“Another undead army has risen from the Paris catacombs. King Le’quein has ordered a full evacuation of the eastern district.”


    The TV droned on as Zaire lay splayed on the kitchen table. His body was hot. Buzzing filled his ears. A tattered uniform stuck to his sweaty body. He struggled down another breath between gasps.


    A fresh monster wave in New Europe meant extra work for him. As his grandpa’s sole employee, it was on him to reconfigure the teleportation apparatus. No doubt the old man wanted him to start preparations. He sighed. His arms trembled as he lifted a cool towel to dab his heated face. What’s a guy gotta do to get a break?


    The kitchen was a circular room overstuffed with memorabilia; stacks of ancient magazines leaned against papered walls, a rusted helmet acted as a centerpiece on the countertop, and the appliances were older than he was. A few days before, the place began to smell as bad as it looked.


    Zaire spent two hours crawling through the air ducts looking for whatever had died. A pixie. The odor—like rotten fruit—and the sharp, clinical aroma of cheap disinfectant he used to clean created a sensory thorn. He’s never been too good with smells.


    Just as he thought of calling for the old man, the kitchen door opened. The stout mage wore his trademark two-sizes-too-small military jacket over a gaudy ensemble of home-stitched clothes and a smile on his wrinkled face. A smile that dropped when he saw Zaire.


    “Private, get your sweaty body off my table,” the old man snapped. He puffed out his chest and squared his round shoulders, the sequins of his pants gleaming from black to gold. "This is not how a soldier acts.”


    “Why,” Zaire replied, “it’s not like we eat here.” Please gods, anything but the soldier spiel again.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The teleportation station was given to Grandpa as part of his Veteran’s reclamation after the Bio-Smith Wars. Underequipped and in the middle of nowhere, it served mostly as a cheap travel alternative for adventurers. Occasionally, a squad of soldiers or two would stop here as a waypoint between two places more interesting than the small town that kept Zaire his whole life.


    Even though the station was technically outsourced, Zaire was still considered a serviceman in the Earthen Defense Core, a fact his grandpa was sure to remind him of.


    “Imagine if your superiors saw you slacking off on the Core’s dime. You wouldn’t be standing for hours after the lashes.” Grandpa pressed his lips together, the way he always did when criticizing the young. The old goat. “You’re lucky I have a soft spot for punks.”


    “Well, if it comforts you. I can’t stand right now.” Zaire winced as he pushed his hands against the table to sit up. “Come back in two to five business days.”


    Never to miss an opportunity for lecturing, his Grandpa’s eyes lit up with a familiar story. Zaire braced himself. “Enough of that laziness. You think this is tough? 2036. Knee-deep in homunculi, nothing but a broken sword and one enchanted arrow, no bow—”


    “Pops, please. I know you got the announcement, we’re going to be flooded with adventurers and I’m too sore to get up. I need a stamina potion—” With quickness surpassing his age, Grandpa flung a green flask at Zaire. With a lurch, Zaire scrambled off the table and caught it before it could shatter against his prone form.


    "What the hell?" Zaire shouted at the now smiling man.


    "Seems like you''re not as tired as you thought," Grandpa said with a touch of pride. "You''re lucky to have the Wayne reflexes. Got it from my mama."


    With a huff, Zaire downed the liquid. At only seventeen, Zaire had yet to realize his soul and gain access to the system, but that didn''t stop him from using magical items. The potion electrified his body. Power surged into his abused muscles, and his joints were refreshed like a full-body massage. The feeling was better than drinking water after a thousand days of thirst.


    "Okay boy, enough with the sour talk. Go to your service."


    "Wait, let me bask for a moment," Zaire''s feeling of satisfaction was shattered by a pinch on his arm.


    “Oh, get out. Hurry, hurry; it’s almost time for opening,” Grandpa said, shooing as if Zaire were a flighty bird.


    With a roll of his eyes, Zaire turned and walked through the mechanical doors and into the scouring heat of New Philadelphia.