"Why strive to dodge life’s problems when you can let them miss entirely? Sometimes, the best step is the one you barely take." — The Te of Slacking, Book 3, Verse 12

The platform I was standing on blinked out of existence, and suddenly – and somewhat incongruously - I was standing in the middle of a Victorian street.

The cobblestones beneath my boots were uneven and slick with what I dearly hoped was just rainwater, though the distinct odour of horse byproduct suggested otherwise. Gas lamps flickered overhead, their feeble light barely managing to push back the heavy, soot-stained air.

The buildings on either side of me leaned toward each other with the conspiratorial air of drunks in a pub fight, their upper storeys jutting out far enough to ensure maximum claustrophobia. Their brickwork was patchy at best, patched over at worst, and the whole thing was decorated with an assortment of iron drainpipes that were determined, nay obsessed, in dribble on anyone below. Victorian ingenuity: where innovation meets maximum inconvenience.

Somewhere to my left, a vendor shouted something unintelligible, his cry punctuated by the clang of a bell and the sharp bark of a dog. His stall itself was a rickety thing, loaded with an assortment of wares that ranged from “might be food” to “almost definitely not food.” A barrel of eels squirmed ominously to the left, because nothing says "culinary delight" like slimy, writhing fish on a public street.

To my other side and high up, a chimney sweep—complete with a soot-streaked face and a casual enthusiasm for permanent lung damage—dangled precariously from a roof. He waved cheerfully at me with a brush that was one vigorous sweep away from falling apart.

I gave him a polite nod, mostly because I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t part of the System’s attempt to kill me. Victorian chimneys were deathtraps at the best of times; adding me to the mix was hardly going to improve matters.

In the distance, the unmistakable silhouette of a workhouse stood, its ugly redbrick structure designed fully within the architectural philosophy of “maximum despair.” I could almost hear the Dickensian violin solo in the background, just waiting for someone to tragically lose a shilling or ask for more.

“Charming,” I said, squinting up at a sky that could only be described as aggressively Victorian—a murky, coal-smeared haze several shades darker than was natural.

It made me feel like I’d inhaled soot just by looking at it.

I adjusted my grip on the lever I was no longer holding.

Not because it had vanished—I wasn’t that lucky—but because a steaming log of horse shit had replaced it. I sensed the Overseer was already letting me know this was not going to be a fun time.

“This is Floor 3, I presume,” I said to no one in particular.

The reason all of this was unnervingly familiar to me—aside from the fact I was clearly stuck in a Dickensian fever dream—was because I’d spent a memorable summer working as a Ragamuffin at the Black Country Museum.

That’s not a joke. It was my actual job title.

The Museum called the role "educational," though I quickly realised it was shorthand for "stand around in a costume, inhaling coal smoke, while explaining the horrors of Victorian child labour to tourists with cameras. All for the low, low price of minimum wage."

My outfit had been a masterpiece of historical accuracy and existential humiliation: a patched waistcoat, trousers that probably predated the Boer War, and a cap that had been through several bar fights and lost. All of it was topped with a layer of soot that started as makeup but quickly became real after spending eight hours near a functional forge.

Speaking of the forge—ah, the fucking forge. How had I forgotten you?—there was a day I would never forget. My supervisor had decided it would be “interactive” for me to demonstrate coal-heating techniques to a gaggle of disinterested Year 9s.

They barely looked up from their phones as I learned, in the most painful way imaginable, that iron stays hot for far longer than anyone tells you. The resulting burn scar wasn’t the kind of souvenir I’d been hoping for.

The interactions with the public didn’t help.

- Most common question: “Are you a real Victorian?”

- Most common answer: “No, you fucking helmet. Do I look a hundred years old?”

- Most common answer after a series of complaints. “No, I just haven’t washed this outfit in three weeks.”

- Most frustrating encounter: The time a German tourist spent ten minutes debating whether "ragamuffin" was a career aspiration or a lifestyle choice.

And the shenanigans didn’t stop there. Part of my duties included "bringing history to life," which mostly meant stealing fake pies from the bakery set, being chased by equally fake policemen, and, once, collapsing dramatically in the street while yelling, “I’ve got consumption!”

The tourists loved it.

My colleagues manifestly didn’t.

If there’s one thing that summer taught me, it’s this: we romanticise Victorian life far too much. Between the soot, the rats, and the lung damage, it’s a miracle anyone survived long enough to invent the 20th century.

Modern plumbing is an underrated miracle, and anyone who waxes lyrical about "simpler times" has clearly never eaten bread so stale it could double as a doorstop.

By the end of the summer, I’d gained an encyclopaedic knowledge of Victorian misery, an impressive immunity to coal smoke, and the ability to sidestep a camera-wielding tourist with precision.

But mostly, I learned this: the Black Country Museum isn’t about bringing history to life. It’s about surviving it.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

So, naturally, the Tower had decided to throw me into a Victorian street.

“Floor 3,” I muttered again, kicking a pebble that squelched on impact. “Let’s see what fresh hell you’ve got in store.”

However, before I did that, I was delighted to note that I seem to have levelled up in the process of completing the second floor. Level 19.

Go me.

Ignoring the subtle prod in my mind to start walking down the cobblestone road, I pulled open my stat screen. Nothing recently new screamed out to me after Level 18, although I seem to have 5 unallocated points this time.

That was nice.

Name: James Brook

Level: 19 (0% Idle XP Gains)

Class: Freeloader

Health: 190

Mana: 0

Stamina: 85

Strength: 22

Agility: 32

Dexterity: 28

Constitution: 30

Endurance: 25

Intelligence: 20

Wisdom: 20

Charisma: 20

Luck: 36

Class Abilities:

Borrowed Strength (Rank 5): Your stats now shift dynamically based on the power of allies nearby. At this level, your boosted core stats (Strength, Agility, Dexterity, or Constitution) increase by up to +30% when near stronger allies. The stat boost is recalculated continuously, so your strength waxes and wanes with those around you.

Lazy Aura (Rank 6): Enemies within range are highly likely to lose interest in attacking you if you do not engage. Disinterested enemies may drop minor Loot as they leave. Additionally, allies in range feel a slight reduction in fatigue and are passively motivated to continue fighting.

Loot Leech (Rank 5): Your ability to gather resources effortlessly has reached a new level. Nearby activities and fallen enemies now yield +40% more resources, and you siphon a moderate portion of loot from allies' efforts without impacting their gains. Valuable items are also more likely to drift your way.

Passive Assistance (Rank 6): You are now a beacon of passive support. Allies within range benefit from a small boost in damage and defence, and the Critical Hit buff for nearby allies now has a cooldown of only 12 minutes, ensuring they feel your indirect support more frequently.

Opportunistic Luck ( Rank 5): Your knack for stumbling into good fortune is almost supernatural. Whether it’s dodging a death blow or “accidentally” finding valuable items, your luck has sharpened. Small bonuses (XP, loot) may now also appear when an ally achieves a critical success nearby.

Lucky Bystander (Rank 5): Your presence seems almost charmed to those around you, enhancing allies’ performance significantly when they’re in close proximity. Allies seem to find inspiration, hitting harder and dodging more effectively when you’re nearby—though you remain blissfully unaware of why.

Freeloader’s Escape (Rank 5): Your instinct for survival borders on miraculous. You automatically dodge the first four attacks in any encounter, slipping out of harm’s way with minimal effort. Cooldown: 2 minutes.

Skills:

Stealth (Lvl5)

Grand Strategist (Rank 1).

Dodge (Lvl12) (Potential Evolution available)

Vicarious Competence (Lvl 6)

Playing Hardball (Level 8)

Paranoia’s Edge (Level 2)

Unallocated points:

5

“Oh, Great Slacker, I’m just going to stick all five of these points into Luck. If you have any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace…”

The Slacker didn’t respond. Either he was ignoring me, had disappeared again, or had simply decided that Luck was already doing his job for him.

Probably the latter. A notification chimed as the points slotted into place:

Luck: 41. You’re officially too fortunate for your own good.

“Fortunate, my arse,” I muttered, adjusting the flat cap that appeared to have manifested on my head instead of my cool Roguish cowl.

As if to underline my point, a puddle nearby emitted a squelch that was entirely too enthusiastic for something that shouldn’t be sentient. I edged away from it cautiously.

“Oh,” I said aloud, staring at the glowing notification in the corner of my vision. “Looks like I could evolve Dodge if I wanted to.”

Dodge Evolution Options:

1. Unstoppable Evasion (Rank 1):

Your ability to avoid danger transcends instinct. Automatically dodge up to six attacks per encounter, including area-of-effect abilities. Successful dodges increase your movement speed by 10% for 5 seconds. Cooldown: 90 seconds.

2. Trickster’s Step (Rank 1)

Your dodges are now misleading and infuriating to enemies. Successfully evading an attack creates an illusory duplicate that distracts attackers for 3 seconds. Dodging resets your cooldowns on minor abilities. Cooldown: 90 seconds.

3. Lazy Step (Rank 1)

You dodge with minimal effort, appearing to move in slow motion. Successful dodges generate a passive fatigue aura around you, slowing enemies’ attack speed by 15% and sapping their motivation. Passive Bonus: 5% reduction in enemy focus when in close range. Cooldown: 120 seconds.

I said stroked my chin to trying to look like someone who gave careful thought to big decisions. “Unstoppable Evasion’s flashy, but I don’t fancy sprinting all over the place like an idiot. Trickster’s Step sounds fun, but illusions? Way too much effort.”

I grinned. “Lazy Step, though? Now that’s my speed. Literally.”

Ability Chosen: Lazy Step (Rank 1). Passive bonuses applied.

The world around me didn’t feel all that different, but I noticed the cobblestones somehow seemed less daunting now. As if they’d agreed to be a little kinder to my joints.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the sound of galloping hooves shattered the relative calm.

I turned just in time to see a horse and carriage thundering down the street, the driver yelling something unintelligible.

“Oh, for—!” I dove—or, rather, lazily sidestepped—as the carriage hurtled past, missing me by inches. The breeze ruffled my soot-streaked outfit as I watched the driver disappear into the distance.

Behind me, a puddle splashed. It almost sounded like laughter.

“Floor 3,” I muttered, brushing myself off. “I see how it is.”