“We are reporting live from a gate five miles outside of Yakima Washington. Earlier this afternoon, a party of five inexperienced paragons entered the rift behind us. It is reported that PIMP failed to provide them with adequate equipment or training. At 2:04 PM, several minutes after the party entered the gate, a power surge was detected by an unnamed military gate surveillance satellite. The reported “Bottom D-tier” gate was soon reclassified as “Mid C-tier”, and an emergency retrieval unit was dispatched immediately by Vancouver PIMP headquarters. Several minutes have passed since level 9 paragon Randal Hedgepin and his unit have entered the gate--,” The reporter was cut off.
Weasel Guy turned off the TV and angrily slammed the remote on his oak desk. The impact of the strike sent the desk’s contents into a flurry of scattered papers, and a cloud of fine powder. The powdery substance, which moments before had been neatly arranged on the polished surface, now hung in the air like a miniature blizzard, caught in the maelstrom of his sudden outburst. The equivalent of two hundred dollars was gone in a matter of seconds.
“Dammit!” The small weasel man swore. The quest was supposed to be a quick stepping stone, an easy leveling opportunity. No risk, but enough reward to be worth it. The plan had been to throw the newly formed party into all the weak gates, and eventually unlock their respective aegises. Spend virtually no resources, and get an elite unit. Essentially, make something out of nothing. Seattle desperately needed a new unit of hotshots. The talent was retiring, dying, or getting transferred to the California front lines, and then dying. Regulus II disbanded after its captain committed suicide. Hamstash was ultimately a novelty carried by social media hype and sponsors. The budget was drying up, and there were too many gates popping up. Fucking useless. Every paragon was essentially useless without their aegis. Weasel Guy groaned palms against his eyes.
“I’m so getting demoted this time,” Weasel Guy moaned to himself. He felt bad about his mistake, sending five new paragons to their demise, but only because the blame would be pinned on him. Truthfully, he felt no actual remorse. Weasel Guy was a diagnosed sociopath with a long history of drug abuse, violence, and manipulation. At age 42, Weasel Guy was a registered sex offender, a felon, and had several restraining orders across multiple states. He also had a breathalyzer installed in his car.
If only paragons unlocked their unique skill in the beginning, instead of at the very least 18 months down the line. Even then, 18 months was almost unprecedented. 6.2 was the average level a paragon unlocked their aegis at, which usually took three years at the minimum. Caius did it in just over two years, a decade ago. Only several years ago did Sylara beat Caius, unlocking her aegis in 18 months, and since then she had solidified herself as the undisputed paragon of paragons in the US. Why did New York get her? Weasel Guy cursed fate as he gathered the remaining white powder into a small pile on his desk. His phone buzzed like an insect against the polished desk, disrupting the powder again.
“Who the hell is it,” Weasel Guy muttered to himself. His agitated face stiffened as he read the caller ID. Stupid Fat Ugly Fat Smelly Stinky Bastard. It was his boss. Shit. The brass were already on to his mistake. He was able to evade blame for the dead hooker fiasco several months ago, but he was too careless this time. He should have put Bernard in charge and used him as the scapegoat. With a trembling finger, and a heart full of dread, Weasel Guy accepted the call.
“Hello?”
“Ah! Weasel Guy. You fucked up pretty bad this time, agagaagagagagagaga,” The man laughed in his usual revolting manner. Please no demotion. My cocaine habit can’t afford my salary going down to 200k, Weasel Guy nervously thought. His productivity would take a huge hit without the Peruvian stuff.
“It looks like they found 40 or so bodies in that supposed D-tier gate, huh? Who’s been covering that up?” Weasel Guy gulped. He did remember something about numerous suspicious person reports around Yakima over the past several months. And he did remember ordering the execution of a journalist. Or two. No, there were three. Weasel Guy vaguely remembered when he had to throw a hundred grand at the Yakima police department to shut them up.
“It was the intern, he did it,” Weasel Guy lied as effortlessly as he breathed oxygen.
“If you’re talking about Mandy, he’s already in a ditch somewhere,” Stin replied. Crap. His boss was right. The intern took the fall for the dead hooker fiasco. “The press got to the gate before we could stop them. This whole incident is going to have long-lasting fallout, and probably result in an investigation by the PDDC*. Now, I got another perfect intern to blame for this whole thing, but I need something in return,” Stin continued. Weasel Guy’s heart lifted slightly. There was light at the end of his tunnel. His cocaine habit might be safe.
*Pan-Dimensional Defense Council. An international organization formed in 2007 after the Los Angeles Gate disaster, and the subsequent destruction of California.
“I will do whatever I can,” Weasel Guy responded.
“Bleeurrrrrrg,” Stin belched with a zeal unique to morbidly obese, corrupt government officials. Weasel Guy could clearly visualize the man’s rippling rolls of fat as he belched. “I need a new plug, mannnn. I threatened my last guy’s daughter and he shot himself, mannn. I know you got some high-grade Peruvian. Gimme your guy’s number, put in a good word for me, and you’re off the hook,” Stin concluded his demands. Relief filled Weasel Guy’s small, black, shriveled, weasel-like heart. Tyler usually didn’t take new clients, but Weasel Guy was a long-time customer and had a good relationship with the man.
“Consider it done,” Weasel Guy said confidently.
“Splendid. Also, a word of advice, if you must have prostitutes visit you at work, have them use the sewer tunnel. We had it built specifically for that purpose,” With those final words, Stin K. Mongrel, the third most powerful man in Seattle, hung up.
“Phew,” Weasel Guy let out a long-needed sigh. Getting away scot-free after committing morally black crimes was a wonderful feeling. Weasel Guy pulled a Benjamin out of his coat pocket and rolled it up.
“I earned this,” He muttered as he snorted the white powder off his desk.
***
Steve collapsed under the crushing weight of fatigue that gripped every inch of his body. The acrid stench of blood and rotting flesh hung in the air, a metallic cocktail of death. An eerie silence filled the large cavern. It was a somber silence, unique to epilogues of gruesome battles. Countless gray corpses littered the rugged ground, limp like puppets without strings. The black stinking blood of the thrall clung to every surface. The ground, once swarming with gray creatures, was now a tapestry of destruction.
It seemed someone took care of the wall of corrupted humans that once blocked Steve’s party from exiting. Staring at Steve was what looked like an average gas station cashier. He was a scruffy man, wearing a brown beanie, cargo shorts, and a tattered jean jacket. He had unkempt brown hair that fell below his chin, and several weeks of stubble. That was the only normal thing about the man. In his right hand was a black-bladed kukri. His entire right arm was covered in black blood and small chunks of viscera from the thrall. The scruffy man stood at the epicenter of the carnage. Steve couldn’t see a single scratch on the man from where he lay. He could feel the power emanating from the beanie guy. The feeling was indescribable, but it was comparable to standing near the waves on the windy coast. There was a vast canyon of strength between Steve and the man. If Steve was a mouse, the man was a tiger on anabolic steroids.
“Looks like we have one, maybe two more survivors,” The man mumbled into the radio on his lapel. Steve stared at the man, but couldn’t find the strength to speak. It took everything he had left to not close his eyes and doze off. The man made eye contact with Steve, “Your friend didn’t make it. He’s a hero for sure, though. The girl…” He paused and scratched his chin, “She’s alive, yeah.” Steve’s heart sank like a rock. Although he barely knew Kingsley or even talked to him, he felt a sense of loss. The man was remarkable, and when it came down to it, he had principles. Steve felt a little bad he barely cared that Kayla was alive.
“Grrrrissss… dal… rock,” Steve sputtered as he forced air through his vocal cords in an attempt to speak. The scruffy man tilted his head in confusion at Steve. Steve dragged the hand holding the brilliant crystal from out under his body, “Grist… all…” Recognition blossomed in the man’s eyes.
“Ohhh, that’s what you mean. Well, shit, we gotta go dude. This place’s boutta go down,” The man said before talking into the radio, “Send in the trauma unit now. Kid got the crystal, the gate is going to collapse soon,” He said urgently. Several minutes later, Steve found himself staring at the moving stone ceiling as he lay on a stretcher while people talked in hushed, but urgent voices. Before he knew it, he was looking at the overcast sky. The entire crater where the gate hovered was bustling with activity. Several journalists hounded anyone they could for statements, while countless black body bags were carried out of the rift.
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“Mr. Randal Slayer, what was in the gate, and how did you clear it?” A pesky reporter berated the scruffy man as she shoved her microphone up to his chin. She had butted her way through the layers upon layers of medics with her cameraman. The woman irritated Steve greatly, so much so that he swatted away the medics attending him, and rolled over in a bloody mess to face her.
“B-b…..itch, I-I cleared…. gheeeegh, this… gaay..” Steve sputtered, using the last of his energy to show off the crystal and flip her off. All the while he clawed to stay conscious. The reporter shot Steve an annoyed glare but ignored him as she turned back to Randal.
“No, he did,” Randal pointed his thumb at Steve over his shoulder. “I checked the final room, and this kid somehow brutally killed three thralls with his bare hands. I’m pretty sure he isn’t even level 1 because he was only awakened a week ago,” Randal said nonchalantly.
“Wow, that’s incredible,” The reporter exclaimed artificially. Steve saw her eyebrow twitch as she forced herself to smile at him. “What’s your name, hero of the day?” She asked him, gesturing for the cameraman to come closer to Steve. Steve meekly beckoned for her to come closer with his severely burnt and bloody hand.
“Ehggeeem,” Steve gathered the bloody mucus in his throat but made it sound like he was just clearing his throat. The reporter came closer with her microphone until her face was half a meter from his. Steve pretended to move his lips as if he was too tired to speak. The annoying reporter came even closer to hear him better. Unbeknownst to her, she had fallen right into Steve’s trap. With expert precision and power, he spat the amalgamation of bloody mucus he had spent the better part of a minute gathering. The thick red loogie traveled the short distance before landing with a splat against the reporter’s cheek.
“Ah!” She cried out in disgust. Randal snickered and shooed away the reporter and her cameraman. The medics began to apply emergency bandages to Steve. The lead shackles of fatigue grew far too heavy for Steve to resist any further. Before he could gather any more strength, the world faded to black under his eyelids, and he drifted off.
The gentle afternoon light streamed through the hospital’s hideous curtains and illuminated the otherwise dim room. In the corner sat a man that no one would be surprised to learn he worked the night shift at a gas station, not that he did. This man was far more important than a gas station worker. Most people wouldn’t believe it unless they saw his paperwork, but he was part of an incredibly small demographic of people. Of all the 12,321 humans marked by the Languor Pantheon, this man was one of 612 people over level 9. To put it simply, out of eight billion humans, only around 500 could best him in mortal combat.
Steve’s unconscious body lay motionless on the hospital bed. Only in unconsciousness did he look peaceful. His dull, moldy-green eyes, usually filled with mocking cynicism, were peacefully shut. Steve’s remarkably punchable face looked almost normal for once. A tangled mess of charcoal hair lay atop his head, like a stupid mop. If one were to describe his height, his resting body was as tall as the most average man if this average man was lying in a hospital bed. He weighed exactly as much as the national average for young men his age in the United States, whatever that number was, probably between 160 and 200 pounds. His incredibly average body was covered in bandages, like a gauze cocoon. Most of the bandages were already redundant, though. Steve had the State Regenerators who had immediately tended to him, and his unnatural rate of regeneration to thank.
Steve fought to stay in the inky black depths of unconsciousness. He was like a diver who’d just activated their buoyancy control device, except instead of trying to resurface, he was desperately trying to do the opposite. It was warm and comfortable down in the depths, and there were no people trying to scam him. Unfortunately for Steve, he was a light sleeper, and the Propofol was wearing off. Somewhere along the way, where light finally pierced the depths, Steve’s unconscious mind made a scary realization. Me in gate. Me get hurt. Medic. Where me now? Hospital? HOSPITAL. Steve’s crusty dry eyes flicked open. His dilated pupils stared at the ceiling while he tried to remember who he was, what his name was, and when the last time he took a dump was. Steve really had to go. Steve then shoved himself into a sitting position, before remembering the entire reason he woke himself up. Still ignoring the unremarkable man in the corner, Steve looked around the room, then down at his hands.
“NOOO! I didn’t agree to this! I’M NOT PAYING,” Steve screamed, genuinely in distress. Steve had hundreds of things he considered his kryptonite. Tipping male waiters, paying taxes, young children, and stop signs, Steve had a deep, burning hatred for all these things. However, all these things paled in comparison to the hatred he had for medical bills. One summer when Steve was nine, he became deathly bored. His dad forgot to pay the electricity bills that summer, so none of his consoles worked. Incidentally, the last thing he saw on TV before the electricity was shut off was a PSA on insurance scammers. Specifically, against people who purposely against people who purposely got hit by cars for money. Being the young genius he was, Steve spent an entire afternoon trying to get hit by a car so he could sue the driver and buy an Xbox. Steve was largely unsuccessful until he wasn’t.
The young genius went to the hospital with a fractured rib and broken arm. Nine-year-old Steve threatened to “sue the driver”, but was immediately shut down by the footage from a nearby gas station. After reading the price of a single cotton swab on the hospital bill, Steve vowed to die before he ever paid a cent to the hospital. Years later, Steve learned that they never had cable to begin with, and the insurance scammer PSA was likely a figment of his imagination. He also realized that an Xbox without electricity was about as useful as a plastic brick. Steve’s parents thought he had a mental disability until he miraculously got into Harvard at 15.
Steve clawed at his bandages and tore them off in a frenzy. Randal stared and watched in relaxed amusement.
“Chill, bruh. Uncle Sam’s got you covered, my dude,” Randal said with oddly red-tinged eyes.
“Uncle Sam can lick my bal—wait, what?” Steve paused his frenzy, hands full of crumpled gauze.
“We get our medical bills paid for with taxpayer dollars,” Randal said with a smile. Relief filled Steve’s panicking chest and his heart rate slowed down. Although brief, the nightmare was over.
“Well, shit. Awesome,” Steve flopped backward onto his bed, seemingly not affected by his wounds whatsoever. He lazily grabbed the bell at his nightstand and began to repeatedly press the button. Ding ding ding ding ding. “Nurse! Hey, nurse! My, uh,” Steve paused as he thought for a moment, “My burns hurt! I would like some Vicodin please,” Steve yelled. Randal was thoroughly amused by Steve’s antics. Eventually, a nurse did come, although all Steve got was half a Tylenol.
“Oh, yeah. You’re that guy,” Steve finally directly acknowledged Randal’s presence. “Thanks for saving our asses,” Steve said genuinely.
“No problem, dude. You did good though. I have no idea what you did to those thrall, but that shit was fucked up. Likeeee, brah, one had its head, like, suuuuper smushed in. It was all flat and gross. And then, there was like one with a tooootallllyyy exploded head,” Randal laughed. Steve retched once silently with his hands over his mouth as the memories flooded back. Still, Steve felt a strange sense of pride in his work being acknowledged by someone great.
“How’s Jun? And Kale, or whatever her name was?” Steve asked. He hoped Jun made it. Jun’s raccoon was badass.
“Bleuuuuurg. The Japanese guy is in a medically induced coma, and the girl is in a psyche ward,” Randal belched. Steve sighed in relief. Jun was alive, and Kayla was where she belonged. Randal pulled a beer can out of the depths of his jean jacket, and pulled the tab with a hiss. He took a long swig, before belching loudly again.
“Say, would you want to join my team?” Randal asked. Randal was eager to recruit Steve. Steve had shown a complete lack of regard for his own safety, an immense amount of willpower, grit, and a lack of hesitation to commit violence. Essentially, he was the perfect newbie. In the world of paragoning, supernatural battles, and otherworldly monsters, the biggest bottleneck was not in the potential for growth, but rather the mental fortitude of a newbie. Paragons active for five years or more had a suicide rate of about 20%, regardless of gender. The statistics of newly marked paragons were even worse. Half of them would die a horrible death in their first year. Although these statistics were closely guarded numbers not available to the public, any veteran could make accurate estimates through personal experience.
Steve had just undergone what veteran paragons called “Losing your virginity” at an especially early point in his career. At properly managed PIMP branches, paragons would shadow a more experienced team for up to a year to learn the ropes. They would only attend low-risk missions and gradually build their way up to higher-tier gates. Still, in the world of gate diving, “low risk” didn’t mean much. Something would always go wrong, which usually led to people losing their limbs or their lives. This traumatic first time left most new paragons mentally scarred, and ready to quit if they weren’t dead already. Newbies who survived “Losing their virginity” were heavily sought after as permanent members of teams. The divine gifts they received were finally in capable hands, giving the former “virgins” immense potential.
“We have free beer, free wifi, and free lodging,” Randal continued, panicking at Steve’s silence. In truth, Steve was about to instantly agree, except he was struck by a vomit-infused burp and had to swallow it. Randal scrambled, “We have a Brazzers subscription on the team house’s TV, too.”
“Do you have anyone who can teach me spells?” Steve asked. Randal scratched his stubbly chin and thought.
“Hm. I know a few shitty spells— oh, never mind. Rachel can teach you,” Randal said before taking another swig from his beer can.
“Who’s she?”
“Keith’s girlfriend. She’s kind of a bit— I mean she’s pretty cool. She was a third-circle mage before she even became a paragon. I believe she’s fifth circle now. She’s kinda our everything gal because she has so much goddamn mana. Radiation shielding? Regen? AOE? Need help finding a contact you dropped in the bathroom? She’s got you,” Randal pitched.
“Sounds good, I’m in,” Steve said. It wasn’t a hard decision. Anything beat PIMP’s Seattle branch. Steve got up and shook hands with Randal.
“Welcome to The Sea Men, little brother,” Randal said.
“Wait, wha—,” But before Steve could voice his concerns about the horrendous and unfunny name of Randal’s squad, the chapter ended.