Warren lay comfortably on the carpet in the living room of Bani’s cottage. He was surrounded by cushions, each with a single large syringe embedded in it. The syringes were leaking a green mist that suffused the surrounding area with a gentle minty scent.

“Who knew healing would smell like mint?” Peter mused as he sat at the writing desk.

“I don’t care what it smells like, it feels good though,” Warren rumbled from ground level, sleepiness evident in his voice.

He had collapsed on the floor after their fight, blood leaking through rents in the hazmat-suit like armour they’d purchased to protect from the caustic effects of the globlins. Warren had put on his plate mail over the top of the suit, but you could only do so much when you’re being pummelled by what was essentially semi-sentient acid glob that could form sharp spikes and blades.

“Good thing these repair themselves over time,” Dani plucked at the sleeve of her suit. There were far fewer holes in hers than Peter or Warren’s thanks to her acrobatic fighting style, but she was far from unharmed. “I never learned to sew. Stitched up a few blokes though.”

“Well, they’d better have self-repair considering what they cost,” Pham said, headed for the kitchen. His suit was pristine, as unblemished as the day they received them. He had the clear dome-like helmet flipped down on his back and it was filled with his snow-white dreadlocks.

“Good call on using the aye-oh-ee too,” Peter said. “Woz’s near spark out on the floor and he deserves it.” To emphasise Peter’s words, snores began emanating from around ankle height. The volume increased steadily for a minute until it was cut off sharply as Warren was logged out. “Thanks for tossing down the cushions as well. I don’t know if the floor here fixes itself or if I’d have to fix it with one of these.”

Peter held up a small hourglass like an egg timer. After helping Warren in and getting settled he had looked through the hole he had punched in the door to see what had been on the other side. Whatever may have been there previously, by the time Peter, Pham and Dani had come back to check all that remained in the brick walled hallway but piles of materials and nearly twenty tiny hourglasses. They had gathered up everything they could find and brought it all back to the cottage to sort through. Once like items were grouped together on the coffee table the three had turned to their own tasks while DB tested the loot to see if any of it was edible.

Peter started feeding the hourglasses into the desk and flicking through the upgrade options while Pham raided the cookie jar in the kitchen. Dani looked at the piles left on the coffee table and popped the cover off the buttstock of the Finger of Pestilence.

“Hey, you mind if I grab some of these? I reckon they’re pretty rare and might upgrade what I can do,” Dani asked.

“Hm, what?” Peter looked up, distracted. “Yeah, sure. Pham, you’re good with that?”

“I’m good, take what you want Dani. Peter, where’s the Mountain Dew?” Pham mock shouted from the far side of the room.

“Oh ha ha,” Peter responded. “I know where you’re going with that. Please don’t. In fact, come back over here, I want to try something.”

Pham wandered back into the lounge and flopped on the couch eating a biscuit. He flicked one each to Dani and DB and flicked the forks to Peter. “ACAB includes the fun police, no bikkie for you.”

“This is bigger than baked goods,” Peter rolled his eyes. “This is the moment everything changes.”

“Drama queen,” Pham scoffed. “Nothing’s bigger than baked goods. Get on with it.”

“So, those little hourglasses we picked up, they’re like the life timers of the mobs,” Peter started. “I fed them into the house like I did with the bigger one and, yeah, most of them are going to the upkeep so this place doesn’t just vanish outright. Think of it like paying the rent. At this level, that’s fifteen of those things a month. With me so far?”

Dani frowned. “But it’s only the third? We’ve paid the rent for the month and we’ve got another twenty seven days to get ahead? Is that what you’re saying?”

“It sure is,” Peter stood up excitedly. “Now, that only leaves five left over for now, but if I do this,” Peter pressed something on the desk and a creaking, groaning sound came from the kitchen area. As they watched, an iron potbelly stove sprouted from the floor. “I give you bigger than baked goods. We can now cook here.”

Pham’s eyes went wide. “Peter, I could kiss you. I’m not gonna, cos, ew, but I could.”

“I know where those lips have been, you keep them to yourself,” Peter made a cross with his index fingers. “But serous question, you eat a lot, do you know how to cook?”

“You assume that because I’m a girl I know how to cook?” Pham looked affronted.

Dani looked up from what she was doing, confused. Then shrugged, accepted that Pham was being weird again and went back to feeding materials into her weapon and twiddling the dials.

“No,” Peter explained slowly. “I expect that you have been playing this game for a year longer than I have, you always have a stash of food on you and you’re a geek that knows exactly what buffs a particular food or drink gives you. On that basis, I made an educated guess that you might know how to cook.”

Pham rocked back on the couch, kicking his legs in the air and cackling. “You’re killing me, Smalls. I’m just joshing you. Dunno how to cook though, to my gran’s unending dismay. I just dash past the door of my favourite eatery, if you get my meaning.”

“Well, good thing my grandma did teach me how to,” Peter said. “We’ll need to go shopping once we’re out of this dungeon, but I’ll be happy to slap together a feast for us all. Winner, winner, chicken dinner?”

“Sounds good to me,” Dani interjected. “But you’re going to need more than just a stove like that to do a proper chicken dinner. How did you get the little hourglasses to drop? I think I’ve seen something like that before but I can’t remember where.”

“I’ve had big ones drop from killing bosses while in the Paragon state,” Peter mused. “These little ones seem to pop up occasionally when I’m channelling the Paragon power but not using the full transformation, like what happened in the forest with the mushroom men. In fact,” he paused and started pacing. “I think it might be tied to the gems on the scythe?” He pulled out the weapon and looked at the dark crystal set into the blade. “When I’m taking out trash mobs, or any mobs for that matter, this gets brighter and brighter. When it was full bright and I switched to ranged shot back there, it straight annihilated whatever was in that hall. There weren’t even bodies to loot, just the loot itself and the hourglasses.”

“So what you’re saying is that we need to send you to harvest trash mobs,” Pham said, settling down and putting on his game face. “It’s time for them to pay the reaper.”

“You pay the ferryman, dumbass,” Peter flopped into the writing desk again. “Besides, this won’t be cheap. Pretty much every basic kitchen appliance is five points to buy but they all add one to the upkeep too. So I’m going to have to grind hard just to keep us in house and grub.”

“Get that sigma grindset,” Pham nodded sagely. “You can still earn those things from the globlins though, right?”

“Looks like. Only minor ones though. Just sucks that I’m the only one who’s able to get them to drop.”

“Can you get anything other than kitchen stuff?” Dani asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good nosh as much as the next girl, but that can’t be it can it?”

Peter turned back to the surface of the desk, swiping up and down. He felt a tugging at the leg of his armour as DB clambered up to sit on his lap. Peter gave his little friend scritches as he considered the options in front of him. “There’s plenty of style upgrades, better lights, carpets, wood panelled walls, that sort of thing. The last thing in the list here is an upgrade to a small house, the tooltip says it has separate rooms and stuff, but it’s greyed out. It doesn’t say why, but I think we’re going to have to either hit some limit of upgrades or find some other way to unlock it.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Could be either, could be both,” Pham agreed. “Not much we can do until we either finish the dungeon or pull out.”

“I vote for finishing it,” Dani raised a hand. “You and Warren seemed pretty surprised to find the respawn point back there, so I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve seen that door open.”

“Yeah, never seen it before,” Pham said. “Peter’s skeleton key is super handy. Maybe there’s others through the complex too? Remember how we said it takes a week to complete? Part of that is how many times you have to go back to get the people who die, while keeping the path clear.”

“You know there were other keyholes in those racks too? I reckon there might be an actual key you can find in the control room that unlocks the door to the room,” Peter said, then felt DB stir under his hand.

The white rat sat up on his back paws and preened himself. From within his fur he pulled a server rack key, no bigger than Peter’s thumb. He tried to nibble the key, wrinkled his nose, then grabbed it in his teeth and leapt up onto the desk and deposited the key with a clink. He went back to cleaning his nose, in what Peter could only describe as a self-satisfied manner.

Peter, Pham and Dani goggled at the tiny bit of metal.

“Where did you-?” Peter started.

“You sonnova-!” Pham began.

“Who’s a good boy!” Dani cooed. “I swear he understands human speech.”

Peter facepalmed. “He does, he just pretends he doesn’t until food is on offer. He’s earned the biscuit, you got a spare Pham?”

Grumbling, Pham got up and produced a biscuit from a pocket. “This better be worth it, that one was mine.” He scooped up the key and headed towards the door. “Coming Dani?”

Peter yawned, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. “Heya, Pham. I’m trashed. You can go play with the control room, but leave the door open so you can get back in. I need to log off for a bit.”

Dani followed Pham to the door. “Don’t worry, we got this. I want to ask Pham a few questions about the control room while we loot it.”

Pham gave Peter a thumbs up as he headed out, Dani left a cushion behind to prevent the door closing. Peter could hear them chatting in the respawn room before Pham stuck his head back in. “Good, caught you before you left. The door’s facing the wrong way, can you come out and open it from the other side?”

Peter suppressed a sigh and heaved himself to his feet despite DB’s squeak of protest. “I gotchu.” He exited the door and locked it, watching it fade back into the normal door. Reopening the door, this time to the control room, he waited until Dani and Pham had filed past, then turned around and reinserted the key and opened the door to Bani’s cottage once more. “So not convenient,” he complained. “You two good?”

They didn’t answer, both already investigating the room for things that interested them.

“Whatever,” Peter whispered to himself and logged out.

In the dark of his room, Peter could smell blood and alcohol. One came from his own hood, the other a fug that permeated the room. He rocked his head left and right, feeling the crunch of coagulated blood separating from the material of his hoodie. In the dim light of the room his vision swam and stars crowded the darkness.

“Ow.”

Knowing it was somewhere on the far side of midnight but not exactly when, Peter felt it better to get the sleep he needed rather than try doing anything. His stomach gurgled but he ignored the hollow feeling and let his consciousness attempt to drift away. Having sleep for dinner was becoming his new normal in this house, especially since in his grandmother’s eyes eating protein caused an excess production of testosterone in males leading them to become violent and abusive. It didn’t have the same effect on women, because… reasons? But, since dinner was usually a meat and vegetables style meal she would find any excuse for him to go to bed without. Unless it was seafood. Knowing Peter hated all forms of seafood meant that it was exempted from the “protein causes violence” precept so grilled fish was served more often than not. The smell turned his stomach so hard that he wasn’t sad to miss out on those meals.

Of course, while all this information did its best to keep Peter’s eyes open it had to contend with an equally strengthed exhaustion, probable concussion and hunger. It wasn’t long until the void claimed him.

Morning came with a thump as Peter bounced off the floor. The wind whooshed out of his lungs. He curled into the fetal position around his pillow and covered his head reflexively.

“Rise and shine, bucko,” his grandmother’s voice pierced his fluff filled mind. “It’s washing day. Strip your bed, and your mothers. Don’t take all day either, it’s already ten.”

Dizzy and still half asleep, Peter stripped the bedclothes off of both the beds in the room. He carried the pile to the laundry, stopping every few steps to pick up a trailing end or a fallen pillow case. He had just reached the laundry door when his cousin grabbed him in what she called a “police grip”, her hand slapping into the back of his neck just above the scar and crushing the nerve points there. The sheets fell from his arms as they lost all feeling and went limp.

“Go back and get the rest,” she whispered into his ear with menace dripping from every syllable. She whipped Peter around so that he could see that he had unknowingly walked past a pile at the doorway of each of the rest of the bedrooms. With a shove she released him and let him stumble off.

Peter scooped up the piles and shuffled back to the laundry unsteadily. In the cramped and slightly smelly room he stuffed as much as he could into the machine under his grandmother’s watchful gaze. She made no movement to assist, and the moment the door on the washing machine she grunted and left. Peter carefully measured out the right amount of washing liquid and poured it into the little drawer, swaying and squinting as his head continued to swim.

With the machine running, Peter went to the kitchen cupboard intending to get himself some breakfast. He was staring at the cereal choices when the cupboard door slammed shut in his face.

“You slept through breakfast,” his mother growled. “After I went to so much trouble to cook for everyone. Your plate is on the table.” She was standing at the kitchen sink with a wine glass in her hand and a tear running down her cheek. “I do so much for this family. I give you everything and nobody appreciates it. Don’t you love me anymore?”

Blearily, Peter turned and gave his mother a hug. “I still love you mum. I’m just tired. School is really hard at the moment,” he lied.

It didn’t help. “You’re tired? I have to meet lawyers, go to court, clean up the house, cook and still go to work every day,” his mother complained. “You get to sit around all day in your classes,” she made the air quotes gesture, “then play video games until bed time. How tired can you be?”

Reeling from the whiplash, Peter stepped back and blinked myopically at his mother. “I’m sorry, mum, I…”

“No, I’m sorry,” she cut him off. “Did all this,” she gestured with the wine glass, some spilling onto the floor, “for us. To save us from your cheating, lying, no-good arse of a father. I’m sorry I ever married that man. I’m sorry I brought us here to safety, I’m sorry I provide for this household. I’m sorry I,” she broke off into a sob. She covered her face with one hand then took a long pull from her glass. “Just, go. Eat your breakfast and go be useful.”

Unsure of what to do, Peter slid into the cold pleather seat that had a plate in front of it and tried to choke down the room temperature bacon and eggs. The grease had congealed and glued everything together making it hard to swallow. Despite parts of it being black and crispy, some bits still tasted raw. No matter how bad it was, Peter just stared at the plate and avoided making eye contact as his mother rattled around the kitchen, tidying up forcefully. Drawers and doors were slammed, cutlery and crockery dropped into the sink, pots and pans clanged. Peter’s grandmother glared around the door as though ready to give Peter a reaming for making so much noise but as soon as she saw it was her daughter creating the ruckus her expression softened and she left without a word.

The food was finished before his mother finished cleaning the kitchen but Peter sat there scraping the plate as quietly as he could so that it looked like he was still eating without making the horrible screeching sound and attracting attention. Finally his mother huffed and left, leaving behind a sink full of oily, sudsy water and a half cleaned frying pan. Peter let the water go, filled the sink with fresh hot water and soap, washed his plate and cutlery first and then scrubbed the crusted on carbonised food from the frying pan. He knew better than to try using the dish washer.

When he was done in the kitchen, he checked that the washing machine was still going and ducked into the bathroom for a shower. The sink was completely covered in hair and skin products - both in the container and smeared on the porcelain. He retrieved his body wash from under the basin and started the shower. Not bothering waiting for the hot water to come through, he leapt straight in, suppressing a gasp as the cold water sluiced over his head. He washed his body and hair with the gel while using as little as possible because he knew that he would have to wait until his father had secured some sort of visitation rights before he could get a new bottle. The menthol in the gel tingled on his skin as the water warmed up, which was a strange sensation that somewhat reminded him of the paragon state feeling. Cold and hot at the same time, but also neither.

Finished washing himself before the shower had even warmed up properly, Peter stepped out carefully, using the wall to steady himself as another wave of dizziness hit him. He toweled off gingerly and dressed quickly. He put back on the same clothes he had worn that morning despite the chance that would be noticed and remarked on. When he went to hang his towel back up he noticed a small patch of blood on it and immediately set to scrubbing it off in the bathroom basin. At the point where he felt the patch was virtually indistinguishable he took all the towels and the bathmat to the laundry. The bedclothes were done so he swapped out the loads and took the basket out into the back yard to hang them on the clothesline. There was a dryer in the laundry but Peter knew it was reserved for when it was raining or your name wasn’t Peter.

Once the laundry was hung out Peter hid behind the sheets and checked for movement in the house. As noone could be seen, he quietly placed the basket just inside the laundry door and went back to his grandfather’s shed. He tucked himself into his niche and let his head fall back against the wall. He then jerked forward again as pain lanced through his skull.

“Ouch.” There was not a trace of emotion in his voice. “I guess it’s time for school.”