their shields are small and made for personal defense or dueling, not holding a line against monster raccoons. Two: Wolvers are about the size of raccoons with the agility of a cat. They flow between and around the fighters like a river.

“[Create Vine]. [Resistance],” I say. Cassandra hesitates to shoot with people so close. But the swarming creatures leave few options. Her handgun thunders. I curl my arm forward, damaging several creatures at once. There is no such thing as finding an opening or making one. The monsters come at us in a wall of noise. We reply.

Both teams spread out. The Wolvers dodge our attacks and bite our legs. I see one guy go down under a pack of them. I summon another vine and lash the mass of bodies. The screaming intensifies.

The adventurers back up. Most fights take place at three yards, require three rounds, and last three seconds. This one does not. The fight drags.

Belphegor is a tower of iron smashing everything close to him. Tolvern and his phoenix coat the area in fire. His team seems immune or at least resistant to the heat. Randall sections off portions of the tunnel with stone walls. The detective stands on a column of rock, safe but unhelpful. Lilith is a bladed ghost. The fighters do their best, but the beasts give more than they take. The mages can’t cast without hitting their friends.

I back up. The tree-like constructs have no regard for friends or enemies. The blue butterflies hover out of reach, keeping the beasts’ and constructs’ health topped off. Healers. I grow sick. Enemy healers and we have none. That’s not fair.

Someone screams. One of the fighters goes down under a swarm. An Alpha locks its jaws around his throat. His friend rips the creature away and kills it, but the damage is done.

“Health potion,” someone screams. A vial of glowing something is tossed at the wounded man. He catches and shatters it on his armor, uncaring of the glass shards. But his health doesn’t rise.

“I’ve been poisoned,” he screams. “I need anti-poison. Someone, help.”

If I knew the spell. If I was a true support. If I had buff spells or area-effect heals or any number of things. If we had people with real support classes. Heck, even a [Cleric] would be nice right now. But we don’t. However, the poison affecting the man doesn’t drain his health like a damage-over-time effect. It doesn’t appear to do anything but stop him from healing.

The injured Alpha reappears. Its body is whole, but its health is down to a sliver. It pounces on him. He throws up an arm to ward it off. Its teeth latch onto his hand. The last of his health vanishes.

“No,” he screams once. He doesn’t relax. Relaxing is what happens when someone accepts their death and sighs. Usually, they’re old or sick, and they know it’s time. This guy fights. He fishes a knife from his belt and stabs, over and over, at the beast’s face. The Alpha shakes its head, refusing to let go. The last slivers of its health disappear, and it goes limp. The man’s arm weakens.

His head sags back. He doesn’t relax. Tears run down his face. Green-tinged Wolvers sink their teeth into him. Cassandra points her weapon as if to end his suffering, but someone steps in the way. A mage, one of Bacon’s, wearing blue robes like a dress. He trips and falls. The Wolvers swarm.

In between the frantic shouting, I make out a single, despairing word: “Mama.”

My heart breaks. Teeth lock on my ankle. The Alpha biting me shakes its head, like a dog with a toy. A river of drool runs from its lips. It looks at me with crazed, feral eyes. Bestial and stupid, but more terrifying. I kick. The creature dodges. I swing both whips. The creature twists its body. Now it’s too close. Aiming for my throat, it leaps.

Pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt tears across my face. All I ever see are yellow, oversized teeth. I shove the creature back, but it won’t let go.

“[Insect]—no wait, [Swarm of Hornets].” I cancel the whips and cast the higher-tier spell. The horde of stinging bugs attacks the soft tissue of the Wolver’s eyes and throat. It releases me, howling.

I aim my palms at the creatures, casting again. My energy drains. Beside me, Cassandra’s weapon deafens. Quick flashes of light illuminate more of the tunnel. I see more beasts and constructs approaching.

Spent, I back into the body behind me. The mage elbows me back, but there’s no room. I stumble into the fighters in front. The guy elbows me in the gut. He was winding up for a swing. He caves in the skull of a Wolver with his mace. A construct, a towering creature of wood and machinery, takes its place. The construct raises its one appendage: an oversized, club-like log.

“[Shield Wall],” the fighter roars. A ripple runs through the fighters. They lock their shields like a formation of Spartans. The log descends. The wood smashes through his shield, into him, and knocks him flat. The construct withdraws its arm as Wolvers big and small stream into the space.

Bodies back up against me. People are in front of me. The beasts are everywhere. I don’t see Cassandra. I’m out of energy, thus I’ll be waking up soon. But these people are real. They’re in a tunnel, ambushed, and about to die.

This is adventuring? This is what I worked and wanted so hard to get? A smelly, violent death in the dark, in a low-level dungeon to low-level enemies, is the sum of my goal? I… I don’t want this. I don’t want to die. But I’m Dreaming. Even if I was present, I wouldn’t want this. Not… like this.

All men want glory. Pain is temporary, chicks dig scars, and glory lasts forever. That’s what Shane Falco said. I could go without glory or pain if it meant having a roof over my head, food, and clean clothes. Prison is not viable. Carmine wanted me to pursue his creepy-class, and it had combat skills. But combat isn’t all I thought it was.

Even tabletops had sterilized combat. It was hard to kill a character in most role-playing games. And most parties ignored basic needs like food, water, sleep, shelter, etc. Sleep was necessary because Long Rests relied on it. Besides that, no one cared.

Navigating a dungeon, surviving the traps, heck, basic survival required basic needs to be met. Adventuring in real life is therefore a lot like archaeology. More on that later. For now, I tune back to the battle. It is ending. We are ending.

A spray of yellow projectiles kills five beasts at once. More golden projectiles pepper the hallway, emerging in waves that move side to side. The enemies pivot.

Four puny figures, dressed and sized like cyberpunk cherubs, charge into the fray. There is no boisterous whooping and slash of scimitar. The four figures do not work in tandem. Three of them attack the creatures with swords almost as immense as they are. Each sword is a different color. One shoots fire, another ice, and the last is lightning. The fourth figure approaches the Alphas from behind, his revolver powering up.

He shoots. Twenty barbs of sandy crystal erupt from his weapon in a scattershot pattern. The two remaining Alphas die. Two of the knights attack the construct, using their swords to hack its sides. Facing one, the construct swings.

And the knight dodges, a blur. He places his weapon under his shield arm as if practicing an Iaijutsu strike. Instead, his weapon gleams. He walks right up to the machine. The construct raises its arm. The knight draws his sword back further and swings.

An explosion fills the hallway. The construct is caught dead center, its health obliterated. A second explosion follows the first, expanding like a bubble a set distance in front of the previous. More Wolvers perish. A third explosion activates inches in front of my eyes. I close them. I see the flash of frigid, blue light through my eyelids. The arctic wind surrounds us. I hear howling.

A fourth explosion ensues, eliminating the beasts attacking our most vulnerable. And a fifth explosion occurs right next to Belphegor’s head, obliterating the health of the two constructs whaling on him.

“Knights, Blitz Needle Charge,” one of the cherubs screams. All four of them draw the same revolver with a drum magazine where the cylinder should go. Four weapons blaze.

“Everybody down,” Cassandra bellows. She seizes my arm and drags me down. She’s shorter but stronger. I stoop, but not low or fast enough. Four Spiral Knight revolvers fire almost at the same time. The air is filled with golden spikes. Men and women scream, duck, or throw up shields. The needles pass through us without harm and embed themselves in all the creatures behind. All the creatures that the Spiral Order battles.

The constructs die. The remaining Wolvers rise on their back legs and howl.

“Move,” one of the Knights orders. He forces his way through us, which isn’t hard when he’s half our size. He shoots the wailing Wolvers, killing one. The remaining two retreat. He chases after them, firing and swinging until the last one dies.

It’s over. The dungeon is silent. I look around. The adventurers sag with exhaustion.

“Report,” Belphegor snaps.

“Castillo is dead,” Cassandra says. She fishes a box of bullets from her pouch and starts reloading her magazines one at a time. “Sostrom too.”

“Gerial, Merc, and Laylee are gone,” Tolvern says. He looks spent. “That wood-thing raised its arm and crushed her.

“You mean the lumber?” one of the Spiral Knights says. “They do that. Pro-tip: bait the swing and circle behind them. It has a long wind-up that’s telegraphed, and it takes a while to recover. While it does, you can get some free hits in.”

The fire mage looks at him, hostile.

“I know how to fight them,” he says, cold. “I stay back and set them on fire.”

“Elemental spells are useful.” The Knight nods, “But apparently you don’t, given that you used area-effect magic in a close-quarters environment. Are your friends immune to your damage? Are the rest of us? What if you get pinned? Lumbers have large health pools. Even if they’re set on fire, they don’t die right away. And if the silkwings are around, they’ll never die.”

“Leave them alone, Halifax.” A second Knight approaches. He wears a gray, fringed poncho and cowboy hat. He is the one who most used a revolver. “They’re still in training.”

“We are not in training,” Belphegor says. “Everyone here is level four or five. We are prepared.”

“But your gear is garbage. Look,” the poncho-Knight gestures at…well…everybody. “No gear above Tier 2. Steel is fine, but your armor is low-quality steel. None of the mages wear armor or have weapons. What happens when they run out of mana? None of the warriors have armor above iron or leather. And your tactics suck.”

What began as forty people high on camaraderie and confidence is now thirty. Thirty men and women wounded, afraid, and angry. The Spiral Knights, while saviors, are showing why the adventurers so despise them. They point and laugh at the adventurers. No one is spared mocking.

Belphegor’s armor is iron painted black, not blackiron or even good steel. His shield is decent, according to one Knight carrying a door-shaped shield taller than he is. But Belphegor’s weapon is low-quality. The mages are unarmored and unarmed. The fighters are all weak and low-level. None of them know how to move or target their enemies. Their gear is bad. No one uses familiars.

Not even Cassandra and I are spared. Cassandra at least has a vest with ceramic inserts. I can’t imagine how heavy that must be. Meanwhile, I have nothing. All four Knights sneer at my lack of preparation. Never mind how I held my own while more powerful people were defeated.

“You guys want defense,” the leader says. He wears an animal-hide coat made from a type of Wolver. “Upgrade your armor and shields first. Then run low-level contracts until you can afford some good gear. You want to upgrade your gear as much as possible. Don’t get strength enchantments or anything like that. Defense equals survivability.”

The adventurers pass out health and mana potions. In silence, I take a step forwards.

“Excuse me, sirs.”

The Knights look up at me.

“Where can one go to learn all this?” I smile. After a moment, the Knights smile back.

“Go to our Order and ask to see the leveling guides.” Poncho-guy waves his hand over my shoulder. “They’re all free. We’ve mapped out almost every possible class, magic or not. All the Skills, Conditions, Aspects, et cetera. Available to anyone. But of course, none of you guys bother asking for help.”

“Why would we,” Cassandra finally snaps. “When you guys are all jerks?”

“I tire of this,” Belphegor says. “Come. The dungeon boss is close. Shall we be off and finish this?”

“We’re out,” Tolvern says. He stands. His phoenix is missing a few of its feathers. His men look startled.

“Boss, we can’t go.”

“We lost three people.” He shakes his head. “And I’m out of mana. We’re down four party members and no profit. I’m not losing the rest of my party. Phoenix Fire, move out.”

“I guess it’s us, then.” Belphegor puffs out his chest. “Brotherhood of Bacon. Ready up.”

I look at Cassandra. She surveys the remaining group. None of them look enthused.

“Bel, we’re done, too.” Cassandra’s voice is quiet. “I…we’re not prepared for this. We lost people. We were ambushed.”

“I’m done,” Sherry Magpie says. “I’m going home.”

“I’ll come with you,” Randall follows her.

Phoenix Fire takes their leave. Some of them protest. Some want revenge. Some suffer from the sunk-cost fallacy. But in the end, they all leave. Randall, Sherry, and Lilith follow them, as do all of Belphegor’s red shirts. The adventurers remaining are Belphegor, Cassandra, myself, and the Knights.

Belphegor stares at her. She refuses to meet his eyes.

“What about you, mage?”

It takes me a second to realize they’re addressing me.

“I’m an energy-based mage. Health and stamina are low. And I’m a Dreamer. I’ve got enough for one spell left, but I’ve never used it before.”

“Looks like it’s us,” poncho-guy says. The electric face on his opaque helmet turns into a smile. “The boss chamber is up ahead. Seven-way split?”

“Sounds good,” Belphegor mutters, his tone flat. He is still staring at Cassandra. She still refuses to meet his eye. “Why?” he asks.

“Because these are low-level enemies,” poncho-guy says, growing serious. “The treasure will be small. And the battle will be difficult. Splitting the treasure between thirty people? We would all walk away with pennies, assuming an even split. But that wouldn’t happen.”

“Why not?” Cassandra asks.

“Because all parties fight over loot,” Belphegor says. “Especially when casualties are taken. Phoenix Fire would insist the treasure go to the families of their dead. But they’d squander it getting drunk.”

“Do you believe that?” Cassandra sounds weary. Her shoulders slump.

“Plenty of parties have disintegrated for less,” poncho-guy says. “This way, they live to fight another day. And they’ll be a bit wiser, next time. This dungeon isn’t dumb. It isn’t a structure of rock and mortar. It’s alive.”

“Most dungeons are like that,” Belphegor wipes his sword on a towel. “It’s how the monsters keep appearing. The dungeons spawn them like antibodies.”

“And we are the infection,” poncho-guy says. “One small party? Beneath notice. But forty people?”

“The dungeon detected an invasion and responded,” I say. “The best groups are like yours. Small, with good gear, experts at whatever they do.”

The Knights nod.

“You’ve got it.”

“I never want to be an adventurer,” I say, melancholy. Depressed certainty settles in my gut. “I’m a Dreamer. I’m not doing this again.”

“Then why are you still here?” Belphegor asks, brusque. He turns away. “Knights. Let’s go. The others might come back at any time.”

“What makes you say that?” Poncho-guy asks. He scratches his head. “They looked dejected to me. Noobs in over their heads.”

“Sound travels far underground,” I say. “They weren’t making much noise as they left.”

The knights look at me. Then at Belphegor. Cassandra sighs. She reloads her Sig Sauer. Together, the seven of us plunge into the dark.