ã€ŠThe Best Laid Plans of Mice and Dumb Stupid Ratsã€‹


 Chapter 1: TRUE HERO

    ¡°The time has come. Once more, we must summon a TRUE HERO¡±

    ¡°I still think we can just dump a ton of Crusaders on the problem-¡±

    ¡°TRUE¡­ HERO.¡±

    ¡°Eh, he¡¯s got a point. I¡¯m still getting my own Crusaders to stop huffing gasoline. They keep hallucinating and thinking it¡¯s me talking to them.¡±

    ¡°Day by day, week by week. More Pretenders to the Throne emerge, and the Bureaucracy¡¯s hold on them grows weaker¡­

    ¡°Soon, those fetid imps will fail, and when they do, a Demon King shall emerge once more, wiser and richer than any before him. We must have a hero before that day, one who can push upon the scales, and weigh Oath yet higher above Debt.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you mean lower? If he¡¯s trying to weigh ¡®scales¡¯ in our favor, I mean.¡±

    ¡°With the power of a foreigner, granted an Eldritch Soul by our realms, we can nurture one who is beloved by all, and capable of striking down the ambitions of the Pretenders¡­

    ¡°...And truly, neither man nor god can know who we shall receive.¡±

    ¨C

    ¡°I mean we can just check,¡± Eris remarked casually. ¡°We¡¯ve had void-viewing for what, a few eras now? Just like¡­ See who we¡¯re getting. Window shop a little.¡±

    A long suffering sigh emerged from Zeus¡¯s iron throat, sounding more like the huff of a brazen bull than anything human. ¡°It would not change the end result. No ordinary mortal would do. It must be one who can withstand the eyes of the world. If there were two men-

    ¡°Or women,¡± Eris interjected

    A glance from Zeus marked another furrow on his brow. ¡°...If there were two men or women upon creation who could bear the Trinity¡¯s curiosity, I would feed my beard to the dwarves.¡±

    Ares blinked. ¡°Is it not infinite? Infinite void, infinite individuals who could bear it,¡± he pointed out.

    Zeus¡¯s hand chopped up. ¡°Enough modern wit! Does my exaggeration sound like an Oath to you?!¡± he barked.

    ¡°I swear, ¡®Flamewars¡¯ and Discord have ruined the two of you. Attention span of a gnat, split between two who wish to buzz in my ears like one,¡± he grumbled.

    Uranium threads straightened like fine silk, curling back as the god soothed his beard with a pondering hand.

    ¡°Very well. We shall glimpse the chosen one, for but a moment. We haven¡¯t the time to scour infinity itself, so banish the thought. It is Chosen One, not Chosen Many, after all,¡± he chortled lightly.

    ¡°Nay, we shall witness the salvation of Mundanus, so that we might steel ourselves for the waves a hero is sure to make. To ponder for a moment, the surety of the friends he shall take.¡±

    Reaching into the air, the lightning-deity pushed at the ozone around him, a gust yanking a black mirror to his hands.

    From the back of the mirror, undulating wings began to unfold, black, heavy metal perching upon the table between the deities.

    ¡°So swore you to Olympus, that you would see what we did not, and so swore you to Lethe that you would see what we could not. So swore you to I, that you would serve us within sane, common bounds,¡± he began, as the Angel of Void began awakening.

    He poked it.

    ¡°Wake up. I want to see a hero,¡± he commanded.

    The mirror shook and stretched, groaning with the deep rumble of stretching cable. Its surface swirled, a transparent nothing pouring into it as reality left its polished form.

    ¨C

    ¡°Hell yeah. Bedputer,¡± Rhett said, laying on his stomach, his computer and its three monitors dragged in front of him.

    Around him, the signs and symptoms of a life more ¡®lived in¡¯ than ¡®well lived¡¯ stood tall and proud. Empty cans, dishes, mugs, glasses, and more stacked atop an unused desk, and below, a tide of empty water bottles clattered haphazardly.

    Where once, the concept of a workspace was held together by a single office chair, a storm of chaos had unraveled from the broken feng-shui of the room, the moment it broke.

    Once it had, Rhett opted to just put his entire computing setup at the foot of his bed instead, where he could cruise the net and snooze at will.

    Completing the life-support-system that was his mattress, a nest of pillows and blankets formed a cozy buttress around him, like sandbags lining the trenches between the outside and his den.

    All of this, each crumb and scrap, was carefully calculated, placed in the optimal position for a single purpose¡­

    Raising his battlerank in Smash of Mans.

    ¡°Ah¡­ Well, I mean, we¡¯ve had worse. Give him his Soul¡¯s True Form and he¡¯ll be fine for the job.¡±

    Rhett blinked. He could swear he heard something.

    Shaking his head, he returned his focus to what was truly important, the controller in his hands.

    ¡°What do you suppose that might be? A burly fellow like that, and that odd warfare on his screen¡­ He seems quite the fit for the two of you. Oh imagine if he were an angel of war¡­ That would be quite the fortune.¡±

    Comboing his counter, he grit his teeth. Distracted right as his opponent countered his combo, his Mans went flying, knocking his entire Clantress right off the stage, and losing him precious Econ.

    He quickly opened his crafting menu, and started punching together a new one, blocks slapping together as he hastily tried to rebuild his empire.

    ¡°Pops¡­ That¡¯s a videogame. He¡¯s a gamer, not a warrior. That said, judging from the big poster labeled Fabricave, perhaps he¡¯ll end up a goblin of some variety. It would do their kind some good to have a hero raise them up.¡±

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    Grimacing, Rhett¡¯s craftmenu shattered, a large mingetraption from his opponent glitching into it and causing it to explode from the physics objects jammed into it.

    His fingers reflexively snapped to the Alt-F4, as he quit out of the game with a huff.

    ¡°Goddamn hackers,¡± he grunted, sure that something had been messing up his groove...

    ¡°No, brother. Goblins tinker with tools and trinkets, not simulacra. See his isolation? His nerdy pursuits? No, his soul clearly yearns for the life of an Elven Towermage, where he can trickle new discoveries into the world around him.

    ¡°Not the best for a war on evil, but hey, we¡¯ve worked with worse.¡±

    With a grumble and a heave, the young man shoved himself off his bed, shuffling into the kitchen where he began culinary crimes. Honey and barbecue mixed together in a sauce bowl while several handfuls of nuggets slapped into the oven at his command.

    The barely clad creature scratched himself with more irate grunts as it began to cook, and he yanked a chair out from under the dining room table, plopping down in it as he grabbed some leftover coffee, mixing it cold with the contents of a pilfered creamer packet.

    ¡­Two creamer packets.

    ¡°Hmph. We¡¯ll see. It¡¯s about to happen.¡±

    Whipping out his phone, he started to watch cute animal videos, scrolling through them lazily until he happened upon one that caught his eye.

    In it, a pair of fancy rats scurried over a person¡¯s hand, their eyes boggling with joy as they lapped bits of peanut butter and jelly off of spots hidden all over the hand.

    It was a game that both rats seemed all too familiar with as they took turns scurrying around their cage in excitement and then pouncing on the hand for yet more of the sweet droplets.

    Rhett chuckled. ¡°Man, you¡¯ve got it easy. Wish I could sit around in a little box eating snacks and napping all the time. Talk about a life-goal,¡± he mumbled, to the dawning horror of the gods.

    Taking a withering slurp from his mug of cold coffee, he cringed as bitterly as his drink, grimacing for a moment. His eyes landed on the two empty cups of creamer.

    Glancing instinctively from side to side, Rhett grabbed one and started to lap the sweet liquid out of the plastic, greedily getting the last drops of sweetness out of the french vanilla additive.

    ¡°Oh what in the hellscape is he doing?!¡±

    At the loudest noise-that-wasn¡¯t so far, Rhett jerked, and the tiny cup he had been shotgunning over his head slipped down his throat, his eyes widening as he choked on the plastic chunk.

    Pushing back in a panic, he clapped his chest, and his legs kicked out in a panic as his chair tilted backwards with the motion.

    His head smashed into the tiled floor, and in an instant, Rhett Fency was braindead.

    Well, moreso.

    ¨C

    The moon hung overhead in the sky, and around it, stars twinkled and shone in impossible, chromatic colors. Yellow, blue, even green and red found themselves painted onto the night sky, alongside strange, triangular trios that glared into one another.

    Like astigmatic illusions painted on a light-polluted city, stoplights of iridescence, starburst out from their silent places.

    Below, an equally striking sight held the earth, a village, filled with huts made of wood and straw. What made it striking wasn¡¯t the quality, however, and neither was it the quantity.

    Instead, it was density that made this village noteworthy.

    Grassy hay huts, stacked on top of one another like a god¡¯s building blocks, a pyramid of humble hamlet life, crisscrossed with little barns and arches that led into what could only have been a veritable hive of farmers and ranchers.

    Like a termite¡¯s mound, the people here seem to have lost all sense of horizontality, instead focusing their efforts into erecting a dune of huts, where grains of people in humble clothes prowled the night, rare individuals who saw the dark as a time for work, instead of rest.

    Around it, half a moat stretched out like more of a manmade lake, an oblong bean of seafaring carved around the Village-Arcology, dotted and sprinkled with highways of docks strung up like streetlights between wires of hewn rope and planks.

    For all of this though, there seemed to be an explanation. Around this obelisk of humbleness, trees taller and taller surrounded it, like meaty fingers trying to squeeze civilization out from its surface like a clay-shelled wooden pimple.

    If any farms could be seen to feed this monument, they were utterly hidden beneath the growth, and secretively squirreled between bushes and vines, or buried in the core of the Hive-village.

    It was what wasn¡¯t seen through the high torches and dangling lanterns, or exposed under the exotic night sky, however, that was the most worthy of note.

    Instead, it was a pile of newspapers, streaked with blackened pockmarks of fading oblivion and the deep scent of caustic, divine ozone. One that dared to rustle as if it had something underneath it, trying to escape its papery prison.

    This was noteworthy, because by all accounts, nothing had left evidence of having entered it in the first place.

    The sheets unfolded like a trashy blossom, and a nose poked out from it. Then, a head.

    Finally, to achieve the goal of looking at it, a fuzzy black body pushed its way out of its birth-news.

    Looking down, the rat-person donned an expression like that of a dog whose owner just blamed them for a loud fart.

    Thoughts churned in their mind, as their expression danced with a variety of tells.

    Minor moments of horror, existentiality, practical, everyday fear, and the deep sadness that came with lacking underwear or anything else among the thousands of things they once owned, large and small.

    One by one, they gave way to a grapey sourness that puckered his face and put a smirk¡¯s antithesis on his face, lip curling down as he huffed.

    ¡°...Whatever, Smash of Mans was a shit game anyway.¡±

    ¨C

    ¡°He is a rat,¡± Zeus intoned, as still as his metal flesh should have been.

    Eris smirked. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, this is pretty horrible, but it¡¯s a little funny.¡±

    ¡°He. Is. A. Rat!¡± the deity bellowed.

    ¡°A Ratperson, pops. A bit better, considering he¡¯s still got the thumbs for a sword,¡± Ares noted, already considering ways to improve the killing potential of a rodent of usual size.

    ¡°Thumbs will not help a weasel, nor a hedgehog, nor any other minuscule mammal of a lowercase mortal withstand the eyes of the world!¡± the god of thunder exclaimed, hand in his face.

    ¡°Perhaps he can, if we take the time to see how. The ritual wouldn¡¯t have worked if he didn¡¯t have some way to deal with Fate watching him for funsies,¡± Eris stepped forward, putting a hand on the king-god¡¯s shoulder, firm enough to pull him from his growing panic.

    ¡°You gotta remember, Eldritch Souls are the world¡¯s tourist visa. If the world was going to be worse for him in it, he wouldn¡¯t have been let in like this,¡± she calmly reiterates.

    ¡°Besides, it¡¯s Earthrealm. That place craps out nuts like a squirrel. Let him get into trouble, deal with some baddies, and get a saint over there to talk him over when he¡¯s good to go,¡± the discordant goddess explained, step by step.

    Zeus sighed. ¡°Well, the prophetic portion of the Ritual stipulates that we only get to communicate with the would-be hero once, or risk severing the thread of fate that would lead him to glory.

    ¡°Shall we tell him of the saint to be sent? Or command him to train himself for glory?¡± Zeus finally asked, having slowly given up on his fanciful idea of a descending demigod of promethium and gold come to solve their problems.

    ¡°Well, if I may,¡± Eris trailed off, an idea already in mind.

    Ares, meanwhile, was still pondering the sight of the confused, former human. If he was not mistaken, Rats were surprisingly friendly, social creatures.

    They hadn¡¯t watched long enough to say, but there was potential there. Friendship, after all, was a brutal nightmare to deploy on the battlefield, as many traumatized loners could attest to.

    Surely, this ¡°Rhett¡± would make many friends indeed, and the next demon to call themselves ¡°King¡± would be murdered to death by a damned rat.

    That, Ares mused, would be worth any inconvenient quirks this otherworlder might have.

 Chapter 2: Rat-topia

    After swallowing down the sheer horror of being a rat (Which, he had to admit, was frighteningly easy), he had begun scrambling for something to ground him.

    Some kind of touchstone to tie together choking to death on a creamer cup, waking up as a rat in a strange, backrooms-like village of wooden walkways too massive for him to find an exit, and the unknown future where he wasn¡¯t freaking out and had his good old fashioned pyramid of needs.

    ¡°Hell yeah, Bed-blanket,¡± Rhett grinned gleefully, spotting a torn towel laying on the ground outside of a wooden trash bin.

    One upside of this weird place, whoever lived here didn¡¯t throw away anything remotely wet or perishable.  The place itself, despite being so medieval in construction, was practically bone dry, which kept the worst of the ickies from shivering up and down Rhett¡¯s spine.

    Grabbing the ripped towel, he examined it carefully.  It was dotted with hearts, and rimmed with plaid around the edges.  The tear itself was strange, beaded with an almost bony, plastic-like material that reminded him of cigarette burns on synthetic clothing.

    Despite this, he could somehow smell the wood on it, (oh, right, Rat) clearly marking it as a natural product.

    Footsteps startled him, and in a flash, he managed to hide under his new quintuple-king-sized bed, the towel shoved over him in a flurry of motion.

    Wood creaked, and step by step, he saw proof that this wasn¡¯t some kind of other dimension of infinite peasant-hovels lacking sapient life.

    ¡®Is that an Orc?¡¯ he mused, quietly pumping his fist with victory.  ¡®Awesome, Isekai-get,¡¯ he mentally exclaimed, watching the titanic-to-a-rat being walk by.

    The man was green enough to warrant the species, with twin tusks jutting out from the corners of his lips. A horseshoe-like jaw protruded out from underneath, and above, he could see an almost pale flush on the person¡¯s cheeks where the oversized teeth had kept some skin from tanning beneath it.

    In their hands, a flail-like lantern dangled from a heavy wooden baton, and their clothing, rather than being period-accurate, seemed to be a mix of black pants and a heavy canvas jacket, mounted with pieces of broken planks like armor.

    Additionally, Rhett proved himself unreliable in narration, when he realized the Orc was actually a woman, or something close to it, judging from their chest being a bit too large for even a caricature of pecs.

    ¡®At least I hope those aren¡¯t actually pecs.  Not sure how I like the idea of Orcs having watermelon-crushing chesticles,¡¯ the Rat mused, as the Orcess continued her plodding trip down the hall.

    At his scarousal, a golden light suddenly blossomed into sound in his mind.

    ¡°I SENSE YOUR FEAR, YOUNG ONE.  LET IT BEGONE.  WITH HARD WORK AND STRENGTH OF WILL, YOU CAN CONQUER YET MIGHTIER FOES, FOR YOU ARE HERE TO BE A HERO.¡±

    Rhett paused, having received the first indication of who or what or why he might have been shoved into a ratboy and that ratboy then having been shoved here in a mudcore arcology.

    He thought about the fading words, and thought more when no extra information came to him.  He thought even more when still, no additional information came to clear this longstanding and dramatic mystery of his origins up.

    Finally, he shrugged.

    ¡®Fuck that,¡¯ he admitted.

    There¡¯s a reason he never wrote Self-Insert fanfiction after all.

    He¡¯s way too hyper-intelligent for it to be interesting.

    ¨C

    It didn¡¯t take long for the deities to observe his reaction to their sole command and quest.  Zeus had long since gone to take a godly nap, exhausted from the day¡¯s tribulations, leaving Ares and his ¡®sister¡¯ (more of a cousin, really) to observe the results.

    ¡°He is¡­ Chewing the walls.¡± Ares noted.

    Sure enough, the mirror displayed him picking a massive wooden beam, and, after several moments of contemplating the structure, thrusting his hands out and announcing ¡°Activate Rat Skills!  Menu!  Status!¡±, and cursing several times, began to try and gnaw through the pillar.

    ¡°Well, I suppose we see why his soul chose that as its true form.  Honestly, thinking to it, the only way it could have been more obvious is if he had been eating cheese when he died,¡± Eris remarked casually.

    Ares stretched his shoulders, leaning back in the small throne he had dragged in to recline on.  ¡°A fine heroic trait.  He is clearly either creating a fortified dwelling, or sapping the foundations of the village.¡±

    He lifted a finger.  ¡°While the latter would require that our saint correct his morals a bit, a tendency towards grand defensive structures is perfectly heroic,¡± the god coped.

    Eris rolled her eyes, hoping the champion would at least be a bit more chaotic than that.

    ¡°Hopefully this one is temporary.  I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be trying to communicate with the locals soon enough.  He is surrounded by the friendliest, weakest people we could manage to find.  He shouldn¡¯t need a ¡®fortress¡¯ any time soon.¡±

    Ares smirked.  ¡°Ah, but look, is he not preparing bedding fit for a Mortal king?  Perhaps we should have told Athena of our plans.  The boy is clearly going the route of slow and steady conquest.¡±

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    Eris¡¯s face scrunched up with a foil-like crinkle.  ¡°He¡¯s napping, bozo.¡±

    Ares¡¯s smirk was undaunted.  ¡°Warriors do that.  That¡¯s not a non-warrior thing to do,¡± he coped again.

    ¨C

    ¡®Man, I¡¯d have killed for this back home.  This is so fucking awesome.  Cozymaxxing,¡¯ Rhett¡¯s brainrot thought for him as he folded the towel into a bed, pillows, and a blanket all in one.

    His mouth tasted like sawdust and paper, but that was worth it as he managed to get the hang of chewing holes in wood.

    At the very least, he had figured it out enough to burrow a tiny, cramped hole into the pillar of some sweet-smelling building¡¯s corner.  The speed, he realized, was actually not too shabby, considering it didn¡¯t take hours like he was worried it might.

    ¡°That time I got Isekaid with level 100 Gnawing (OP)¡± he muttered, dozing off with a stupid grin.

    As he slept, he dreamed, and as he dreamed, things got a bit odd¡­

    The murky black rainbow of aphantasic sleep slowly gave way to a vast meadow, and his dream of piloting extremely floaty mecha, he realized, was at the bottom of a pit that curved not unlike what one imagined a black hole did in diagrams.

    Looking up at the pinkish-green wall of turf that surrounded his murky dream, he knew somehow that something odd would happen, if he climbed it.

    He heard a faint voice from high above, echoing over his head.

    Anyone else would have been tempted, but he was a little busy trying to make his dream-mecha stop jumping dozens of meters in the air, drifting down like a balloon, to his growing frustration.

    As lucid as he was, he had more important lucid-dreaming goals than investigating weird plains of adjective-breaking foliage.

    Even more importantly than that, he was kind of offended that his subconscious, or worse, someone else¡¯s, was trying to allude to him touching grass.

    The night was spent to his satisfaction, when he figured out he could mime pushing down with his hand, to keep his robot firmly on the ground.

    The next morning, late, late in the afternoon, a sunbeam struck him, somehow managing to perfectly weave between the scaffolding of the village like a ninja who uses the light, probably to kill robots.

    Rhett hissed, thrashing around in his nest, stretching and groaning and generally waggling like a ball of tentacles filled with bones.

    Once he felt sufficiently boneless, however, he finally flopped down on his belly, glaring at the sunlight.

    ¡°Nyeh,¡± he scowled, batting a paw at the beam, and sleepily not thinking too hard about the way it curved down in tandem with the act.

    It was easier to not think about it, considering a few moments later, the beam crept back up, and into his eyes once more.

    The act of somehow bending the beam repeated several times, but his mind discarded the anomaly as something more horrific and particularly mind-breaking struck his mind.

    Sunlight, somehow, was even more insidious in this world.

    ¡°Oh what the hell,¡± he moaned in agony, as he studied the phenomena.  His entire cubby was fully lit, as if someone turned on the lights, even though only a thin beam had actually entered it.

    The sunlight, he realized, was less like light at all, and more like an evil laser, scintillating in all directions wherever it dared to strike.

    Slowly coming to his senses, Rhett experimented with the thin ray.

    Blocking it with a palm, less ethereal light bloomed to the sides, splashing out in bright, pastel waves, and while this was sufficient to prevent its unwanted incursion, provided he blocked enough of it, it was far from the humble directionality of the humble photon.

    He thought for a moment and gave a small ¡®huh¡¯ when he considered what that meant.  The sunlight in this world was more a source of radiation, rather than a mere radiation itself.

    In practice, it seemed to mean anywhere the sun¡¯s rays could reach was as visible as daylight, letting it peek around corners indoors that it never could have on Earth.

    Rhett absolutely hated it.

    His stomach was rumbling, yes, but this was a far greater evil.

    He liked his dominion lit only by a controllable, dimmable lightbulb and a deafeningly bright monitor, not this snake-like hot gas ball that thought it could defy his desire for darkness.

    ¡°Sunglasses,¡± he muttered as darkly as his thoughts.  This world was clearly evil, and he needed armor against its arrows and swords.

    Scratching himself in all the places that existed outside of polite company, the little ratman poked his head out of his hole, whining in agony as he tried to squint through the bright lines darting through the structure, allowing natural, un-artificial ambience to brighten it during the day.

    Eventually, he was forced to salvage a corner from his towel-nest. Dragging the whole thing out, he bundled up in the corner, using it to provide a shaded tunnel of white and pink to blot out most of the sun.

    ¡°We hates it,¡± he hissed in a funny tone, lips twitching up in good humor as he started to get awake properly.

    Looking around, he saw things he hadn¡¯t noticed in the night, signs, directions, dangling products and produce, hung from ropes to dry in the various sunbeams.

    More, he saw people, a noisy static of all colors, mostly Orc green, peppered with dots of dark-skinned Elf (¡®Hello!¡¯ Rhett thought involuntarily) and¡­

    ¡°Oh my god,¡± he questioned, grimacing at the sight of one of the dark-skinned elves, practically melted into the surface of a horse that walked by, its muzzle poking out of her chest.

    Likewise, her legs seamlessly melted into its own neck and torso, half-seated on it as if a chair were also melded into its form.

    It looked like someone had described a centaur, but only had a whole person and horse to work with, simply overlapping the two together, and to hell with the clipping.

    Despite the body horror, neither Elf nor horse seemed at all concerned, the pair clip-clopping down the wooden street, mostly keeping to a small tiled strip on the far side of the walkway, where thin, textured stones seemed almost glued into the wood, sunken in in a way he wasn¡¯t quite sure of.

    ¡°Okay, upside, elves, double-upside, dark elves and some of them have bazonkas, downside, dark elves and some of them are Cronenberg Centaurs.  We¡¯re still in the black here,¡± he muttered.

    Shaking his head, he looked around, trying to see any obvious routes to his goal of snuffing out the sun, or at least doing so in a very small area around his eyes.

    Finally, his gaze landed on one option.  A small sign nailed to the wall haphazardly, with paint on the front declaring ¡®Lensmaster Joe¡¯s; Light bent for a light price.  Light broken for a bit extra.¡¯

    Whatever that meant, lenses could probably be darkened somehow, if he got some.

    Very slowly, Rhett struggled and squinted his way out of the safety of Fort-Towelhole, slipping into what seemed to be a wooden, metal-grate-covered gutter.

    Path secured, sign read, and goal in mind, he practiced his scurrying, drunkenly stumbling his way to the Lensmaster¡¯s Domain¡­

    ¨C

 Chapter 3: Lensmaster Joes

    A grey-green Orc sat on his chair, rocking idly by as he took a piece of broken window in his hand, and a piece of leather in the other.

    His puce robes, too heavy to waft, dragged on the white-dusted floor as he began slowly chipping away at the glass, pinching it between a thick thumbnail and the leather patch gripping it tightly.

    A faint crick marked another shard slipping free of the broken glass, and with it, another dimpled facet to his latest creation.

    He gave a glance to his family photo, where younger Orcs grinned mightily around him, holding up a sizable fish, stabbed through with long splinters of rock and wood, their edges gleaming with the faintest hint of cut-air plasma.

    While he did wish some of them had taken to the subtler trades, he was still proud of how far they had come, in pursuing their heritage. It was another facet of their kind. Like knapped glass, everyone who looked at it saw the sun in a different face.

    Jaw broke bones. They became stronger.r

    Jem broke stone. It became sharper.

    Juc broke wood. It became smoother.

    Joe honestly wasn¡¯t too torn up about it. He splintered another feather of glass from the piece in his hand, and slowly, a lens began to take shape, polygonal and cratered like an arrowhead.

    No matter what an Orc broke, it was still made better for it. If his sons wished to break away, then it was all the sweeter.

    For him, however, he enjoyed the subtlety. The way a good lens could make the world more beautiful.

    Kaleidoscopes that showed chaos and order. Telescopes that showed far off things. Glasses that returned sight to the sightless.

    Every lens was rose-tinted for Joe.

    ¡®¡­Except that one. That one seems to be mouse-tinted,¡¯ he squints, looking at the smoked glass that hopped up from his lowest set of shelves with the help of a paw quartet.

    It was one of his black lenses, the sort he had made for telescopes meant to stare at the sun, or be put into something for welding.

    More than a little pricey, the quartz and soot dye were not common to come by around these parts, and, so it seemed, the rodent who was slowly sneaking it away had some inkling of its worth, or they wouldn¡¯t be taking it.

    Thankfully, his line of sight had been broken, or he might not have noticed. Everyone thinks Orcs don¡¯t notice people sneaking by, but a few learn their lesson, after a proper ambush or two.

    ¡°Hello there. Are you stealing from me, young one?¡± he asked curiously, breaking the silence.

    ¨C

    ¡®Oh crap, kindly old Orc? Those are three words I do not like hearing together,¡¯ Rhett thought in a panic.

    He knew full well that any old dude could secretly be a badass, in a world with orcs and elves, and thinking, talking rats. He also knew that when a guy acted nice right after you pissed them off, that was a good sign to get the hell out of there.

    An old dude who acted kindly right after spotting a rat making off with his store products?..

    A more willful person might have ran, but despite it all, the old guy¡¯s tone made him feel obliged to answer.

    ¡°No..?¡± he attempted.

    The Orc smiled quietly. ¡°A shame. It would have helped break up the monotony. My name is Joe. What¡¯s yours?¡± he requested, rocking idly on his chair.

    ¡°Uh, Rhett. Rhett¡­ Fency?¡±

    The Orc seemed to come to some kind of conclusion, a sad shake of his head slipping out as he looked Rhett up and down, and seemed to not like what he saw.

    ¡°Come here,¡± he asked.

    Slowly, Rhett approached, pilfered lens held over his head like a dinnerplate, while the Orc fished around in his pockets.

    ¡°Listen, I¡¯m sorry about the lens, I¡¯m just in a bit of a haze right now, and-¡±

    The Orc shook his head, silencing further excuses, as he pulled out coins, setting them in front of the Ratboy.

    ¡°This is a copper coin. Some people call them bronze too, and they sometimes have different looks, depending where they came from,¡± he explained slowly.

    Despite the vague sense of being patronized, Rhett looked at the huge coin, noting a large, melting shield embossed on its surface, flames flickering around it in a ring.

    ¡®Jeeze, do I want to know what country minted these?¡¯ he wondered, as the Orc continued.

    ¡°You can spend these to buy trinkets and snacks. A few coins is enough for a small, simple meal, or a goodly bag of raw foodstuffs. A loaf of fresh baked sawbread, here, can be bought for a single copper coin, and so could a sheaf of paper, or a satchel of tacks," he listed off.

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    ¡°These are spent for things often given for free. Things that do not require labor, or that do not consume a finite thing, or if they do both, they are something considered a public good,¡± he continued, before setting another coin on the table, this one silver, and marked with a large log on both faces, one with a mushroom growing out of it, and a sword planted through both of them, like a strange shish-kabob.

    ¡°This is a silver coin. A hundred copper coins is worth a single silver one. A few of these can buy you a blanket, or rope, and perhaps fifty of them could buy you a good woodcutting axe. You spend these on Sundries, do you understand?¡±

    Rhett nodded. The urge to complain was there, he knew what money was, and this felt more than a little patronizing, but what he had heard so far confused him enough to hold back. How in the name of Wall-street was an axe worth almost half a year of cooked meals?

    Finally, the Orc set a gold coin on the table. ¡°Do not try to spend one of these on food, little one. People will get very upset with you if you expect them to take it,¡± he begins.

    ¡°This is a gold coin. There is one greater than this, Platinum, but it is not of any concern to you, as things stand. One hundred silver is equal to one gold coin, and a thousand gold, for one platinum coin," he finished, concluding the exchanges.

    "Those who sell vital things, and luxurious things will ask for these. A sword, or some fanciful magic. A bed would be three-hundred coins, thereabouts,¡± he explains.

    At this point, Rhett¡¯s plan to get sunglasses had been thoroughly waylaid by what he heard.

    He wasn¡¯t one of those people who obsessed over medieval trivia and nitpicked at fantastical settings¡¯ economies, but it sounded like that Orc just said a bed was worth millions of those bread loaves he was talking about.

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± he answered, plopping down, now fully distracted by the topic. ¡°You could live for the rest of your life on one sold bed, it sounds like? How does that work at all?¡±

    The Orc chuckled. ¡°Live on what, sawbread? Would you ask a baker for a mountain of it, and throw some coins at his feet like some kind of king?¡± the Orc asked jokingly. ¡°They say it¡¯s harder to turn gold into lead, than it is lead into gold, my boy,¡± he remarked.

    "While one can be exchanged for another, in small quantities, it is best to treat each coin as its own kind of money. Copper for the trivial, silver for the commonplace, gold for the luxurious, and platinum for yet greater things, like land, and titles."

    At Rhett¡¯s continued incomprehension, his smile dropped a bit.

    ¡°I understand you might have come from¡­ Trouble, Mr. Fancy,¡± he said, the name uncomfortable in his mouth. ¡°So I simply wished you to understand a few useful things for your stay here in Sunnymeat. I can see nobody has thought to teach you these things. It is not so difficult, once you''ve had a bit of time to work with it all...¡± he said gently.

    He tried to rephrase, and rework his words, seeing Rhett''s continued confusion.

    "Unless someone ventures to the dungeon, it is likely you shall only need to worry about silver and copper. Think of them like... The difference between big and little things.

    "Something like a fresh, clear window would be cheap, for they are easy to come by, but if I were to shatter it into little pieces for you, it would be worth much more, Does that make sense?" he attempted.

    Rhett nodded. This Orc was beaming crazy rays at him with his mouth. That was the only conclusion he could come to.

    ¡°Okay, first off, Sunnymeat?¡± he blinked several times.

    ¡°The name of this village, young man. The Beach Elves here love the stuff. Perhaps a bit too much," he remarked, gesturing to the clothesline of raw meat hanging outside in the sun, just outside of the shop''s window.

    ¡®Okay, Beach-Elf is an Elf-variant too far,¡¯ Rhett put his foot down. This was getting weird, and he had the sneaking suspicion the Orc was going to keep turning his questions into brain-melting answers until he shut up about it.

    ¡°Thanks. I¡¯ll just¡­ I¡¯ll be going now? If that¡¯s alright?¡± he said, backing away from the old man after setting down his attempted plunder.

    ¡°Hold on,¡± the Orc barked, freezing the dark rodent in place.

    With a hand like sandpaper, the Orc rasped at his table, scooping a quartet of disks towards him.

    ¡°Here. I hope you find freedom to your liking,¡± Joe concluded, pushing the coins, and the little lens, into Rhett¡¯s arms.

    ¡°...Thank you? Goodbye?¡± he said, fleeing the growing pile of weirdness in front of him.

    He shrieked as he fell backwards off the table, only to let out an embarrassed noise at the previous one¡¯s excessiveness a second later, skittering all the quicker to a hole in the corner of the lens-shop.

    Joe blinked, then shook his head. ¡°I think I broke the young man¡­ Well, all the better,¡± he chortled, returning to the glass in front of him.

    ¨C

    ¡°How the hell am I supposed to spend money? I¡¯m a rat,¡± he muttered, shoving the black lens on his head like a temporary hat, as he waddled home on two legs, an armful of coins forcing him upright.

    With a bwoof of exertion, the Ratboy threw the coins into his Towelhole, before throwing himself in after them.

    With a mark of finality, he looked at the smoked glass lens in front of him, finally taking the time to marvel at it, and at the way it almost seemed to glow in his hands.

    Weird, faceted design aside, it was an incredible little piece of art.

    Peeking at the annoying sunbeam, laser-guided to still be aimed in his abode, he slowly coiled a length of towel in front of it, and nestled the lens atop it.

    With a gasp, Rhett stared in awe as an ink-colored light refracted out of it, dipping his little room in pitch, as black seemed to bounce off the walls instead of cheery sunshine yellow.

    He slowly pushed his arm out, sticking it into the path of the beam, and blinked several times at the cool sensation on his freaky little hand.

    As a former fat guy, Rhett knew full well that heat was bad, and as a now and forever gamer, he knew that sunlight was also evil and despicable.

    Needless to say, then, he derived endless entertainment from the way it seemed to both cool and dim the room, more than measly blackout curtains could.

    The way its unlight seemed to bounce around, ¡®lighting¡¯ the room in its own kind of stark definition was also more than a bit of a trip, like a photographic negative.

    If this were treated with the seriousness it deserved, there was no limit to the possibilities, this was an entirely new science, a new magic, and someone who saw it as more than something in the same category as a lava lamp in terms of its function could leverage it to incredible ends.

    A lens that turned hot into cold? Light into dark? All it would take is a few clever ideas, and an item like that would suddenly become a weapon, a shield, or something even stranger, something more exotic¡­

    As if the gods themselves were watching with baited breath, the darkness held still, and the Black Lens stood imperiously. Rhett approached its cottony dais¡­

    ¡­And plopping his head under it, using it as an improvised sleep mask to catch up on the rest of his nap.

    ¡°Hell yeah, Unwindow.¡±

 Chapter 4: Sawbread

    Joe shook his head as the little Ratboy left, sighing deeply.  He knew the little fellow was far too spooked to be convinced to stay much longer, and yet it made his bones ache nonetheless to see him go.

    ¡°Fency Rhett¡±

    What an awful name to convince an animal person of.  To be labeled like a breed of pet¡­

    There was a reason slavers were killed quite brutally by any Paladin or Knight who happened upon them, after all.  Both the law of the land and the opinion of the gods were that subjugators were not to be suffered.

    ¡®There are many mysteries in this world, but evil isn¡¯t one of them,¡¯ he thought to himself.  To deny someone their own free will, when they didn¡¯t intend to do the same to another¡­

    He shook off the ill thought.  What was important was that Sunnymeat was a safe place.  There wasn¡¯t any nastiness like that here, he knew.  Mayor Dry made sure of that.

    Instead, Joe¡¯s main worry came to the boy¡¯s origins.  Freedom given, and shocked by strange culture, the former slave would surely get into quite a bit of trouble around town.

    His small size, and unusually animalistic appearance would make it difficult for him to stay out of said trouble.

    He hoped the Ratboy didn¡¯t try to follow through on his threat to overbuy in spite of the old Orc¡¯s warning.  Nothing infuriated a baker quite like the sight of a gold coin during the lunch rush.

    ¡°Well, on the bright side, I¡¯m sure those coins will at least get him some decent clothes,¡± the Orc mused.

    ¨C

    ¡°Hell yeah, Jerry-mode activated,¡± Rhett whispered, cracking his neck as he scurried over to the smell of something baked, using the windy, dust-choked gutters to travel safely underneath the feet of the larger people above.

    The clattering of metal grates under leather boots and hooves rattled loudly, covering his transit well enough, despite the need for him to slow down and cover his ears at times when the volume got a bit too much, for how close he was to it.

    Slowly, over the course of the next day, hunger had driven him to figure out where the hell he actually was, and bit by bit, he managed to figure out a few nibblets of lore about the local SCP ripoff.

    Firstly, the place did actually have boundaries.  Despite his worries, and his status as a Rodent of Usual Size making it difficult, he figured out by reaching the edges of Sunnymeat that the place was maybe a few blocks wide, end to end.

    Secondly, the place did NOT have a ¡°method to its madness¡±.  He knew this because part of the process of finding the exit to this madhouse involved spotting part of it being expanded.

    Plans?  Architecture?  Road Work Ahead (He sure hoped it does?)

    None of that was present in the village¡¯s expansion.  Instead, several Orcs were using a large mallet to quite literally hammer logs into the superstructure of the hive-village, and let come what may with the huts that crumbled down and fell like tetrominoes in the process.

    The ones that fell, it seemed, were simply reinforced with more rope and logs, and called good.  Even the inhabitants didn¡¯t seem too torn up about it, boasting something he couldn¡¯t make out, as they smacked their palms into the stronger structure left behind.

    At the very bottom several meters down at the base of the village, Rhett could see a foundation of something stranger.   Pitch-black, marbled logs that looked more like steel than wood, practically splinters now, but with more than a few heavy, massive logs jutting out like conveniently accidental palisades.

    He wondered why they didn¡¯t just use that for the houses, considering a thin branch poking out was apparently strong enough that someone had built an entire hut supported on its end, the thin branch not bending at all, despite the hundreds of pounds of wood and straw balanced precariously atop it.

    The walkways were similarly maddening, the rule of thumb being that if your house was in someone¡¯s way, and they really did not like it, your house would include a new doorway through it in short order.

    That is to say, he actually watched someone dragging a small wheelbarrow behind them, who, upon seeing a large detour in their usual route, finally decided to simply pull out a hammer, and begin plowing through someone¡¯s bathroom, prying off planks in the process until a new path was made.

    Privacy was a war between people barging into your house and installing empty doorways for you, and you piling more planks to add a few more doors to the rest of the house.

    The final, most dumbfounding part was the actual bakery he located, nestled in one of the village¡¯s main arteries, rope ladders and stairs spiraling out from it like the strands of a vast spider¡¯s web.

    There was an eternal question, that all chefs longed to answer.  ¡°How much sawdust could you put in a Rice Crispy Treat before someone noticed?¡±

    He had no clue, but apparently, 100% was the answer this town would likely conclude.

    Shaped like cartoonish logs, complete with colored circles and ¡®bark¡¯, with dark bark-like crusts and billowing clouds of steam pouring out of ¡®branches¡¯ shaped onto them, loaves of the bread were served out by an Orc to several of the darkly tanned ¡®Beach Elves¡¯, each one taking it with at least some measure of a smile.

    How did he know that anything at all was off here?  Well, Rhett had eyes, you see, and noticed the lumbermill attached to the bakery, and the helpers shoveling the sawdust into a large mound of dough.

    No wheat could be seen anywhere, and the only nod to edibility was, frighteningly enough, something like a cross between a Pineapple and a Coconut, that itself had been crossed with a car battery¡¯s contents.

    He watched as an Elf cracked one of the spiky fruits in two, letting the hissing, vibrant yellow liquid pour into the vat, visibly melting the contents with sparks and a few outright fires that were put out with a rag kept in a water bucket near the vat, seemingly for exactly that purpose.

    It was enough of a mainstay that one of the children working there had the sole job of mopping up any spills from that process, using a hot metal paddle to evaporate puddles he saw, before sliding it back into the bread-oven to heat.

    Sawdust and acidfruit went in, brownish-black bread-dough came out.

    Unfortunately for Rhett¡¯s desire to not eat the suspicious food, people did seem to be consuming it.  Many with a grimace at the hard slices and craggly chunks that they could break off, others, with more relish, literally in some cases, as butter and some kind of green paste were popular things to smear on top of it.

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    He cracked his neck once again.  Utilizing the rare and highly dangerous Jerry-mode (running really fast through the streets with a leather glove he found over his head) had gotten him this far.  Now, it was time to put it to its ultimate test.

    Peeking through the hole in his disguise, he fumbled for his copper coin, before barreling towards the stand, popping out of a grate in a flurry of motion

    Scrambling up and partially over the edge, he slapped the coin down and yelled, ¡°One food please!¡± with an exhausted puff.

    The baker, too busy to notice the lack of a body underneath the table, grunted and shoved over a loaf, the wooden log skidding like glass on a bartop.

    Rhett struggled to grab it, as it knocked him clean off and left him and it bouncing over the wooden flooring.

    He let out a faint squeak of manliness instead of terror, when he heard one of the elves go ¡°Huh?¡± and look over.

    Holding absolutely still, he waited until he could feel the unmistakable aura of someone shrugging and no longer caring, before daring to shift under his loafen exterior.

    Shooting up, he chortled with menace, lifting up the loaf and running for the gutters before anyone could notice.

    ¨C

    ¡°We got Animalpeople here now?¡± Jok asked, kneading the gluey dough with brutal punches.

    Nyd shrugged, hucking a lump of dough into a log-shaped mold.

    ¡°Guess we got one now.  Least till the Mayor makes nudity illegal,¡± he shrugged.

    ¡°Nah, he don¡¯t got the balls.¡±

    ¨C

    Rhett groaned, throwing his head back.  ¡°So fuggin cromchy,¡± he proclaimed.

    The bread was more like a gigantic (even for normal people) cracker, than anything leavened.  Mostly aerated by the reaction of sawdust and that acidic juice, the whole thing was a menace for biting through.

    -That is, unless someone were blessed with the teeth of a bigass rat, which permitted that someone to crunch straight through the thick crust of the loaf.

    Additionally, to make up for the fact that sawdust, anomalously edible or not, tasted like nothing, the loaf was suffused with extremely large shards of salt, and grains of what felt almost like little bits of sugar, intensely-sour-sweet in flavor.

    ¡®I guess that¡¯s the fruit juice?¡¯ he mused, prying off another crumb with his huge teeth.

    His feasting was not without purpose.  As it turned out, his hidey-hole was too small to fit the entire loaf into, and that meant he had no choice but to adapt, deliciously carving it down to size, so he could stow the leftovers.

    Like everything else in town, the loaf was incredibly dry, so he felt comfortable in saying it probably wouldn¡¯t mold too quickly for him to eat it all, if he was careful with it.

    He pried off one more big chunk, before stuffing it into the Towelhole, the act making him feel suspiciously like a squirrel, as he covered it up with his stolen leather glove.

    Climbing inside after his ill-gotten gains, he let out a sigh of relief, pulling up the lens, more of a mask at his size, up and onto the top of his head, his ears flopping to either side of the dinnerplate.

    Leather strips were good enough to make something of it, and in a wonderful twist, his sensitivity to light was so much better with the probably-magic item protecting him.

    Through the lens, everything had a strange look to it, like if an AI had been ordered to make a photo look like the inside of someone¡¯s eyelids, purples and static dancing over everything.

    It looked cool enough to easily make up for losing roughly 10% of the internet content he used to mainline like a drug.

    Despite this, he did have some minor worries.  He still needed water, for one, and stealing some from the puddles around the local well was not an ideal solution.

    Not least of which because it had people there who were actually paying attention to their surroundings, a pair of guards making sure everyone saw the signs declaring ¡°No experimental liquids¡± before they approached the source of life-giving water.

    Worse, he had the sneaking suspicion that pretending to be a hand wouldn¡¯t help him as much with spending the silver and gold coin still stowed in the patent-pending Towelventory.

    This was something that kind of sucked, considering he actually saw cool magic stuff for sale at one of the huts, not least of which was apparently a student¡¯s spellbook, barely used.

    He tried not to think about the fact that most of the magic items he had seen were being sold out of what  seemed almost exactly like garage sales back home¡­

    Laying back, Rhett thought about the whirlwind of days he had been through recently.  If he had magic, could he do incredible things, be like one of the heroes from the stories he liked to read and leave bad reviews of?..

    ¡°...Eh¡± he waffled.  That sounded really exhausting.  Plus, then he¡¯d end up stumbling on an OP cheat skill, blowing up planets, one-shotting dark deities, amassing a bickering harem...

    He might have been lazy, but he was no hypocrite.  ¡°Yeah, screw that, we¡¯re doing Rat Sims.  Just make my special power a sandwich icon that pops up over my head when I want a sandwich,¡± he smirks.

    Chewing on another piece of Sawbread, he hummed, kicking his leg idly as he reclined further.

    ¡°...I want a sandwich,¡± he realized, iconless.

    ¨C

    The next day, he had a plan.  This town did have one restaurant, and it delivered, and he had a blank bit of newspaper, and a dry marker salvaged from the nearby rubbish bins.

    There was a solution here.  He might have only had a silver coin, but there was the trick.

    On the paper, he scrawled his demand.

    ¡°Make me your mightiest sandwich!  Deliver it to this exact location and leave it on the floor,¡± the note read, with a little map he had drew on it as well.

    He might not have been able to sneak in long enough to look at the menu, but he had ordered dumber takeout in the past, and he doubted they¡¯d complain if he let them keep the change, surely?

    Wrapping his silver coin in the note, he scurried over to the Beach-elf run delicatessen,

    ¡°Shop of He-Who-Weaves-Sandwiches-As-The-Finest-Silk.¡±

    Apparently, Elves had problems with naming their kids.

    He waited, until one of those weird Cronenberg Centaurs exited the store, bell dinging merrily as he left alongside his shorter daughter.

    He snuck past, ignoring the shouts of ¡°Father!  Rodentia!¡± and the whinnying of the man¡¯s torso-horse, scurrying over to the counter.

    Through the misuse of the non-stepping stools that were arranged around it, he clambered up onto the counter, depositing his note before dropping down with a thump.

    Sneaking to the exit again, he ignored the additional teenaged shouts of ¡°Hewho?!  Got an order here!¡±

    Unfortunately, the door lacked another rube for him to sneak past, forcing him to hide near the doorway as a girl leaned over the counter, looking around and failing to spot him.

    ¡°...Guess he already went out,¡± the girl remarked, unfolding the paper and reading the note.

    ¡°Friggen Knights,¡± she grumbled. ¡°Ooouugh, I¡¯m going into battle¡­ Aauuhg, make me your mightiest sandwich¡­¡± she mockingly moaned.

    Despite this, she seemed genuinely confused by the weird order, much to Rhett¡¯s consternation.

    ¡°Guess we¡¯re using real bread for this one,¡± she muttered, taking the silver and shoving it into a small chest, before disappearing into the back.

    Rhett¡¯s eyes widened, when he realized something odd about the entryway.  It wasn¡¯t pitch black, but pitch-black leather, instead.  An unbroken wall of the stuff, nailed tight over the doorway.  The woman had walked through it with nothing but a ripple to show that she had.

    The dead flesh continued to ripple for a moment, like a disturbed pool, before stilling and returning to normal.

    ¡°Jeeze,¡± he blinked, slightly amazed at the strange power.

    The bell above him dinged, and he jerked, scrambling out before anyone could notice him.

 Chapter 5: He-Who-Weaves-Sandwiches-As-The-Finest-Silk

    ¡°And you say this just showed up,¡± Hewho asked, examining the paper.

    His trusty Dride- his ¡®Centaur¡¯, Songie, stood patiently, slowly chewing on a bird-nugget as their master looked over things.

    ¡°Yeah, like, in a spooky way.  I come in, boom, dumb order,¡± The Elf known as ¡®Flowing-to-the-sea-to-grasp-tasty-salts¡¯ explained, leaning back on her wooden stool.

    ¡°Ah.  I think I might know who this is.  Probably that newcomer Joe was talking about,¡± he remarked, noting the overly tiny lettering, thick stuttered marker lines, and the fact that this was written on yesterday¡¯s newspaper.

    ¡°That kid who doesn¡¯t know shit about fuck?¡± Flowing asked.

    ¡°Language,¡± he rumbled in lieu of an answer.  ¡°But yes¡­ Mm.¡±

    He leaned down, gently prodding Songie, who mimicked their master and lowered.

    ¡°Daughter, would you like to make a delivery for me?¡± he asked gently, looking to his nameless daughter.  The little Elf at his side perked up.

    ¡°It would be my highest honor, patriarch, a coronation of my noble oblige, and-¡± she mmphd at her father placing a finger over her lips, getting a pout and a failed bite for his trouble, the little girl chomping at the digit with a loud clack.

    ¡°Alright then, I¡¯ll let you deliver this very important meal,¡± he smiles, stepping past her into the back of the shop.

    The leather parts like a sea, washing aside to let him through without the disturbing sensation of liquid.  A trick Flowing hadn¡¯t quite managed yet, much to her chagrin.

    Here, several dehydrators kept the room from becoming too musty, despite the sunken bone tables of ingredients.

    Fresh meats of all kinds called this sealed den home, and it took a special license to sell it, due to the risk of parasites, if it wasn¡¯t treated seriously and with care.

    Venison, wild bird, hog, each passed by as Hewho considered the prompt his store had been given.  A ¡®mighty¡¯ sandwich, likely requested by one who didn¡¯t even know the value of silver.

    While he didn¡¯t think Joe¡¯s catastrophizing was quite on point, that was no reason not to give them what they paid for.

    He rummaged around, until he found what he was looking for on the high shelf, a clean bolt of silk, a holdover from the caves.

    Songie nickered softly at the scent, but was trained too well to panic.

    Stretching it tight over a frame, Hewho began taking choice bits of pork and fish, laying it on the silk and beginning to press.

    As he did, beads of pale, opaque liquid began to drip down, beads of solid meat and fat curled in the bowl below, as he called on the Fleshseep deep within his appendix.

    Like a sponge filled with water, the meats packed down, filtering through the fine silk until all that was left was a foul smelling substance, and a single wriggling creature, not unlike a minnow in structure.

    With a grimace, the Centaur bundled up the silk and dropped it in a pot of boiling water nearby, to kill and sterilize the filter.  He would need to warn the hunters that drowfish season was nearing.

    Nobody wanted to have to fish those out of someone¡¯s guts, after all.

    His own hands promptly went to another bowl, filled with scalding alcohol.  Long years of practice let him sterilize his hands sufficiently, before he returned to the bowl, and with another pulse of power, melted its contents into a sort of doughy soup.

    One by one, he measured out little balls of the mixed-meats, twelve in total.  Each one a bright pink, the colors of pork and salmon, blended together.

    Next, of course, he summoned a stronger pulse, and began what truly made this dish special.

    One of the orbs rippled, not like a bead of water, but like a lake.

    He took one, and dropped it in the other, letting it sink like a stone into the depths of the lake.

    What remained was no larger than before, but thicker, multifaceted in nature.

    Again, he repeated the process with each, sinking each little meatball into the lake his power was producing, until finally, only one remained.  Cutting this in a deli slicer, he felt he had achieved the request adequately.

    What came next was the bread.  Simple whole wheat, sawdust free.  A rare import, and a bit of a delicacy around these parts.  Horse cheese and woodbeer sauce covered those, and with that, he closed the resulting sandwich, small, but no less mighty for it.

    One final process, however, was required.  Drow cuisine was delicious, but its shelf-life could be measured in hours, normally.

    Much like sushi, it relied on the cleanliness of its ingredients, rather than the destructive stability of cooking methods.

    The solution was a box in the corner of the room, covered with frightening enough warnings to be a danger on its own to those with heart conditions.

    Taking the sandwich and sealing it in wax paper, he lowered it carefully into the box and sealed it, before turning a small dial that wouldn¡¯t move until the box was utterly closed.

    A small piece of promethium inside the box was exposed, and a low humming began to emerge as the sandwich was sterilized with heavy, conjured radiation.

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    With that done, he used a pair of tongs to lift out his creation.

    ¡°Order up, double dirty on whole wheat with big sauce and cheese,¡± he announced, mostly out of habit.

    His daughter scrambled in with a splash of leather, snatching it out of his hands and running out.

    ¡°Don¡¯t run!¡± he called after her, shaking his head.

    Hooves scuffed the floor and he put a hand on the horse¡¯s neck, patting it.  ¡°I hear you Songie.¡±

    ¨C

    Rhett managed to make it home, despite it all, and watched with the utmost caution and care at the dropoff point.

    He had laid the groundwork, and now, the time had come to engage in the stakeout of the century¡­

    ¡°Man, this is boring,¡± he muttered, belly-down on an arrangement of towel-matter with his head in his hands, waiting for his delivery.

    ¡°Booooring¡­¡± he muttered again, rolling around and stretching for several minutes, making ungodly noises in the process as various bones popped in a cacophony of comfiness.

    Now upside down, he continued staring at the delivery point, which he had made a point of marking with a large dry-erase-markered X.

    Even in this magical world, he was sure the natives understood something as simple as operational security and plausible deniability for supplying the underground rat society with crucial supplies for the rebellion.

    With that thought drifting away with a yawn, Rhett accidentally did a really long blink.  A long blink that was not a nap in any way.

    ¡°KNOCK KNOCK!¡± the voice of god boomed, sending him slamming into the ceiling, gravimetric systems undergoing a critical error, errorcode: ¡°He jumped¡±.

    ¡°Gah!¡± Rhett yelled in terror, as the giant face occluded his domain, a little Elf smiling in like the devil herself.

    ¡°Comestibles to be relinquished to Homo Rodentia!¡± she boomed.

    He dove into Fort-Sawbread, kicking crumbs at the little girl as he dug into the loaf and hid behind his glove.

    ¡®Children are stupid, she¡¯ll mistake me for an imaginary friend shortly,¡¯ he thought.

    ¡°Sanguinary words from a naturalist lacking in the competence to garb oneself,¡± she replied.

    ¡®I said that out loud didn¡¯t I,¡¯ he thought again.

    A surge of demonic power began shoving something large and waxy into his doorway at this, prompting him to panic.  ¡°Okay! I give!  Stop!¡± he cried, causing the wall of waxpaper to halt.

    ¡°The brute yields?¡± a voice from outside calls, as he shoves the soft package out, glaring through the slit created in the process.

    ¡°Yes, now pretend I¡¯m not here and go, or- I¡¯ll call the horde!¡± he replied.  Kids liked it when you threatened them, right?

    The Elfin child giggled.  ¡°Fool, you are known far and wide!  You pursue sequestration in a hamlet knit by familial bonds?  Whose populus is enfolded in the sureness of proximity?  What nonsense!¡± the child exclaimed, chortling loudly.

    Rhett paused.  Why the heck would news of one rat spread that fast?

    ¡°Okay Th-elf-saurus, are you saying every godda- goshdarn person here already knows about me?¡± he clarifies.

    ¡°A newcomer?  In Sunnymeat? Such news is Brobdingnagian in its bloviation by the elderly,¡± she mocks.

    ¡°Stop making up words,¡± he orders, much to the child¡¯s amusement.  He thinks this over carefully.  It stands to reason, by the fact that he hasn¡¯t seen any mousetraps, that a rat, talking or otherwise, is both newsworthy, and not panicworthy¡­

    Unless¡­

    ¡°Is this sandwich filled with rat poison?¡± he asks.

    ¡°Nay, no pestilential pests were butchered into this nor any other of my father¡¯s creations,¡± she answers.  "Such organisms are not autochthonal."

    She chortled at him.   Outright chortled, with a downward palm framing her chin dramatically as she did, in a pose of superiority.

    ¡°Ridiculous, regardless.  Who would want to dine on poison?¡± the child scoffs.  ¡°My epistemophilia sated, I bid you day,¡± she concludes, turning and skipping away.

    ¡°...Weirdo,¡± the naked rat man says, dragging his hundred-dollar-ish sandwich back into the chewed-up hole in the wall.

    He needed to think this over, but first¡­

    ¡°Hell yeah, fantasy-sandwich.  Fantisandwich,¡± echoed from the shadowy pit, like the haunting laughter of a cthonian deity.

    ¨C

    ¡°The hero is spending all of their money on food,¡± Zeus remarked, leaning back on his proper throne, court having ended, and his two cohorts in the secret plan having remained behind.

    ¡°Eh, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s just bulking, Pops.  No clue why he wants to become a Corporeal, but it¡¯s a worthy route for any true warrior to take,¡± Ares chimed in, leaning against a golden pillar.

    ¡°A Corporeal trains their body, my son.  He has done little but patter around and nap for days since his arrival,¡± Zeus countered.  ¡°Shall our hero become a sphere?  A rotund cannonball to be fired at the demon king?¡± he asked rhetorically.

    ¡°Patience, father.  It¡¯s been only a few days.  No otherworlder has ever done anything interesting in the first week, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s itching to engage in some proper battle.  Earthrealm¡¯s wilds are rich with monsters and beasts, and that area in particular is no different,¡± he soothes.

    The pair stared at one another, platinum robes billowing in the silent ozone winds of the Olympian throne room.  The holy, divine silence grew a holy, divine bit awkward.

    ¡°Eh, I gotta agree with the big man.  This kinda sucks.  We can¡¯t even see in his pothole, so even if he was doing closed-door cultivation or something, how would we know?

    ¡°Speaking of which, did you figure out why one measly rat-person is somehow hiding from¡­ Yaknow, gods?¡± Eris interjected with a raised brow.  For whatever reason, once Rhett had finished his pitiful mousehole, it was a black hole of information, the trio getting no more from scrying it than they would the inside of a rock.

    Zeus shook his head ponderously.  ¡°No.  There are few I can contact on this matter without risking one of them interfering.  We shall know more only once Saint Titi Superstar reaches them.  They are still-¡± he sighs.  ¡°- ¡®On tour.¡¯  Whatever that means,¡± the King of Olympus explained.

    ¡°Hey, it¡¯s no problem.  Hero plan or not, you still need to keep your saint popular, pops.  PR is a big deal in this era,¡± Ares answered.

    ¡°I tell you and tell you, the real wars are on the net nowadays.  Every time she signs an autograph, that¡¯s bank for your Oath of Office.  If my Saint of Ares hadn¡¯t done her Confluence Tour, I¡¯d have fallen behind Mars by the next stellar alignment,¡± he once more reminds his father.

    Zeus¡¯s next sigh came out as more of a groan.   The task of pandering to Earthrealm grew more tiring by the era.  Still, it had to be done.  Couldn¡¯t let those damn demons monopolize the Mortal-economy after all.

    ¡°Yes, yes.  I suppose all we can do is wait, then.  I did strike down a Roc that was set upon the village.  Should I perhaps let the next one test the hero¡¯s resolve, then?¡± he mused aloud.

    The two cousins shared a slightly uncomfortable look.  ¡°Might not be a good idea.  It¡¯s not like he can keep this dullness up permanently.  The Trinity of Realities is a madhouse, or so outsiders say,¡± Eris smiled broadly.

    It was a mark of pride for her, after all.  All the otherworldly Eris¡¯s were quite jealous.

    Finally, Zeus reached a conclusion.  ¡°...Indeed.  Let us hope our hero shines his dullness in time, then, before the Hellscape grows ornery once more.

    ¡°¡­Or before one of the other pantheons tries to poach him, at the very least.¡±

    ¨C

 Chapter 6: Job?!

    Rhett¡¯s dried-up marker scribbled on the wall, where he had gnawed a flatter surface to think on.

    The wall in question contained a variety of useful notes, such as ¡°Elfs = Really good sandwiches?¡±, and ¡°Rats = probably worshipped here? (Spirit Animal)?¡±

    ¡°Okay, so, according to one little girl, everyone in town knows who I am,¡± he begun.  ¡°And I haven¡¯t seen a single mousetrap laid outside of my den, so at worst, I¡¯m in a ceasefire with the natives.¡±

    He took a deep breath.  ¡°Which is good, considering their most powerful ability is BEING REALLY GOSSIPPY!¡± his voice rose into a yell aimed out of his hole, just in case anyone had breached the Rhett-Sunnymeat exclusion zone.

    There was also the possibility that the little elf was exaggerating, and it didn¡¯t take the better part of two days for an entire hive-village to learn about one random-ass rat stowing away in a hole.

    ¡°Hmm.  Children speak only in lies, but delivery drivers are honorbound to only speak the truth, as part of their blood pact,¡± he muttered to himself.

    ¡°But then again, she¡¯s too young to drive, so¡­¡± he hummed, the nonsense spewing from his lips helping to calm him down a bit.

    Finally, he made a decision that had nothing to do with the bullshit he was spouting.  ¡°Oh, but kids in this world might be able to drive as pre-teens, so it¡¯s fine,¡± he nodded.

    With that, Rhett concluded that it was probably fine for him to stop acting like a gutter goblin and start acting like a person, despite the latter being far less fun.

    He could practically hear his towel whimpering at the vibe that had emerged.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry baby, daddy will never leave you,¡± he promised the inanimate object, patting the towel with the wet drip of a lie slipping down his cheeks.

    With a sigh, his shoulders slumped, and he looked at the half-sandwich and sawbread stuffed away.

    ¡°This¡­ probably isn¡¯t a lifetime supply of food,¡± he grimaced.  Unlike his life back on earth, here, he didn¡¯t have a huge inheritance from several economic bubbles popping and him being one of the few people who didn¡¯t get arrested in the process of utilizing them.

    Mostly because he inherited the winnings from the stock-lottery from his grandparents, but still.  He took the W.

    Here though¡­

    ¡°...Shit, I¡¯m probably going to have to work for a living, aren¡¯t I?¡± his traitorous lips uttered.

    His fur bristled, and he could practically hear the anguished howls of his bed-nest.

    ¨C

    Rhett passed by the Adventurer¡¯s Guild, a faint buzz like the desperate screaming of frustrated gods prompting him to dig in his ear with a pinkie.

    Flicking away the consequences of that, he spotted the perfect place to start.

    Waddling up to the copper-lined door, Rhett pushed it open, the little bell on the door dinging to announce him like a king of old.

    ¡°Hello?  Yoohoo?¡± he asked, looking around Cop¡¯s Copper Cleaners.

    The room was bedazzled in dazzling color, something that surprised Rhett more than a little.

    Doorknobs, chains, jewelry, trinkets and more, all in shades of copper he didn¡¯t know existed.  Crimson red, vibrant oranges, shades of brown so bright they looked almost gold.

    In the corner of the room, a full suit of copper armor sat, not in the cheap sense, either, it looked less like a piece of level-one gear, and more like something a prince would wear into battle, covered in illuminated engravings and made to fully cover the body in the metal.

    Was it even as soft as copper was supposed to be?  Somehow, he doubted it.    The armor did not look ornamental, as thick as it was.

    ¡°Hey there darlin¡¯, what can I get for ya¡¯,¡± a lithe woman remarked, coming out of a backroom, wiping down a plate.  Curiously, despite being made of copper like everything else, the top of it was a pure ivory white.  A coating?

    The woman herself was the color of stripped bark, pale green and freckled with dots of avocado on her cheeks.

    Her mouth was overfilled, teeth poking free, and from face to body, she was a bit chubbier than he would have expected, clad in a loose dusty apron and thick canvas overalls in shades of tan and black.

    ¡°Oh, a-awesome!¡± he exclaimed, his suspicions confirmed.  ¡°Yeah, I found out you people weren¡¯t out to get me, so I¡¯m looking for a¡­ Job¡­ Thingie?¡± he said awkwardly.

    He had never been to an interview, and even if he had, this place didn¡¯t seem like the type who would give him forms to fill out with his diploma and references.

    She waited for him to continue, and he shuffled awkwardly.

    ¡°Well, what can ya do?¡± she finally asked, raising both eyebrows.

    ¡°O-oh, uh,¡± he startled, getting himself under control.  ¡°I can totally use a feather duster, or whatever?  Rags?¡± he offered.

    She blinked, and her lips twisted a bit.  ¡°You know any Channeling?  Conduits?  Any Psychic Powers?  Can you do this?¡± she raised a finger and started wiggling it, until a green something started wobbling free from her fingertip, a glowing, hazy mist.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    He didn¡¯t think he could, but the idea was tantalizing enough for him to ape the Orcess.

    Sadly, wiggling his own finger didn¡¯t do anything interesting.  She seemed a bit saddened at this.

    The door dinged, and she glanced up as Rhett darted to the side to avoid getting trampled by the newcomer.

    ¡°Hey Joe, hollon¡¯ kid, I¡¯ll be back with you in a sec,¡± she promised, rummaging around in the shelves behind her at the elderly Orc¡¯s approach.

    Rhett, meanwhile, glared at his finger.  She made it look easy, and she made it sound easy, and she seemed to think it was perfectly normal to be able to do it, just from what she had said and shown¡­

    Yanking up his lens-mask, he glared at the finger in plain daylight.

    ¡°Mnph, come on¡­¡± he grumbled.

    Jokingly, he muttered ¡°Alright planet, give me that stupid energy.¡±

    The harder he squinted, the more he seemed to see the little rainbow sparkles that danced in a person¡¯s eyes in broad daylight, the wiggling tadpoles encroaching in on his vision as he stared.

    He stared so hard at his wiggling finger, his vision wobbled like a heat haze.

    ¡°Hey hon, I¡¯m back,¡± Cop said, handing over a little copper tipped baton to Joe, who nodded to Rhett once before leaving.

    Rhett blinked, and lost his train of thought.  ¡°Oh yeah, uh, I don¡¯t know how to do whatever that was you were doing.¡±

    She laughed.  ¡°Don¡¯t worry kid, it¡¯s a willpower thing.  If you¡¯re really willing to work, I¡¯m sure I can scrounge up something for you to do.  Hop up, I get the feeling you don¡¯t know what my shop does,¡± she smirked, waving him on.

    Climbing onto the counter, he squinted at the sunlight beaming down from the nearby window, offended at the rays invasion.

    Before he could pull his glass mask down, however, Cop thumped a heavy plate on the table, the square hunk of copper thudding as it landed.

    ¡°Copper is local, abundant, a Precious Metal, and easy to work with,¡± she started.  ¡°But it¡¯s not perfect.  See that?¡± she pointed to the dust covering it.

    ¡°Yeah?¡± he answered, curious where she was going with this.

    With her sleeve, the orc brushed off the dust, and gestured.  ¡°Look now.¡±

    Slowly, he noticed the oddity.  Wherever the sunlight touched it seemed to get dustier than the rest.  She let him stare for a minute, as the noonday sunbeam was slowly filled with the haze of powder, dancing in the still dry air.

    ¡°Copper is ¡®Time¡¯, but on its own, it¡¯s neither forward nor back.  So it¡¯s just ¡®Time¡¯ in the vaguest sense when it¡¯s copper alone, and Time is dusty,¡± she explained.

    Her hand glowed green, and she gently ran it over the metal, faint pops and sparks of light erupting as the dust seemingly ceased to exist.

    ¡°Cleaning it is pretty simple, though.  You mix magic and powder, and the world gets¡­ Confused,¡± she explained.

    ¡°Mana is too complicated, and there¡¯s too many bits of dust.  Water is one thing.  A brick is one thing.  Even gasses take the form of a singular mass, generally speaking, but powder   It¡¯s a bit different¡­¡± she attempted.

    ¡°You ever heard of the paradox, where they ask how many grains of sand makes up a pile?¡± the plump woman asked rhetorically, leaning back on her counter with a whump of thrown dust.

    Rhett nodded.  He was vaguely familiar with it.

    ¡°Turns out, physics doesn¡¯t have an answer to that either.  Dust isn¡¯t ever considered one thing, for most purposes.  It¡¯s never one pile.  As far as magic¡¯s concerned, it¡¯s a million little tiny rocks.¡±

    The swirling, crackling, popping energy continued, and as her hand moved, shining pure copper remained in its wake.

    ¡°The magic reacts with every bit of the dust, and then every other bit, attuning, changing, mixing¡­  Until finally, the world loses track of what¡¯s what.  Mana changes its properties as it attunes to Matter, and the more attunements it undergoes, the more obscure, and complex the effects become¡­¡±

    ¡°But throw mana at a pile of dust, at a million little rocks¡­  It¡¯s an exponential explosion of complexity.  The world can¡¯t cope with it, and so¡­¡±

    The dust is gone, and her hand¡¯s green glow is mingled with a grey, static-speckled orange.

    ¡°The dust gets mistaken for its own mana, and that¡¯s that,¡± Cop finished, flicking her wrist and sending the Mana careening into the wall, where it scatters and disperses.

    Rhett stared, he stared until the last little dot of glowing magic was impossible to see.

    ¡°Hell yeah, maid magic.  Maidgic,¡± he said, getting flicked in the head by the annoyed shopkeep.

    ¡°Ya know they run engines on this stuff in fancier places, right?  It¡¯s a little more important than ¡®Maidgic¡¯.  Candles that make soot for rituals, runic arrays made in dust-  Chalk, for gods¡¯ sakes.¡± she growled lightly.

    With a huff, she continued as Rhett rubbed his aching head.  ¡°Show up tomorrow, and I¡¯ll see if I can¡¯t find something for you to do, alright?¡± she offered.

    After a moment¡¯s thought however, she visibly appraised Rhett, letting out a small approving noise.

    ¡°...Or if you like, I can grab you today and shake ya till¡¯ you toughen up and figure something out.  Swing you by the tail for a few minutes, really centrifuge the Chi right out of your core,¡± she smirked, making the Ratboy back away with raised hands.

    ¡°What?  It works.  You gotta get stubborn, unless you want to waste time learning things the ¡°Formal¡± way,¡± she said, a bit of mockery in the word vanishing as she had a thoughtful expression moments later.

    ¡°No thank you mo- ma¡¯am¡±

    She lets out a huff, still amused by the rodent¡¯s antics.  ¡°Just show up for work tomorrow.  I¡¯ll poke around for something, don¡¯t you worry.  I¡¯ve got an idea that might be more your speed¡­¡±

    With those ominous words, Cop waved Rhett off, the rat-person scampering out the door as he came in.

    ¡°Kid doesn¡¯t know a damn thing,¡± the orc remarked sadly, earpoints furrowing like her brow as her jaw clenched hard enough to pull on them.

    ¡°I mean, most people don¡¯t know anything but their own little tricks, but he didn¡¯t know a damn thing,¡± she shook her head.  ¡°No songs, no Katas, no Phonemes or Psychic Powers¡­  He couldn¡¯t even Channel,¡± she muttered to herself.

    Sunnymeat was supposed to be a nice place, Mayor Dry made sure of that.

    There wasn¡¯t meant to be any sad little uneducated orphan rats scurrying around in the buff, oohing and ahhing with dawning revelation at the most basic kindergarten Thaumology.

    She strode over to her sister¡¯s wire, the platinum ring on her finger barely out of contact with the copper thread poking out of the wall.

    ¡°Sis, come over here,¡± she said, little sparks of electricity jumping between the ring and the wire as her voice breached the hair-thin gap.

    The magic in her breath flickered as it touched the ring, and from there, it was only a tiny gap between the synthesized lightning and the wire trailing from her house to her sister¡¯s.

    ¡°Need some sewing done.¡±

 Chapter 7: Rat Magic. Ratgic

    Rhett was more than a little nervous. More than the fantastical world around him, he found himself concerned about actually going to a damned job.

    Worse, he didn¡¯t have the fallback of grandparent dosh to rely on when (if) he screwed it up.

    Shaking his head, he dismissed the thoughts, pushing open the door to Cop¡¯s Copper Cleaners, noting with some surprise that the door slid open much more smoothly than it did yesterday, the squeaking of hinges practically nonexistent.

    Glancing over, the obviously copper hinges gleamed a bit more greasily than they did yesterday.

    ¡°...Huh.¡±

    With that oddity in mind, he entered, and took a fresh look at his place of employment, such that it was.

    There were changes since yesterday, the shelves had nails driven into them that formed little ladders, and the counter had what seemed to be a ramp leading up to the top of it now, the edge of which he could see poking out from behind the long table.

    It was honestly more than a little disturbing. Why would a complete stranger turn around their shop for him like that? He hadn¡¯t even remembered to give her his name, and yet it looked like the store was already prepared for a whole host of rodent assistants.

    Was this the fabled ¡°motivation¡± held by the mysterious species known only in legend as job-havers? The power that allowed them to change the world to their whims via means other than empty soda bottles?

    Once more, Cop emerged from the back, hefting a heavy copper crate covered in glowing symbols.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be with you in a moment!¡± she called out, dumping it on the counter and wiping it off one more time with a glowing dustrag.

    As soon as she noticed the lack of a tall-folk to accompany the bell, her gaze darted down. ¡°Oh hey kid! Got some stuff for ya,¡± she exclaimed.

    As she walked off, Rhett climbed up onto the counter using the newly provided Rat-Compliance-Ramp, examining the copper crate.

    He couldn¡¯t wrap his head around what he was seeing, if he was being honest. Even the portion he could see on one side of the crate was simplistic in some ways, and convoluted in others.

    Looking at the arrows, he squinted. Surely, if this was some fancy magical language, the arrows weren¡¯t actually just straight up arrows to point the magic around, right?

    The only other things he could maybe guess at was the little purple glowing hourglasses, and the blue¡­ water droplet?

    He gingerly raised a paw up to touch the symbols, the humming glow flowing through them drawing his curiosity.

    ¡°...Cold?¡± he mused to himself.

    ¡°You interested in runes, kid?¡± Cop asked, prompting a jerk and a blink from the rat.

    ¡°Huh? Oh, yeah! That sounds badass,¡± he nodded frantically.

    ¡°Huh. Didn¡¯t take you for a scholarly sort. Guess you¡¯d be good at it though, lots of extra room for writing paperwork,¡± she remarked.

    ¡°Paperwork? Like uhh, seals and tags and stuff?¡± he blinked.

    ¡°Uh, sort of? All I know is, Runecrafters spend a lot of time writing stuff down. Apparently, they have to do a lot of extra studying and documenting to get anything useful,¡± she idly explained. ¡°Maybe double what other people do.¡±

    Rhett grimaced. That sounded so boring¡­ But runes were so cool! But that sounded horrifically boring!

    ¡°Well, anyway, I asked around and got you something,¡± she explained.

    Leaning over the counter, he backed away from the chest-avalanche she carelessly triggered, and instead drew his attention to the little scrap of cloth she was holding up for him.

    ¡°You need a uniform if you¡¯re gonna work here,¡° she explained, giving him the teeny tiny garment.

    Looking it over, he was impressed, it was essentially a miniature version of her own outfit, albeit in different colors. A white apron and beige, trimmed with copper thread.

    He squinted. Something about the outfit was¡­ Off.

    ¡°Why are there sequins on it?¡± he asked. Sure enough, the apron, in addition to being made of shiny thread, was absolutely bedazzled in silvery sequins.

    ¡°Yeah, I was thinking about your little problem. It¡¯d be hard for you to do much until you apprentice for someone, or let me whip you around by your tail for a few minutes, so I had my sister whip up something for you. It¡¯s dyed with chrome. Same with the sequins,¡± she nodded proudly, looking to see his reaction.

    His blank stare slowly cracked her facade, and she looked more than a little dismal at his lack of awe.

    ¡°...May I ask why?¡± Rhett asked. ¡®Does she want me to be a mascot or something? I mean, I¡¯m not knocking it, but¡­¡¯ he thought to himself.

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know? You ever hear ¡®clothes make the man¡¯?¡± she began slowly, like she was explaining something to a child.

    ¡°Uhh¡­¡± she struggles to explain something that to her, is apparently quite basic.

    ¡°The eggheads like to call it an ¡®Essencia Maxim¡¯. Things you wear are ¡®on your person¡¯, and your Soul¡¯s True Mana occupies that same space, so you get a little bit of the [Truth] of whatever it is you¡¯re wearing.¡±

    ¡°Even dragons wear clothes, kid¡­ Usually. Just put it on, I¡¯ll show you,¡± she cuts herself off.

    With a shrug, Rhett takes the bundle of clothes in hand and waddles behind the copper box, donning his new (and first) work uniform.

    ¡°Okay, how¡¯s this?¡± he asked, turning slowly for the Orc¡¯s benefit.

    ¡°Not bad. You clean up good kid. Literally. Watch.¡±

    With a gesture, the Orcess¡¯s hand flicked, and a coppery bolt of magic pelted him, throwing up a huge cloud of dust!

    ¡°Gaughk! Whad da heuh?!¡± he exclaimed, waving away the dusty smoke.

    As soon as he did, he blinked and it was over.

    ¡°...Huh?¡±

    He looked around, and in a small circle around him, not a speck of dust could be found. It was small enough that he could see the borders bow in at the front and back, as if his feet could only spread so much ¡°Cleanergy¡± through the floor, but even ignoring that, he was utterly without so much as a smudge.

    ¡°My sister tooled around with it, found a good Passive that erases stains. As long as you¡¯re wearing that apron on the outside, you¡¯ll be able to clean like me,¡± she pointed a thumb at herself, smiling proudly.

    ¡°What do the overalls do?¡± he asked, tilting his head as he examined the other part of his gift.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t get them appraised. They¡¯re to keep your ruins out of my customer¡¯s faces,¡± she said dryly.

    At his confused look, she groans, pointing at a specific part of him. ¡°Your cracks and rubble, kid. It¡¯s a bad look.¡±

    Rhett¡¯s lifelong shamelessness was at its greatest risk yet, as his eyes widened with horror.

    ¡°But¡­ Rat? I figured, you know, animal, and uh,¡± he stammered mightily, suddenly aware that others might not have had the ¡°obvious¡± thought (and laziness to not think of it) that he did.

    Cop frowned, her brow furrowing. ¡°Kid, you¡¯re a Ratperson, not a rat,¡± she explained gently. ¡°I don¡¯t know who filled your head fulla crap, but that ain¡¯t it,¡± she shook her head.

    He decided silence was the better part of valor. He did not want this woman to know that Tom and Jerry was the source of the crap in his head.

    ¡°...Right, uh, thank you.¡± he answered, hoping to get past this topic at the speed of fucking light.

    ¡°So, uhh, what¡¯s for work, B-boss?¡± he attempted.

    The lady silently laughed. ¡°Right, well, kid, let¡¯s see how well you do with the little stuff. I¡¯ll strip anything green, you just get rid of the muck and dust, that shelf over there has the littlest stuff. You¡¯d be saving me a lot of Chi if you could handle those. Too small for the scrubber,¡± she explained.

    He turned to go after them, snatching an oversized rag left on the counter, but before he did, he had one last thing that had been prodding him.

    ¡°You never did ask my name,¡± he half-asked.

    She blinked. ¡°What, you picked one already? That¡¯s a big decision for someone your age,¡± she mused.

    ¡°I¡¯m nineteen,¡± he answered. ¡°Also, picked one?¡± he continued a moment later.

    She looked sad again. ¡°Sorry, I only really know orcs and elves, is nineteen old for animal-people? Nevermind,¡± she dismissed her question right after saying it.

    ¡°If you¡¯ve got something you want me to call you, go for it, kid,¡± she answered encouragingly. ¡°It¡¯s your name after all,¡± she smiled, trying to comfort him.

    He mostly just looked weirded out. ¡°Okay¡­? Thank you? My name¡¯s Rhett Fency,¡± he concluded after a moment, not really feeling like he needed to reinvent himself or something.

    People always said he felt like a ¡°Rhett¡± anyway, though he wasn¡¯t sure what they meant by that.

    Ignoring her aghast look, he waddled off once again, this time with the intent of seeing just what working an actual ¡®Jobby Job¡¯ was like.

    As he made his way to his first task, a large copper bell, caked with thin, dry mud, he found himself amazed at how much easier it was to clean stuff with a magic apron literally annihilating everything he managed to actually wipe off.

    He figured out quickly that the cleaning power he got from his apron wasn¡¯t quite an aura of cleanliness, so much as it was an effect that slowly erased any stains on him and his clothes, which included, for some reason, the rag in his hands.

    As he leaned the handbell bell over with a grunt of exertion, he noted that for it to work, he still had to get the dirt off of whatever it was on, and onto himself, or, if he could manage it, he could balance on top of a stain, and the ¡°floor¡± under him would also be cleaned in the process.

    This secondary cleaning turned out to be best, whenever he could manage it, since it was more automatic, and could actually reach out from himself in a small area.

    He concluded that the apron was probably cleaning everything on him, with some sort of obscure definition that included a bit of the floor underneath him, as dust could still float around him, and he recalled hacking and coughing from Cop¡¯s demonstrative dustball.

    Despite all of this, he had never in his life had this easy of a time dusting, without a can of compressed air. Better, even, as unlike that, cleaning with a rag and the apron¡¯s ¡°Passive¡± didn¡¯t leave a cloying scent of dirt in the air.

    He hated to admit it, hated to risk the mockery of the council of NEETs, who had surely revoked his membership after he became a wageslave, but this was actually¡­ Kind of fun?

    He wondered how the Apron went from ordinary clothes to apparently interfacing with his ¡°Soul¡¯s True Mana¡±, whatever that was. Did it involve some kind of enchantment? Some kind of game-like system that he just hadn¡¯t unlocked yet? She said the overalls hadn¡¯t been ¡®appraised¡¯. Was that how they were ¡®unlocked¡¯?

    Cop seemed to expect him to have some kind of powers of his own by now, so it probably wasn¡¯t something limited to a select few.

    He would think that the outfit probably didn¡¯t cost much, considering his size, but considering how wacked out this world¡¯s economy was, he did worry a bit, as to how much Cop had actually shelled out for the little chrome apron, and its ¡®appraisal¡¯, whatever that was.

    As he cleaned, he thought, and focused, and got back pain.

    Finally, he decided the best thing to do would just be to ask, once she told him he was done.

    ¡°Oh man, I hope ¡®appraisal¡¯ is a spell, I know where that rabbithole leads,¡± he grinned, visions of infinite knowledge and blue boxes dancing in his imagination as he scrubbed the inside of a copper whistle.

    He grinned even wider at the idea of learning spells in general, and wasn¡¯t this cleaning stuff already a kind of magic?

    ¡°Hell yeah. Rat Magic. Ratgic.¡±

 Chapter 8: The Littlest Cleaney Boy

    The inner workings of Cop¡¯s Copper Cleaning were¡­ Well, he didn¡¯t know if they were strange, per say, he didn¡¯t get out much either way.

    People would come in with stubborn dishes, old instruments, and other oddities, leaving them on the table and writing down on a small ledger who they were and what they had left.

    Sometimes Cop would be there, sometimes she wouldn¡¯t. Either way, his only job was to clean the easy stuff. He¡¯d handle the dust, mud, sawdust, and general grime, while she would handle the stranger things that would crop up, like tarnish and rust, among other, stranger conditions.

    He really did not want to know what could make copper rot, the way a fungus-speckled mug that had been brought in in a plastic bag was.

    The mushrooms sprouting from the metal seemed to drink it in, leaving it green and pitted, each sprout a gleaming green, marked with polkadot black.

    Still, whether it was burnt or shroom¡¯d, tarnished or crusted with bone, Cop seemed to know her thing extremely well, taking the hard ones in her hands, and using tools, her hands, or that magical ¡®Chi¡¯ she had been talking about.

    Mushrooms were killed with acidfruit juice, and clipped off with stainless steel clippers.

    Tarnished copper received a scrape with some kind of chisel, followed by a scrub with salt, until it shone brightly.

    The bone-crusted pans, meanwhile, got more of the acidfruit, diluted in water until Cop could safely use a ragged piece of wood like a mortar to scrub away the cemented material.

    He wasn¡¯t idle though. His back hurt like hell, his fingerpaw joints were aching, and going so long without a good sitdown and nap was rough on someone who had the mental constitution of a coughing baby.

    Eventually, he too received tools of the trade, a tiny pocket-knife greatsword, for scraping off hard clay, a mug of nasty-tasting woodbeer with a straw, to hydrate, and a little scrap of cloth, to cover his nose and mouth for the dustier pieces.

    Wipe, scrape, apronmagic it away. The cycle was mindnumbing in a familiar way, like a long game of Fabricave, quarrying out crates of obsidian to make drills, or burying coal in lava to make diamond blocks.

    Cleaning had the same kind of vibe to it, albeit with the more frustrating aspect of actually having to do physical work in what his friends would have referred to as ¡®meatspace¡¯.

    Once he reached the end of the first shelf, Cop finally called it quits, bidding him over with a quick ¡°Hey kid!¡±

    He pushed the little angel statue back, making sure it wasn¡¯t too close to the edge where it might fall, before scurrying over to the counter to see what she wanted.

    By the time he had, she had quickly noticed his leftover mug, and quickly went to grab it, putting a waxy cap on it.

    ¡°So, first day, any trouble?¡± she asked, to which he shook his head.

    ¡°I guess not?¡± he attempted to be polite. He had tons of trouble, of course, but she had that twang to her accent that made him feel like the question was more of a polite rhetorical one.

    ¡°I do kinda wonder, though, why all this? I mean, a lot of this seems like people could wash this stuff at home, right?¡± he mused. ¡°Little bit of water, some soap.¡±

    She hummed. ¡°Few reasons. Big one is, we don¡¯t like any loose water here in Sunnymeat. We keep the humidity low, so none of the wood rots or bends. It¡¯s really hard to fix that, compared to things splintering or breaking,¡± she explained.

    ¡°I break a stick, it¡¯s going to be even stronger. I bend a rotten or wet stick in half, it doesn¡¯t,¡± she continued, miming the action.

    ¡°Second, we have to be really careful about sickness. We can break a fever, and some of the Dro- Beach Elves, can scoop out sick, once they get you all liquidy with their special ability, but bugs and parasites are harder. You can¡¯t even heal them away, since they¡¯re made of carbon like the rest of us,¡± she shuddered.

    ¡°Screws with all the jerky racks outside too. Most copper here actually goes to another guy, who cleans dehumidifiers,¡± she remarked. ¡°It¡¯s summer though, so some of his excess is spilling on my shop too.¡±

    Rhett had more questions from those answers, but at least he got the gist of it.

    ¡°Okay, so basically, nobody leaves water laying around for hygiene reasons?¡± he concluded.

    ¡°Yeah. Plus, it cuts down on the Gellies. Don¡¯t leave your drinks out, alright? Woodbeer doesn¡¯t spoil fast, but it¡¯s good to get into the habit. Trust me, you¡¯d already know if ya¡¯ ever smelled a Sunslaked Gelly,¡± she grimaced.

    ¡°Mayor Dry¡¯s terrified of the things. Has a phobia and everything,¡± she noted conspiratorially, smirking at Rhett.

    He almost believed her, but something about the way she said it, and the way the evidence wasn¡¯t quite all there¡­ There was something else to all of this, and she had a hint of unease on her face that spoke to the idea of yet more reasons for the moisture ban.

    She shook her head. ¡°Anyway, you got me off track kid. What I actually wanted to say was, good work. Now, this is a Copper shop, -the coin, not the metal,¡± she clarified. ¡°So I can pay you a silver and a copper a day, or a hundred-and-one copper coins.¡±

    Sharing a momentary look of consideration, the pair nodded at the unspoken problem.

    ¡°Yeah, probably best to stick with the silver. Don¡¯t worry, people won¡¯t mind giving you change for one, if you explain the weight problem,¡± she nods.

    ¡°I still think that¡¯s a bit odd. More money is better, right? It¡¯s hard to believe you¡¯d get thrown out of town for spending too much of it,¡± he can¡¯t help but ask, wanting a second opinion.

    ¡°Ah, well, I guess if you lived in a bigger place, or one with a few towns near it, you might not get it as bad, but most villages, what you see is what you get,¡± Cop shrugs.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have a whole lot to trade, and when some traders come by, we want as much as we can hoard.

    ¡°Things get a little crazy when a newcomer shows up, so people can get a bit touchy about Bad-Money thinking. You¡¯ll see when one shows up¡­ Other than you, I mean,¡± she laughs awkwardly.

    Plopping down on a heavy chair behind her, she stretches. ¡°Few times a year, we get one or two people showing up, people crazy enough to go through the wilderness, or strong enough for it. Once in a great while, we might get some of the king¡¯s Knights, or one of the local Paladin groups coming by to sniff out any evil going on.¡±

    Her smile widened. ¡°When that happens, everyone breaks out the ¡®Hail Traveler!¡¯s and everyone gets out their gold coin to buy things. We don¡¯t want one person buying up all the bread, or all the lumber, because that just hurts us all. With travelers, we can trade for much better things, and really get the money flowing.¡±

    Rhett hummed. He suddenly felt uncomfortable with the coin he had from Joe. ¡°Like what?¡±

    She throws her arms up. ¡°Anything! New ideas, new materials, new tricks and techniques. We¡¯d buy the boots off their feet if they were a new kind of leather,¡± she laughed.

    Shifting her foot meaningfully, Rhett¡¯s eyes were drawn to her own boots, which she was more than happy to waggle around. The scales, which he thought were just snakeskin, glinted meaningfully in the low light of the shop.

    ¡°Got these a few years back from a Dwarven fellow, said he killed and skinned a little Silver-Wyvern for it. Lying out his teeth, of course, he spraypainted them, but they still look great,¡± she proudly proclaimed.

    Rhett felt more than a little out of his depth, something the Orc woman certainly didn¡¯t dismiss.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    She scratched him on the head with a calloused finger. ¡°Don¡¯t worry kid, unless you run off to another little village, you¡¯ll have plenty of people to help you figure things out here. I¡¯ll loan you a gold if you haven¡¯t earned one by the time someone shows up.¡±

    ¡°T-tanks- thanks, but uhh, I¡¯ve got one,¡± he stammered.

    He needed to hide in a dark room with a bright monitor and cheap snacks. This was getting way too social-y.

    Her eyes widened. ¡°Oooh¡­ Old Joe got you first, ey? You gotta do something nice for him, that¡¯s awfully generous of the old coot,¡± she smiled.

    With a hum, she hopped back onto the counter, letting out a little huff of exertion.

    ¡°You give any thought to something you¡¯d like to learn? I¡¯m telling you, Auras are totally worth the brutal training,¡± she leers with amusement. ¡°One quick whip around, and you¡¯ll be slinging with the best of em. You¡¯ve even got the tail for an extra limb,¡± she once more tempts, snapping her finger and causing a small spark of Chi to flit out.

    If he could sweat, he would. ¡°No thank you, I am small and fragile,¡± he half-pleaded.

    She rolled her eyes. ¡°Bah. Knew I wasn¡¯t getting a new apprentice today. So, what do you want then? We don¡¯t have practitioners for everything under the sun, but I think we¡¯ve got all the Informals, most of the Corporeals, (I¡¯m one of those), plenty of Sages of course¡­¡±

    She trailed off at his blank expression of uncomprehension, one that looked like a black and white inked drawing of Rattus Confusicus, in his best mental attempt at a gag-manga style.

    Well, it looked like that in spirit, anyway.

    ¡°Right, you don¡¯t know. Okay uhh¡­¡± she cursed loudly. ¡°Fuck, what was it called,¡± she muttered, having an internal conversation.

    ¡°Okay, hold on, I¡¯m being stupid, do you just want to go to the library? I know a book,¡± she offered, getting an amusing jerk of excitement from Rhett.

    The tail wagging was involuntary, and very powerful and bestial, he would later argue angrily.

    His interest was dimmed a little bit, (though not nearly as much as it could have been), when he saw the humble scope of the library.

    Less of an Alexandria, more of a Book Nook, the simple building was a single room shed, with an open doorway and boasting only a single wall-to-wall shelf of tomes.

    What was a bit off, but still quite interesting, was the large basin, where sheafs of folders poked up on little wire rails, occupying the middle of the room.

    ¡°Notes,¡± Cop explained for his benefit, smiling as she slowly hefted over with him on her shoulder. ¡°People leave them here when they make copies, or run out of room to keep them. Kids start with some of the books, and then when they¡¯re a bit smarter, we sic them on the notes to round them out,¡± she explains.

    ¡°No school?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Why, you interested in teaching one?¡± she asked with amusement. ¡°We don¡¯t have anything fancy like that, but Mayor Dry has a rule that everyone has to accept apprentices, if they can. We can¡¯t afford to lose a drop of talent, so everyone has to play their part.¡±

    He hummed, hopping off her shoulder and slowly making his way across the basin of research notes.

    Titles like ¡°Water Crystallization Spell (Failed)¡±, ¡°List of Boiled Water Ki Effects¡±, and ¡°Spell Phonemes from Wood (3)¡± were common, most of these seeming to be scrawled, hard to read notes written in charcoal or marker, detailing things like tests, experiments, and formulas.

    Others lacked titles entirely, and were just dense lists of things like:

    <table style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 90.0385%">

    <tbody>

    <tr>

    <td style="width: 28.803%">

    Spell > Shewee > Blong > Dogo

    </td>

    <td style="width: 71.1726%">

    Mana becomes mud bolt, flies in a spiral cone like firework, seeks nearest gong.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td style="width: 28.803%">

    Spell > Blort > Zzz > Toofer

    </td>

    <td style="width: 71.1726%">

    Mana pops like water balloon, soporific effect, liquid grows illusory teeth.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td style="width: 28.803%">

    Spell > Zappa > Nosth > Tau

    </td>

    <td style="width: 71.1726%">Mana becomes eldritch lightning sigil. Test further.</td>

    </tr>

    </tbody>

    </table>

    He found his gaze locked on one sheet, which despite just being labeled ¡°Golem (needs Arm Block)¡±, was just a top to bottom block of nonsense words.

    His distraction was such that he never noticed the old lady who snuck up on him.

    ¡°Curious,¡± she said softly.

    Rhett whirled around, stumbling and falling into one of the folders.

    A wrinkled face peered down at him, silver-grey locks bound up in a bun on the side of her head, pinned with a large pair of tweezers. Her face was uniquely human. Pale and dotted with a mole under her eye.

    He managed not to panic when she used an additional pair of the strange tweezers to pluck him up by his tail, setting him down on the lip of the notebasin.

    ¡°A Curious one, aren¡¯t you?¡± she asked.

    Looking her over properly, Rhett saw signs of humanity beyond the fact that she was literally human.

    Her clothing, rather than the kinds he had been seeing thus far, mostly varieties of leather-laced canvas and horsehair, and mostly tunics and pants at that, was a long, flowing robe that looked suspiciously like a kimono.

    His trained eye spotted differences, of course. Rather than a sash, the long robe was held together with a thick, oversized zipper, somehow carved out of yellowed bone, and in the back, there was something like a metal brace made of steel.

    The brace looked more medical in nature than aesthetic, and if anything, it seemed to be keeping her from hunching over, posing the woman in a stout, upright posture.

    ¡°I consider myself an aficionado of the written word,¡± he boasted with an affected tone of aristocracy, puffing up his chest.

    The old lady smirks. ¡°Ah, so you like reading more than learning. Sounds nerdy,¡± she chortled, chuckling louder at his offended look and gasp.

    Clearly, he had underestimated this old witch.

    ¡°Hey, I am absolutely here to learn. Like- Like why does this apron do cool magic stuff!¡± he demanded.

    ¡°Most people who are not nerds begin with ¡®hello¡¯ instead.¡± She winked

    ¡°I am Miss Bookel Darterdottr, and as for your question¡­ Hmm.¡± she trailed off, glancing to Cop.

    ¡°Mayor Dry may not agree, but I do think the young man¡¯s earlier idea holds water. Schooling is important after all. Why don¡¯t you go fetch a few hoodlums like this brat, Cop, while I set things up here. I feel inspired by this new generation,¡± she smiled.

    Cop snorted, waving as she left to do just that, and Miss Bookel began slowly pulling a table out in front of the library¡¯s sole couch.

    The Ratboy watched her hem and haw over the bookshelf afterwards, gnarled hands plucking out a few colorful tomes with big, simple words on the front, and smiling mascots who promised to teach with all their heart and¡­

    Well, not soul, considering the mascots eyes shone with the overt corporate glow that clearly indicated they had none.

    ¡°What are you doing? What do you need ¡®hoodlums¡¯ for? I¡¯m not a hoodlum,¡± he complained.

    ¡°Oh, well, you gave me an idea is all, deary. Cop¡¯s going to fetch few boys Mak had digging ditches after they got caught growing mushrooms in the undertown,¡± she explained.

    ¡°If I¡¯m going to be teaching brats, I might as well teach the lot, hmm? Help me pull those chairs, won¡¯t you?¡± she asked, pointing to a few rolling chairs, with smooth copper bearings on the bottom.

    Giving an experimental push, he was surprised when they actually moved. As he comprehended the woman¡¯s words, however, his mood soured. He never should have mentioned ¡®school¡¯. He now considered it a curse word, not to be said in polite company.

    Rhett¡¯s frown had reached apoplectic proportions by the time several young looking teens were dragged in, dirty and bedraggled.

    ¡°Miss Bookel thought you lot would be better off learning something useful rather than digging ditches, so listen up, or Mak¡¯ll have you digging with jerky sticks instead,¡± Cop barked, pushing the teens in.

    The smile on Bookel¡¯s face promised true hell, and the book ¡®Archclasses And You (Grade Four)¡¯ was the pitchfork she¡¯d be using for it.

    His only flicker of grace was that the others looked roughly as doomed as he did.

    ¨C

    Coyote lounged on top of a marble pillar in the throne room of the Olympians, head in his paws as the three gods below him immediately began bickering, as soon as the rest of their family-slash-court left for the day.

    Americium flesh burned where cobalt fur failed to cover it, and within the trickster¡¯s eyes, a divine Oath of tomfoolery shone, promising much fun if he spied on the Greco-roman geeks this month.

    And fun did it deliver. A bastardized attempt at forcing a hero into being, by throwing some random fool into their world, and hoping that the collective will of the planet would be so fascinated as to torment them into heroism?

    The stuffy Olympians sure knew how to party, even when they weren¡¯t drinking lead wine and grape smoothies.

    They didn¡¯t even know what he did. Stopping a Roc from attacking Sunnymeat, as if that were any threat to the natives¡­

    No, they did not pay much mind to their mortal worshipers, much less backwoods folks like the humble hamlet of Bigpig Woods. No mind to the real threats they faced there.

    Instead, the trio bickered, arguing over how much nothing they should do, when they inevitably do nothing about their so-called ¡®hero¡¯ spending all of his money on food and getting a dayjob as a maid instead of blundering into the forest with a wooden sword.

    They argued that he was too meek. That he let himself be washed around by those who caught him. That his desires were banal in their humbleness. That they were, (though the Olympians didn¡¯t quite say it this way), not Greek enough in their brashness.

    All of that, and they didn¡¯t even know the forest¡¯s name. If they did¡­

    Coyote would lie and say he didn¡¯t if anyone asked him if he laughed aloud right then and there.

    He was quite good at that, considering he was the first god to ever do it.

 Chapter 9: Teen School for Dumb Stupid Rats

    Rhett was pissed.  He was nineteen, living on his own, he even had a vaguely-job-shaped activity that he had been doing for a whole day now!

    ¡®This is bullshit,¡¯ he snarled, sat down in front of the table, smushed between two elves who weren¡¯t making nearly enough room.

    One was leaned over, an elbow on the armrest and looking half asleep, while the other had his hands in his lap, as stiff as a board.

    Worse, fresh off of digging ditches for whatever reason, they were all covered in dirt, and entirely too unpleasant to his snouty senses.

    If it wasn¡¯t for the fact that this seemed to straight up be a lesson on magic, (¡®It better goddamn be¡¯), he¡¯d have begged off it immediately.  He hadn¡¯t done anything wrong, after all, not like these criminals doing their penance here!

    Cop looked too amused.  He would put sawdust in her woodbeer tomorrow for the crime.

    ¡°Alright boys, introduce yourself.  Rhett here¡¯s still Naming, I believe, so if he changes his mind, be nice about it,¡± she commanded.

    The first to answer was the sleepy Beach Elf, who sported a black leather tunic, studded with bits of copper and bone, as well as a pair of ear piercings, silver dots tipping each of his pointed ears.

    ¡°Murdoom¡± the sleepy teen answered, slapping his neck after mistaking his long black hair for a bug.

    The upright one next to him gave Rhett a smile, pushing up a blindfold made of rawhide as he did to peek out from under it.  His own clothes were particularly fine looking, horsehair fabric made up into a thick cloak, with strange, plastic-like beads of material holding it together at the seams.

    ¡°The-Endless-Blue-Water-Of-Skin,¡± he intoned, with a very serious tone.  When their eyes met, the teen flushed, shoving their blindfold down and looking straight ahead.

    ¡°Smacks,¡± an Orc boy said, spinning around in his wheeled chair, the skinniest one here, oddly, and the only shirtless one to boot, showing off a large purple tattoo of a pig face on his chest.

    Spotting Rhett¡¯s confused stare, Smacks seemed to mistake it for slack-jawed awe.  Slapping his chest, he grinned.  ¡°I¡¯m gonna kill Bigpig,¡± he answered.

    ¡°Moronic,¡° the other Orc responded.   ¡°My nickname for now is Grabby, Rhett,¡± he introduced himself, hands on his knees as he tried to glare the room into exploding.

    A more standard member of the species, he was heavily bulky, and his hands looked¡­ Wrong.

    Rhett¡¯s eyes widened when he realized Grabby¡¯s fingers looked as if they had been broken, and set wrong at some point in the past, each of the digits subtly crooked, with large knots of bone bulging in several places.

    Grabby¡¯s stare was bland as he answered the unspoken question.  ¡°Wood thresher.  They¡¯re banned now.¡±

    Everyone winced, and a moment later, after chewing over the implication, Rhett¡¯s eyes boggled.

    ¡°Uh, well, I¡¯m Rhett, I¡¯m from another world¡­ I have a bunch of hobbies?¡± he attempts awkwardly. He had never been to an AA meeting, (and woodbeer was his first exposure to alcohol of any kind, but was nasty enough that he didn¡¯t think it counted), but this felt an awful lot like one.

    Honestly, though, he was a bit grateful, he had been trying to think of a good way to break that news, and it just kind of slipped out.

    Cop looked surprised.  ¡°...Huh.¡±

    The teens all looked suitably amazed, but Bookel simply snorted.  ¡°That figures.  I thought the slave angle didn¡¯t fit,¡± she commented, confusing the Ratboy slightly.

    Clapping a hand to her side before he could think too much about it, Bookel barked out commands.

    ¡°Alright, enough gibber jabber, you¡¯ve all got learning to do, and I want to get it done before my coffee¡¯s cold,¡± she remarked, only just now letting the drink be noticed.

    Rhett¡¯s eyes bugged out with greed at the sight of the mug, but he held himself back.  Barely.

    Slowly settling down, Miss Bookel sank into her own chair, and leaned over slowly, tipping open the book on the table between them.

    ¡°Now, the most important thing, to start, is that these are made up.  None of you will fit just one of them perfect-like unless you¡¯ve got the bug,¡± she pointed to the teens-

    ¡°-And you don¡¯t get levels, ee-hex-pee, or anything else odd for working at em, before you go and ask something silly,¡± she jabbed a finger at Rhett, who blinked several times before focusing much more firmly on what she was showing.

    Turning the book around, she slid it over and let everyone read what was on the page, pointing out the first portion.

    <table>

    <tbody>

    <tr>

    <td> </td>

    <td>

    Magical Archclasses

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Sorcerer

    </td>

    <td>

    Magic users who utilize the Mana coming from their own soul, in order to achieve an effect of some kind.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Esper

    </td>

    <td>

    Magic users who harness Ambient Mana in the air, harnessing the natural magic in the world around them to achieve an effect.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Corporeal

    </td>

    <td>

    Magic users who control the Mana present in their bodies, from Food and Living, twisting it to their needs to achieve incredible feats.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Specialists

    </td>

    <td>

    Magic users who harness True Mana, the power that saturates themselves, relying on mundane equipment to perform incredible feats.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td> </td>

    <td>

    Physical Archclasses

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Paragons

    </td>

    <td>

    Individuals who harness the natural qualities of their own bodies. Mastering their racial abilities, Paragons gain a true and deep understanding of who they are, and the birthrights of their people.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Idealists

    </td>

    <td>

    Individuals who harness the natural qualities of their own souls, mastering their true nature above all else to mold the world to their vision. Law. Oath. Debt. Worth. These things hold power over the Trinity of Reality, above all other things.

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    </td>

    </tr>

    <tr>

    <td>

    Experts

    </td>

    <td>

    Individuals who rely purely on their mind and intellect, they use a variety of tools, strategies, and skills in order to navigate a magical world through the use of their noggins.

    </td>

    </tr>

    </tbody>

    </table>

    ¡°These are the big ones.  Nobody¡¯s any of em, because they¡¯re just there to group up all the little ones you might end up fallin¡¯ into,¡± Bookel explained.

    ¡°They¡¯re only useful because they share a few guidelines, and if you work on one, you might end up not liking the taste of the others,¡± she begins.

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean any one¡¯s better than any other, and it doesn¡¯t even mean getting into more than one of them is better or worse than just focusing hard on a single Archclass, or even a single Class of ability,¡± she explains, her focus seemingly more on good social behavior, than actually using cool, mystical powers.

    Glaring at everyone, she makes sure they¡¯re listening.

    ¡°You get into habits, working on your skills, and you start getting proud of yourself for making em.  You¡¯ll want to share your tricks with everyone around you, and you¡¯ll probably get pissy when they get pissy at you, cause they¡¯ve got their own little tricks up their sleeve and don¡¯t want to pollute them.

    ¡°It¡¯s immature, and I don¡¯t want to see it here or anywhere else.¡±

    Only once everyone nodded enough times, and with enough fright did she finally continue.

    ¡°Good.  Now that I¡¯ve gotten that out of the way, they aren¡¯t all the same, either.  No matter how you slice it, for example, a Corporeal is always going to have the most raw power out of anyone.  A Wizard flies first, but a Martial Artist flies fastest,¡± she explained, her focus on Smacks and Grabby in particular.

    ¡°Likewise, a Specialist is always going to be easier to figure out.  There¡¯s a reason Knights and Paladins are famous, and it¡¯s because you can pump them up with materials instead of sense,¡± she explained, glancing briefly at Rhett.

    ¡°What about the others?¡± Smacks interjected.

    ¡°What about the others?  You¡¯re all too sillyheaded to be an Expert on anything, and your parents would have to teach you the other two.  I¡¯m not an Orc, a Ratling, or any flavor of Elf,¡± she barked.

    The teens all grumbled at this, save Rhett, who was listening attentively.

    ¡°But for the benefit of our newcomer here¡­¡± she finally nodded at Rhett.

    ¡°Most people on Earthrealm have an appendix, and that appendix holds special bacteria from your parents.  Demons have something similar, just no organ for it, it¡¯s all over em,¡± she begins.

    ¡°Paragons figure out how to use their Appendix Ability to do wild things.  Orcs can make things better by breaking them,¡± Smacks nods frantically, and Grabby nods a moment later, clenching his fists.

    ¡°Elves can treat things like a body of water.  Drow in particular have what¡¯s called Fleshseep for it,¡± she nodded to Murdoom and Blue, who looked unused to the word Drow.

    ¡°And I don¡¯t remember what Ratlings do,¡± she admitted.  ¡°You¡¯re too tiny to be a regular Ratperson, mind you, unless you¡¯ve kept shrunk this whole time, but the bigger sort can take on animal traits.   Metaphorphosis they call it,¡± she finished.

    ¡°Soul stuff¡¯s beyond me,¡± she shrugged at the unspoken question.  ¡°Demons like to joke and say we¡¯ve got ¡®Ork Powers¡¯, but I haven¡¯t the slightest idea what they mean, and nobody else does either,¡± she shrugs.

    ¡°What I do know is that they say Mundanus Extremus involves Soul Power.  Some people just get really, really good at stuff.  Mad Scientists figuring out new Laws of physics and the like.  Crazy, the lot of them,¡± she shrugs again to really emphasize the shruggitude of her opinion on the matter.

    Taking a long pull from her coffee, just to piss Rhett off some more with envy, she moved on.

    ¡°It¡¯s the Chrome, by the way, Rhett,¡± she answered, confusing him.

    ¡°What is?¡± he asked in turn.

    ¡°Why your apron wipes out dirt.  It¡¯s the Chrome. Sis made it for you, right?  It¡¯s a Specialist thing.  Chrome is¡­¡± she hums, trying to remember.

    ¡°Chromium is either [Shiny] or [Clean], I can¡¯t remember which, and I don¡¯t have the periodic table in front of me,¡± she apologized.  ¡°But the point is, that¡¯s it¡¯s true nature, and the fresh, untainted mana coming out of your soul Attunes to it.  Becomes it,¡± she explains.

    ¡°It¡¯s not so much that there¡¯s anything special about it either.  Everything you wear, even stripping down to your skivvies, attunes your True Mana into a True Attunement.  Plant fibers [Further Plants].  So clothes mend on their own over time, for example,¡± she pointed out.

    ¡°What¡¯s special isn¡¯t so much what you¡¯re wearing, mind you, it¡¯s more that you know what it¡¯s doing.

    Rangers do it one way, Knights do it another.  If you wear all sorts of things, and you know what they¡¯re doing, and you rely on it, people will call you a Ranger.  If you wear just one kind of thing, and that¡¯s your entire job, they¡¯ll call you a Knight,¡± she said, balancing her hands like a scale.

    ¡°Knights are special, because they take this even further.  A little chrome apron lets you clean better.  What if you wore an entire suit of chrome, then?  Wore it and trained in it all day and night, and you bought a little puppy, and got it a suit of chrome barding, and rode it around all day?¡± she asked.

    ¡°A Knight would be the kind of fellow to figure out what happens then,¡± she then answered.

    ¡°So Knights are¡­ Stronger?¡± Smacks raised a hand in question.

    ¡°What¡¯s better at cutting, an axe that¡¯s bigger than you are, or a box of saws, knives, and chisels?¡± she asked in lieu of an answer.

    ¡°The axe,¡± he nodded, receiving a smack from Grabby.  ¡°Ow!  What gives?¡± he complained.

    Rhett¡¯s eyes widened.  ¡°It¡¯s like minmaxing,¡± he interjected, confusing everyone around him.

    ¡°Like uhh¡­ Okay, in Smash of Mans¡­ No, you guys don¡¯t know what that is¡­¡± he struggled awkwardly, blushing under his fuzz at everyone¡¯s stares.

    ¡°Say I got something that erased dust, right?  And I got something else that ground stuff into dust,¡± he attempted, miming putting them together.

    ¡°That¡¯d be sandstone,¡± Bookel offered, nodding kindly at him for his benefit.

    ¡°R-right, so if I had a Sandstone¡­ Hat?  And this apron, then I¡¯d be able to like, cut through stuff!  Turn it into sand with the sandstone, and then erase the sand with the chrome!¡± he exclaimed.

    Bookel smirked.

    ¡°Why go to all that trouble, can¡¯t you just,¡± Blue began, cut off by a tut from Bookel, and a glare from Cop.

    ¡°Don¡¯t, boy, he¡¯s thinking, which is better than most of the kids I teach,¡± Bookel nipped.

    ¡°What?  Is there something I¡¯m missing?¡± Rhett asked genuinely.  Cop smiled awkwardly in return, raising her own hand.

    ¡°If you¡¯ve got a way to move mana around, you could use sandstone magic on its own.  Remember what I said, about mixing Mana and Dust?¡± she asked.

    Rhett clapped his forehead.  ¡°Right, the sandstone magic would just¡­ Turn the sand it grinds into dust?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a bit more intricacy to it than that, but for raw Mana, yes.  It wouldn¡¯t happen with what you described.  True Mana doesn¡¯t quite work the same as the normal variety.¡± Bookel clarified.

    ¡°Now, Murdoom, I understand you¡¯ve been begging your folks for some Argon.  What kind of Occultism are you wanting from that,¡± Bookel asked, but before he could answer, a low rumble caught them all quietly off guard.

    It came in waves, a thump, followed by a slowly growing rattling noise.  Everyone but Rhett shared serious, or otherwise fearful looks.

    Bookel¡¯s mug danced off the table, and nobody spoke as it shattered into a puddle of wasted black.

    ¡°What is that?¡± Rhett asked, only for another interruption to interject, that of a loud bell tolling overhead.

    ¡°Bigpig,¡± Cop said quickly, scooping him up in her pudgy hand, and closing tight over him as the rumbling grew into small quakes.

    ¡°Boys, go to your folks, now, I¡¯ll take care of Miss Bookel,¡± Cop ordered, Rhett¡¯s head popping out from between her fingers with a faint pop.

    ¡°S-should I be worried?  What the hell is a Big Pig?¡± he asked, but didn¡¯t receive an answer,

    ¡°I can take care of myself, go pin down your own shop,¡± Bookel snapped, reciting a string of strange gibberish, pointing to her shelves as a transparent, glowing crystal spread over the books and papers.

    Cop¡¯s brow furrowed, but she finally nodded.  ¡°Rhett, I know you¡¯ve got that little place of yours, but it¡¯s not safe right now, I¡¯m going to take you back to the shop, okay?¡± she asked, but didn¡¯t have much intention of hearing his answer.

    Pinning him close and hurrying through the rattling timber streets, she slammed  the door to her shop behind her, and dumped him on the counter, hurrying as fast as she could around the shop to prepare.

    To prepare for Bigpig.

 Chapter 10-A: Bigpig

    Snort.

    Pig hungry.

    Eat big-grass.

    Still hungry.

    Tired.

    Go sleep.

    Mud good.

    Good day.

    ¡­

    Wake up.

    Hungry.

    Grass.

    Sniff.

    Something good.

    Sniff more.

    Dig dirt.

    Nose tickled.

    Sneeze.

    Grass flew.

    Dig more.

    Hot Rock.

    Little fish.

    Eat.

    Not hungry.

    Sleep

    Wake up.

    Cold rock.

    Ground wiggle.

    Sniff.

    Something good.

    Important Smell.

    Magic Smell?

    Hard name.

    ¡­

    Make-Happen-Always?

    Curious.

    Sharp stump.

    Curious.

    Sniff.

    ¨C

    The winds howled as metric tons of air blew through in the vacuum-force winds, streets stripped bare as the deafening hurricane of pressure pulled everything out that wasn¡¯t held down with bunker-like reinforcement.

    ¡°Everyone get inside!  Board your windows, and don¡¯t let any of your food out of your sight!¡± an Orc guard screamed at the top of his lungs, holding tight to the inner arch of a divot in the superstructure, the ripping winds stealing his voice as soon as it left.

    A little Elf girl was clenched tight under his arm, holding her hands over her ears, so they wouldn¡¯t pop from the changing pressure.

    With his other arm, he waved a huge flail, made up of a large, spiked copper lantern.

    ¡°Men, get the Splinters!  Move!¡± he roared to the underlings at his command, who were hesitant to leave their commander behind, trapped in the changing currents as they themselves stared out from the more protected alleys that were slanted to guide winds like these.

    Despite their apprehension, they had no choice.  Their training prepared for this eventuality, and that meant doing as they were told.

    Captain Mar could handle himself, they had to handle the village.

    Whoosh-In-The-Wind, named for brevity in his military role, began making his way to one of the exposed exits of their sealed hallway, watching the gale winds slice by.

    ¡°Wait for it¡­ Now!¡± he shouted, as soon as the wind showed even the slightest sign of slowing.

    Beach Elves and Orcs dashed out into the nightmarish weather, the humid, stinking fog pushing down on them as they pushed against it.

    The wind calmed, more and more, as they ran down stairs and leapt off of balconies, scrambling to reach the very bottom of the village, where the most broken, shattered, and Broken-Better pieces of wood had become nigh-invincible over the many long years since the village¡¯s founding.

    Whooshes could feel it on the wind, as it halted.  The inept would think it a reprieve.  They didn¡¯t know that Bigpig also had to breathe out.

    Earplugs were needed, and as fast as they could while still descending, the guards shoved bits of thickened tallow into their ears, plugging them for what came next.

    The wind picked up again, in the opposite direction.  Faster, harder, and louder than before.

    The village could take it, even as the windspeed must have doubled, but the noise.  The noise was something to fear.

    Like a whistle from hell, the gusts cut through the city, vibrating the timbers and shattering air against air until even glass would risk cracking.

    The splinters had to be found, before the exhale ended.  Before its nose could decide whether or not Sunnymeat had any food in it.

    Before it could decide if it smelled the fungal scent of rot.

    ¨C

    Grand Shatterer Lot stood on the bell-tower, having crawled up the rope ladder to get onto the roof for a proper vantage point.

    The heavy coilgun in his hand was propped up on a simple tripod, letting him look at Bigpig through its scope.

    The weapon was brutal in its design.  An iron pole, lacquered with wax, and scoured into sections, each line marking another massive roll of copper coils.

    On the bottom of the first coil, a sharp barb stuck out, gleaming with a platinum tipped blade like a scalpel.  Along the rest of the coils, studs of the same metal protruded out.

    The rest of the weapon¡¯s frame was more standard.  Wood stock, and thick bandages, pinned to it with tacks, enough for several shots.

    On the side of the weapon, hanging up and askew, a large bottle of steel pellets fed the weapon with gravity, but despite this, the odd mechanism was more like that of a shotgun, the barrel itself being on a hinge that would allow it to be opened, spilling pellets into the chamber.

    It wasn¡¯t fancy, he didn¡¯t get it from the Hellscape after all, but it represented a not-insignificant portion of the town¡¯s budget, and a personal courtesy by Dry.

    As the town¡¯s strongest Paragon, Lot needed it.  Needed cut his teeth on the biggest, most dramatic Breaks possible.  In fact, his Breaks were so long, they lasted the entire duration between attacks like these.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    The rest of the town let him mooch off of them, eating lunch and going to the bathroom at all hours of the day, except when he was asleep, and to fuel his power, they made sure he was always assigned an actual job, explicitly so he could not be doing it.

    He¡¯d been on Break for six months now, and that made his work all the Better.

    He opened the Break-action of his coilgun, filling it with supernaturally well-loaded rounds, and in the process, Broke line of sight with the beast, getting an acute awareness of things other than the sight of it.

    Its intentions.  Its scent.

    He grimaced.  He had hoped he wouldn¡¯t need to do this, but Bigpig¡¯s curiosity meant he would have to.

    He¡¯d pay for the damage.

    As the titanic wall of pink gently lifted a trotter to scuff it against the walls of Sunnymeat, to dig it open, he did what he had trained to do.

    Swiping his hand across the barbed blade of the coilgun from the base to the tip, his hand cut open with a whisper, smearing a streak of blood across the gun¡¯s underside as he ¡®cocked¡¯ it.

    As he Broke the skin with the blade, the rest of his hand grew darker, practically a midnight shade of burnt spinach by now, after so many years of use.

    The pellets were drawn to the first coil of magnets, but by the time they reached them, his hand had reached the second, then the third.

    The air cracked, and the pellets flew from the end of the barrel, lightning crackling around the coilgun as platinum and blood interacted with one another.

    Bigpig¡¯s squeal was earthshaking, as a dot of blood appeared on it.  It threw its hoof down, crushing through a pillar of huts.

    He was responsible for it Breaking those buildings, now.

    Bigpig¡¯s squeal grew into a shriek, as it backed away, hardened logs poking its tender leg like toothpicks, each one utterly shattered by Lot¡¯s actions.

    He felt a yawning void in his guts, and blood dripped from his bellybutton, a droplet landing on the ground below him.  Most people didn¡¯t realize, but you didn¡¯t spit blood when something injured an organ.

    Typically, he¡¯d joke at the tavern to the younger orcs, the blood came out of the other holes later.

    Clutching his bruised side with his cut hand, he grimaced.  That much power did bad things to the body, and he had burnt it all in an instant.  Bent his power in ways that pushed the limits of what was possible.

    With a practiced motion, he wrapped his hand with one of the bandages and, using that same bandaged hand, wiped the blood off of the platinum studs, the sparks of electricity fading as he did.

    The Pig thudded down, fissures spreading from the ground around it, and he watched as the titanic beast pitifully licked its leg, thick oaken logs dropping to the ground in ponds of saliva.

    There was a time when his job wasn¡¯t needed.  When the Foundations were enough.

    But Bigpig was smart, and no longer tried to dig at the pitch-black wood that made up Sunnymeat¡¯s floor.

    Other methods were needed, and that meant some measure of sacrifice on Lot¡¯s part.

    The burst of energy he felt finishing his six month Break was already fading.  The next shot, he knew, would be much weaker for it.

    Six months, and his reward was a red dot on a pig¡¯s nose.

    ¨C

    Rhett was kind of freaking the hell out.  He was not built different.  He did not say ¡®Nah I¡¯d Win¡¯.

    He looked out the window before Cop finished boarding it up, and his mind fractured a little, at the wall of pink that ate the horizon.

    ¡°Kid.  Rhett!¡± Cop shouted, finally getting his attention.

    He looked to her, eyes wide and thoughts blank.  The chubby orc grit her teeth, and scooped him up, taking him away from the rattling, boarded up window.

    ¡°It¡¯s going to be alright, Rhett.  We deal with it when it comes, and nobody really gets hurt,¡± she lied.

    ¡°It¡¯s just a really big pig,¡± she explained with a strained smile.

    Rhett swallowed heavily, shivering uncontrollably.  The quakes, the hurricane, the pink sky, and those horrible roars.

    All from-  From a pig?

    ¡°Well, we¡¯re the ones who decided Bigpig Forest was a good place to settle,¡± she attempted to lighten the mood, settling into a chair she had dragged into the corner between the wall and the front counter.

    ¡°It comes here sometimes in the summer.  We think it¡¯s looking for food, or it¡¯s curious about something it smells, and from what Dry¡¯s managed to put together since he became Mayor, it¡¯s probably not people it¡¯s trying to eat,¡± she continued.

    She hoped that understanding the situation would banish the heartwrenching fright gripping her little otherworldly employee.

    It still galled her that it took her this long to figure out.  She read the pamphlet after all, noticing it and having a lark going through the primer that big cities gave out to entities from the Void.

    He wasn¡¯t a ball of tentacles and teeth, a character from a videogame, or a giant worm made out of crystals, so she hadn¡¯t considered the option that he was an Eldritch Being.

    She could tell right away that the poor kid had never once seen anything like what the wilderness could spit out.  There was a lot of fear when Bigpig came, but Rhett looked like he was trying to convince himself the world wasn¡¯t ending.

    ¡°...How do-¡± Rhett swallowed, thumping down in her hand, his own paws clenched together like a vice.

    ¡°How are there still people?¡± he asked, and she winced.

    Yeah, the poor kid was not having a good time.

    Instead of answering, she turned the conversation.  ¡°I¡¯m assuming when I say Mayor, you¡¯re thinking of something else, right? A¡­ Politician?  Is that what they¡¯re called?¡± she mused, before dismissing the thought.

    Still, Rhett was paying attention, and Cop was grateful she was able to pull the kid¡¯s head out of his head.

    ¡°Well, here, a Mayor is more like¡­ I guess a Cult Leader without a god?  Sometimes people go out into the wilderness.  They decide they want to live their dream, make a home for themselves, and no monsters or animals are going to stop them.¡±

    ¡°And if they survive, they must be doing something right.  People notice.  They live near that person, and if they keep things the way he likes them, he helps things along,¡± she explained.

    ¡°Sunnymeat was founded¡­ Maybe a few hundred years ago.  An orc named Dot wanted to build a fortress in the wilds.  Put up big stone walls, chiseled everything out, the works.¡±

    She waved a hand downwards.  ¡°People came, built on top, since he didn¡¯t want to see any rubble littering his lawn.

    Things started to break down, and by the time Got came along, the stone fort was gone, and we had Sunnymeat.  It wasn¡¯t called Sunnymeat back then though, that came after the Drow showed up,¡± she noted.

    Rhett¡¯s eyes widened.  He had suspected, and even heard a few people saying things to that effect.

    ¡°So Beach Elves¡­ Evolved from Drow?¡± he asked.

    The building shuddered under the buffeting squeal of Bigpig.

    She raised an eyebrow, saying nothing when Rhett¡¯s hands went to steady himself on her own.

    When the quake settled a bit, she shook her head, glancing to the window as she continued to distract.

    ¡°Well, no.  And don¡¯t say that either.  They call themselves Beach Elves up here, but even they flub that sometimes, so people don¡¯t get too upset over it if you call them wrong.  The only real difference is that they all get a tan,¡± she explained.

    ¡°They¡¯re born pale as a sheet, but to keep from sunburns, they do some secretive stuff to help them tan easier.  It¡¯s mostly so people don¡¯t think of spiders and Fleshseep when they see one.  Some folks aren¡¯t too comfortable around Drow, so it helps,¡± she concluded.

    Rhett failed to be distracted enough, however, as his ears flicked nervously.  ¡°Is there something we¡¯re¡­ Supposed to do here?¡± He asked.

    The inaudible shouting and begging of the divine drew his eyes to the copper pocket-knife he had been given sitting on one of the shelves, pinned down by thin threads of conjured Chi.

    ¡°Like, a militia or something?¡±

    Cop scoffed with an offended stare.  ¡°Rhett, if I ever catch you running out to fight that thing, I will put you in a dusty coffee pot and shake till the stupid percolates out,¡± she barked, poking him with a giant, meaty finger.

    ¡°The point I¡¯m trying to make is, Mayor Dry will keep us safe.  He¡¯s strong.  Monstrously strong.¡±

    ¡°Oh thank god,¡± he let out several panicked breaths.

    He always thought a situation like this would awaken some innate shonen instinct in him, he was stupid after all.

    He imagined some kind of situation, him running through the gutters, where the wind couldn¡¯t reach, searching for survivors in a sea of destruction.   He imagined coming face to face with the monster itself, its giant eye getting poked out by his blade or something¡­

    But his entire body felt pinned, like someone had run metal wire over his joints and pulled tight until he could hardly breathe.

    He couldn¡¯t help but pray that him coming here wasn¡¯t associated with some kind of magical destiny.  He was built for chilling, not combat.  He learned his lesson, his hubris had been quashed, and he didn¡¯t want to face that thing.

    ¡®...Please.¡¯ his mind whispered.

    Thankfully, Cop seemed capable of reading his mind somehow, considering how gentle she was being with him.   Either that, or orcs reacted to fear by getting all soft and weirdly motherly.

    ¡°...Now, I¡¯d like to say, though,¡± Cop remarked, after long moments waiting for him to calm, in spite of the disaster outside.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind taking you out to learn to protect yourself.  Most boys your age would have fought something by now, even if it was just a-¡± she carefully didn¡¯t say ¡®giant rat¡¯.

    ¡°-Gelly.  Bigpig isn¡¯t normal, we don¡¯t fight that thing, but there¡¯s always some critters causing problems, especially out in the wilderness,¡± she explained.

    ¡°You wanted to be a Ranger, right?  Or are you still wanting to learn your options a bit more?¡± she asked, after a moment.

    The crash of shook-apart buildings barely fazed them by this point, and Rhett managed to think about the question.

    ¡°Both?¡±

    Cop laughed.

    The building shook, both of them jolting around as the chair slid around, a titanic thump crashing into Sunnymeat as deafening snorts began once again.

    ¡°...Damn, it¡¯s been too long,¡± Cop muttered.  ¡°They should have gotten the Splinters by now¡­  Must be a blockage.¡±

    He wrapped his arms around himself.  She made sure not to let him get shook off onto the floor unwillingly.  Even as the chair skidded around, and her grip on the counter loosened, she kept mostly calm.

    Rhett chilled, a holy unknown flitting his ears towards the copper blade.

 Chapter 10-B: Seize the Splinter

    ¡°Captain, the Foundation chamber¡­¡± the elf began, a disgusted look on his face.

    Below, in the wooden hatch they had cracked open, a clear, shimmering liquid filled the chamber like thick water, oozing and foaming.

    Mar shoved past Whooshes, looking for himself.  He grimaced.

    Below, the treasure trove of blackened wood sat proudly, arcs of plasma streaking off of each splintered piece as they came in contact with the drool oozing from above.

    Bigpig¡¯s nostrils were directly over it, and whatever it was smelling, the foul foam of its produced saliva proved a grave threat to their plans to drive it off.

    ¡°Is it close enough for any of you to use it?¡± Mar asked the elves in his squad, clutching his mace tight.

    Whoosh looked pensive.  ¡°I don¡¯t think so.  The mental gymnastics to consider spit to be a kind of Flesh¡­ We don¡¯t have Paragons skilled enough for that,¡± he answered for his team.

    ¡°Damn.  And we don¡¯t have anything that can deal with it, either,¡± he noted idly.  The filth pooling in the chamber, in addition to its viscous nature, was being run through by the atomfire bolts that the Splinters gave off.

    The plasma arcing from them was a consequence of their submolecular edges cleaving apart the matter that touched them, and while in open air, this was of little consequence beyond the vibrant glow they produced, here, in the conductive liquid, with no buffer between them and the tree-stained spittle¡­

    Mar had told Dry, time and time again, to begin pulling some of the Splinters up out of here, to store them somewhere secure, and this was the consequence of keeping them here for the sake of ¡®tradition¡¯ and ¡®caution¡¯.

    He set his mace aside, the clay boulder that made it up would only slow him down.

    ¡°Captain, what are you doing?¡± Whoosh asked cautiously, stepping forward.

    ¡°I¡¯m tough,¡± he answered, diving in.

    Despite what many thought, metal did not make you more vulnerable to electricity.  The opposite was true in fact, as it directed the currents around you.

    It wasn¡¯t perfect however.  Immediately, Mar¡¯s copper armor began to cook, as licks of blue fire stroked the metal suit, steam and flash-burnt spittle cooking his arms as he dove down, swimming through the disgusting spit, reaching desperately for the bottom.

    Bubbles of hydrogen percolated from his armor, and quickly, the arcs of atomfire took on the green tint of copper, the metal sublimating into the sludge layer by layer, a cruel science experiment of misfortune, Fate studying the properties of using a lifeline as a mere cathode.

    While Copper was a Precious Metal, nigh-immune to magic, the effects of both the atomfire and the Splinter¡¯s hardness itself were secondary, even tertiary in comparison.

    Like the heat from a fireball, all Mar could do was scream bubbles, as pure willpower drove him to clutch a sea urchin of black spikes from the bottom, the wood easily piercing his armor, and his hand as well.

    He was the Captain of Sunnymeat¡¯s Guard.  Cities would laugh to hear the concept.

    Then, they would not, upon seeing it.  He had something that even Orcs would consider unbreakable.

    His Will.

    He felt his hair pull high into the air, as he circulated Ki Energy through his body, pulling Bodily Energies directly from his organs and pushing them into his skin.

    All Ki, infused into skin, became a form of Barrier. [Armor of the Beast], many called it.

    Lung Ki, forged a [Barrier of Breath].

    Liver Ki became a [Barrier of Relinquishment].

    Nerve Ki, was turned into a crackling [Lightning Barrier].

    Bone Ki became the difficult and potent [Hardening Shell].

    The Auras surged, and he felt his organs weaken.  His lungs burned, his wounds ached, his body grew numb, and his joints began to shudder, as he pushed himself up through the slime, a coronal star spilling out from his Splinter-ridden fist.

    His vision began to fade.  It was a mistake.  He had gone wrong, to establish a Conduit from his lungs to his skin.  If he had made it before he dove, perhaps, but there was no air to trap, save that in his own lungs, and those grew weak without the bolstering power of Mana.

    Bubbles formed at his command as he drew the air from his lungs and clung it to the splinters with the force of his will, and the power of his [Breath Barrier].

    They would float.

    He would not.

    He watched the wood float, neutral in the slime.

    ¡®Captain!¡¯

    He watched his subordinate swim down, the Flesh Seeping around him.

    The arcs danced around him, but did not touch.  He treated the spit as if it were nothing more than a pool of water, so pure that it insulated, rather than conducted.

    He snarled, as the elf¡¯s hand grabbed his own, instead of the drifting ball of destructive wood.

    He struggled, slipping into and out of unconsciousness, as he was pulled to the surface of the disgusting, filthy slop, the Splinters scattering in their wake.

    He wished his barriers could keep out the sludge, keep the feeling of filthy, bestial spittle from touching him.

    He despaired, as instead of merely dying¡­ Mar had failed.

    ¨C

    Mayor Dry walked forwards.  Behind him, dozens of meters of paper were held together in a tight block, like a steel beam, by the thinnest strands of black wood.

    In his other hand, he clutched a simple truffle mushroom, sealed in foil.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    His father had designed the plan, and it had earned him the place of Mayor, when the previous one passed away.  He had trained his muscles, his mind, and his senses to the absolute limit in order to take on this role.

    Despite that, he was carrying a last resort.  A tool that would mean he could never return, unless he wished to undo the work he was about to do.

    He and his father had a theory, that Bigpig didn¡¯t actually care about elves, or orcs, or meat, or anything else.

    It only cared about food.  In particular, it cared about the scent of food.

    It was generally accepted, after much testing by the pair, that food did not smell as strongly, when it was dried.

    The more you dried something, the less it smelled.

    He knew this in his Soul.  He took the name Dry, and when he became Mayor, he used his influence to spread the ideals of Sunnymeat¡¯s claim to fame, its jerky.  He pushed for as much of it as he could manage, spreading the little industry until almost everyone made dried meat in their free time.

    He pushed for nearly a thousand gold¡¯s worth of copper, to replace the tin that everyone used before, the Cloud and Rain magic of the metal too big of a risk for what he had planned.

    Even now, the tin remained buried at the bottom of Lake Trough, where it couldn¡¯t draw rains and mists to the village.

    Where previously, the town dealt with Bigpig through trickery, and through the famous Splinters of Dot, making the porcine titan skewer itself on the village¡¯s foundations, a few simple stomps driving it into maddening pain, until it fled¡­

    Now, the attacks slowed, and were on the verge of stopping entirely.  Sunnymeat no longer smelled like wood rot, wet food, and mushrooms buried in odd crevices.

    It now simply smelled like dust, and Dry believed, genuinely believed, that Bigpig did not care at all about dust.

    He left the village behind, walking into the woods with his tools in hand.  Where his skin was thin, his blackened muscles shone through, letting him drag the paper-and-wood construction behind him.

    He set the foil-wrapped shroom on the ground, and finally, with a heave of effort, he began to unfold the large paper fan he had brought with him.

    He would need to keep running after this.  Living permanently in the wilderness, in order to keep this up, until Sunnymeat¡¯s next Mayor could find another way.

    The plan was simple.  Lure Bigpig away.  Push the scent it was after towards it.  One mushroom could produce enough odor to cover entire wizardball fields, if it were vaporized properly.

    He lifted the fan, the process sending a gargantuan gust above him.  The tool itself was painted with the very visage of the beast he sought to defeat.

    The one whose breath had inspired it, in fact.  The pigwinds were well known, after all, and designing a tool to emulate them on a smaller scale was not impossible, with the right kinds of paper.

    The right kinds of paper, reinforced with his best attempts at replicating the Splinters.

    ¡°Bookel¡­ Mar.  Goodbye.  Fight over the position for me, won¡¯t you, you stubborn bastards?¡± he murmured, body straining as he prepared to blast the mushroom into a cloud of delicious dust, directly at Bigpig, whose face was buried in the village.

    ¨C

    Rhett felt a nervous energy pumping through him.  Anticipation.  Arrogance.

    The longer he went without seeing that thing outside, the more he thought¡­ Maybe.

    Maybe there was something he could do.

    He could gnaw through wood pretty fast.  He was small, and could fit in the gutters.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, they only need a little bit of the Splinters to drive Bigpig off.  If it catches so much as a whiff of them, it leaves like its tail¡¯s on fire, hon,¡± Cop promised.

    Just a little bit.  He could carry a little bit¡­

    He felt sick.  He wasn¡¯t stupid.  He did remember the big booming angel voice that told him he was a hero.

    Refusing The Call was a great way to have the world remind you why you didn¡¯t refuse the call, he knew well enough from stories.

    But in stories, there wasn¡¯t really the risk of him being splattered onto a wall by hurricane winds.  He was here, his flesh was here, and he was not a god.

    He didn¡¯t want to get hurt.  Didn¡¯t want to die again¡­

    Cop busied herself over a cup of coffee, the expensive treat brewed at his request, when he stared long enough at the coffee pot she threatened to shove him in.

    He could leave.  Now would be the time if he was going to do it.  Go over to the scalpel, grab it, jump out the window.

    The air was so heavy.  Not the physical air, but the air of the room.  The tone of the ringing in his ears.

    He stood up.

    ¨C

    Sniff.

    Important-Smell.

    Make-Happen-Smell.

    Curious.

    Play?

    Leg Hurt.

    Little Bugs.

    Sniff.

    Dust.

    ¡­

    Something Different.

    Smell Gone.

    Different Smell.

    New Smell.

    Stronger Smell.

    Strongest Smell.

    Smell is¡­

    Boring?

    ¡­

    Boring Smell.

    Do-Nothing Smell.

    Strong Smell.

    Boring...

    Time wasted.

    No fun.

    No interesting.

    ¨C

    He flopped on his belly.

    ¡°Man, fuck this!  I¡¯m not going out there, that¡¯s insane!¡± he cried to the heavens.

    ¡°What?!¡± Cop shouted, turning to look at him curiously, and more than a little suspiciously, as she held the mug of coffee near him.

    ¡°Uuugh,¡± he rolled over, facing her with his apron askew.

    ¡°I feel like I could help.  I¡¯m not here for no reason, I friggin know that!¡° he yelled, throwing his paws up with a scream.

    But I just¡­ Don¡¯t want to,¡± he said in a small voice.

    Cop looked deeply sad, and when the rumbling stopped, she set down the cup for him.

    ¡°You¡¯re a kid, Rhett. You think you¡¯re not, but you are.  You¡¯re an untrained, unpracticed kid who dusts copper for a living, and lives in a hole in the wall,¡± she said gently.

    ¡°Nobody would be stupid enough to think it¡¯s right to force ya out there to do anything,¡± she concluded.

    ¨C

    Dry froze.  Bigpig¡¯s nose yanked back, and it looked¡­

    Disgusted?

    He felt like a statue, staring as the brobdingnagian beast turned around¡­ And scuffed a clod of dirt onto the village, the boulder of soil crashing onto it as if it were a pile of Behemoth stool.

    Bigpig just¡­ Left.

    He let out a breath he didn¡¯t realize he was holding, the Orc¡¯s entire body relaxing, as his fan crashed to the ground with a thud.

    ¡°...Thank goodness,¡± he breathed.

    He really, really did not want to do that.

    ¨C

    Mar realized that he hadn¡¯t failed.  That his subordinate had indeed trusted him.

    When he was pulled out of the water, he saw the ass-end of their village¡¯s curse, already waddling off without a care in the world.

    Guardsman Whoosh had done him a service.  He kept the old orc from dying for nothing.

    -

    As the rumbles slowly left Sunnymeat, one thud at a time.

    Cop smiled under the silent and complete bafflement of the divine.

    ¡°There, see?  You got all worked up over nothing,¡± she joked, smushing him in the face with a finger.

    He flopped onto his back, groaning at her act of mockery.  Doing nothing was hard work!

    ¡­Weirdly hard, in fact.  He felt so exhausted, like his well of stress had been cored out by overuse.

    He couldn¡¯t wait to take a nap.