Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The healer guy has got a pretty weak handshake, though it could be that he’s being careful to not re-break my hand. These religious types can be like that. But to be honest, it smacks of a lack of confidence in your healing spells.

On that subject, I flex my hand – I have got to learn whatever that spell was, even if I’m not too sold on that chant. Maybe there’s some kind of essence drain thing? That sounds more my speed.

Nobody else seems interested in a hand-shake, so there’s my social etiquette responsibilities out of the way.

“So, you guys are adventurers, right? Thanks for the assist, it was getting a bit heated there”, nobody’s laughing, not even the knight. I thought he’d go for that kind of thing. “Anyway, do you guys know the best way out of this cave, preferably away from the rat monsters?”

The sword-guy in the back rolls his eyes and points down the tunnel, “Yeah, just follow-”

“Nonsense David, after the horrors we fought through to get here?” the big knight cuts the other guy off, “To send this young man back to the surface alone would be tantamount to murder. My, he doesn’t even have a weapon” he’s suddenly looking pretty intensely at me, what does he want? My weapon?

“Ah, don’t worry about a weapon,” I click my fingers and a flame appears, “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. If you know what I mean.” I give my eyebrows a wiggle to make sure they get it.

“I see, a young magus,” he exclaims after a pause. “Of course, my point still stands. The way back is fraught with danger, it would be best if you come along with us.” If I’m going to be truthful, he looks a bit too excited about this – did he not see my track record with this kind of thing?

“Hey Reynard, what are you doing?” sword-guy hisses at the knight, archer-girl is looking between us incredulously. Honestly so am I.

This Reynard guy turns to look at the two of them, “He’s coming with us.” Whoa, letting out the leader voice, I guess he means business.

The two of them fold pretty quickly and Reynard turns back, taking my hand in his and giving it an energetic shake. Take notes healer-guy.

“Well then, it is a pleasure to meet you, young magus. I am Sir Reynard Fenton of the order of her Majesty’s Blades” He gives an automatic pause for effect – am I meant to know what that is? “My companions are David and Melanie, talented swordsman and archer respectively” he makes a vague gesture to the healer, “and this young lad is Eric, priest in training of the Central Church”.

“cool?” I hazard, feeling a little swept up by his bluster. David and Melanie just stare blankly, while Eric looks vaguely constipated.

“Excellent! We’ll carry on then. Onwards to adventure!” Reynard announces and leads the way out, the other two adventurer types hanging back, none too subtly motioning for Eric and I to follow the knight. I shuffle forward on still-wobbly knees – more so being pulled in Reynard’s wake than any real desire to follow these people. The adventurers fall in behind me. Somehow managing to loom behind me while still giving me an uncomfortably wide berth.

A couple minutes of trudging through the dim tunnel pass with nothing but the knight’s irritating humming and hushed whispers from behind me. Suddenly an aborted strangling sound comes from my left. Finely honed self-preservation instincts fire a neuron and I give a totally dignified hop away.

“Ahem- ah, excuse me, Mr Sepulchrum?” Oh, it’s just Eric.

“Yes? Eric was it?”

“Ah, no actually. You see, I’m new to this group and Sir Reynard often gets my name wrong.” His ears turn red as he fumbles with his explanation. I feel my own heat up with sympathetic embarrassment, which he seems to misinterpret as something else. “No, no, it’s an honest mistake really. He’s a busy man. Anyway, my name is Emmet, good to meet you.”

He gives a little wave, which I’m not really sure what to respond with. I wave too. Idiot.

“I was wondering how your injuries have healed? It looked like quite a nasty burn, are you still feeling any pain?” His eyes are glistening with the kind of genuine concern that only the truly insufferable can achieve. It’s a good act I’ll admit, he almost had me going when he was playing up the downtrodden junior adventurer.

Is this their play? Fatten me up with the innocent lamb before I’m cornered by the hungry wolves behind me? These bastards aren’t getting anything out of me that’s for sure.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine, good job kid.” He’s maybe a few months younger than me – if that. But I can already see tiny cracks forming in this choir-boy thing he’s got going on. “I guess choir practise must be good for something at least.” That barely made sense, but his brow twitches all the same. Too easy. “Anyway, better question Eric-”

“It’s Emmet”, he almost stamps his foot in an effort to get the point across. His cheeks are definitely getting a touch rosy there; sheesh, maybe the wannabe paladin’s forgetfulness act was actually cutting pretty deep, I almost feel bad - his lip starts trembling - now I definitely do.

“Ah – shit, sorry – uh, Emmet”, I glance back at the other two. The swordsman is actually glaring at me. Maybe they actually are one of those caring, close-knit adventuring teams. Sword-guy is giving me a good hard death-stare now, better placate a bit more. “I didn’t mean to offend, never been any good with names and faces, you know what I mean?” I can still feel the prickle of deadly-intent so I give it one more shot. “Nice healing by the way, my skin’s softer than it’s ever been before”. Emmet seems to perk up a little more at that. I’m not even lying; my palms feel baby-smooth – it’s weird.

Apparently, my panicked complementing wasn’t quite enough, “Ha, what is it magic-man? Was our little Emmet too much to handle?” says the swordsman, apparently unable to contain himself in the face of me embarrassing myself. The insufferable bell-end. He saunters up with an infuriatingly confident expression, speaking in an easy drawl. “So, Lucien was it? How are you in a fight?”

Well, that’s direct, is he going to beat me up? Would’ve thought he’d drag that on longer. Aren’t these fighter types meant to sense your fighting aura or judge your stance as you walk? What do I say to an outright question, am I meant to lie?

“Er, I can cast a projectile flame attack” I go with the truth, not sure if I’m meant to be impressing him or not. It might have been better if he looked disappointed, instead he keeps nodding and brushes past up towards Reynard. They begin conversing, the word ‘initiate’ floats back to me, and isn’t that a little insulting. I glance back at the archer but she seems to be ignoring me, at least she’s not acting too high strung. Heh.

I just keep trudging along with my head down. Whoever these people are, they’re obviously not terribly interested in me anymore. Though it kind of stings when even those warrior types – no, especially those warrior types – act so dismissive of mages. Years of study really, most don’t progress past flashes of light, maybe some sparks. An actual deliberate arcane manifestation is built off a foundation of an intimate understanding of the arcane processes involved. Lifetimes of research lay the basis for even the most basic of cantrips; and the swordsmen of the world just act unimpressed when my mastery of the elements fails to match their wild swinging in terms of decapitation rates!

I idly waggle my way through the first few finger movements of my firebolt spell, getting as far as some sparks before starting again. Two snaps and a flick are all it takes in the end – almost makes you wonder where the two years of note taking and practise went when those all-powerful magic gestures are probably replicated by half a dozen fidgeting stable-boys every few minutes.

Maybe they’re right to be dismissive. My first foray into the adventuring life and I’m almost flattened by a giant rat-man. Maybe I should’ve tried harder to parse through the sarcasm when everyone back home kept shouting advice.

Though if I’m thinking constructively, that old man in the tavern didn’t say anything about giant, mana-mutated rat-men. The way he said it, it sounded like I was in more danger from the low hanging ceiling than the wildlife. Strike that, he sounded more worried about my chances with the flora. What was it? “Careful lord-magus, those caves are lousy with sorcerer’s cap, a real intimidating fungus that is. Right lads? Real pain in the behind”. Sorcerer’s cap, is that a mushroom? The guy was too busy pissing himself laughing with his friends to clarify. Wait, Sorcerer’s cap – mushroom – irritating – pain in the behind. Fuck I’m an idiot, useless backwater serfs, of course he was making a dick joke.

Whatever, they’re peasants. They’ll all probably catch a pox and die in a year or so anyways – serves them right. But anyway, hypothetically, if I had been properly informed, I probably could have taken the odd venomous squirrel or whatever was meant to have been in these caves. A fire-bolt to the face is probably on par with the lump of metal those over-eager squires swing around when they go dungeon diving for the first time.

Looking back, I think my main problem – apart from enemy choice apparently – was the darkness. Sure, my fire-bolts are, on their own, pretty bright. But I can’t actually use their light to see when at the same time I need to be lobbing them at the enemy. What I really need is some kind of light spell, preferably one that I can throw at a wall and forget about.

I left all my spellbooks back in the mansion. Even then, father was never big on utility spells, even less interested in anything vaguely at my level. I do have a hazy memory of a finding a light-producing spell – unfortunately, it had been designed to boil the eyes out of an army.

My fingers twitch experimentally. It couldn’t be too hard right? What is a fire-bolt when you get right down to it, but a ball of really hot light? I stare at my hands as I walk, a vaguely apprehensive feeling settling at the base of my stomach. Father was never big on experimentation, always maintaining that a young mage should do it right or not at all. Always succeed, failure begets failure. Would have been the family motto if it hadn’t already been Power of privilege - classy people, my ancestors.

It was probably more along the lines of, ‘get yourself used to how magic is successfully cast’, but it did remove any chance of mentored experimentation. Now I don’t really know where to start. Maybe go back to basics and work forward?

Two snaps then a flick, and a shout nets you a basic ‘fire-bolt’ spell; though I’m not sure the magic word itself does anything. Unless Uncle Gerome’s “Begone Filth!” really is the correct incantation for the plague mist spell. Something like ‘Light!’ or ‘Illuminate!’ would probably work for now, I’d have to look up the word for ‘light’ in something foreign later - give it that exotic feeling. Unfortunately, apart from any observation of my family, I have absolutely no clue as to the mechanics behind magic. Most of my two years of study were spent desperate for anything to work. The fact that the tome I’d finally found to say anything useful was written in some encoded dialect of Old Mythic – the deadest of dead languages – did not help matters.

From what I could glean, aside from a lot of meditation to ‘find my mana flows’, were that the finger waggles are integrally linked to the metaphysical movements of mana within my body. The way it was explained – of course compiled from three different confusing explanations – is that the first snap is to get my magic’s attention. The second instils the mana with ‘fire’ (I guess it’s the friction between the fingers?) and the last motion flicks the mana packet at the enemy. I heard the incantation focusses the connection between motion and mana flow for easier repeated use, so I guess it’s not immediately necessary anyway.

I snap my fingers once and feel my mana sort of perk up. There’s maybe an indistinct glow floating around my fingers. I snap again whilst thinking really intently about burning my enemies – just like Grandfather taught me – and the almost-glow takes on a rosy tint. Thinking back on the sum total of my field experience – from when I entered the cave this morning – the closest natural example of what I want would probably be that mana-saturated pool a few caverns back. That thing glowed pretty well, literally the brightest thing in this cave save for that Reynard guy’s shiny crotch-guard. I’m pretty sure the glow was the result of ambient mana being infused in the water; and casting my mind back, when I tried to make a zombie of that dead guy, you can infuse stuff with different flavours of mana. The gooey mess that the necromancy infused skull became aside, I could probably try the same trick but use my signature fire-mana instead. With that thought I reach over, splay my glowing palm on the wall and push – only more metaphorically.

There’s a loud bang, a flash and I go blind. It takes a few beats but as my vision clears, I’m met with a sword right up against my throat, an arrow cocked at my temple and the steel plated pectorals of a chunky knight pressed so close to me I could probably poke my eye out on his nipples. I blink dumbly as my brain struggles with the dual process of readjusting my cornea and trying to remember who these people are. Perhaps I’m too easily distracted.

Thankfully the blast makes me too disorientated to properly flinch, otherwise I would probably have straight up died. I do manage to kind of sway drunkenly and even that elicits a hair-line slice from the sword at my throat. Wow, I didn’t think swords could realistically get that sharp. How does it not shatter on impact? I weakly raise my hands in surrender, I don’t know how that comes off when one of them is still smoking, but whatever.

“Oops?” eyes darting up at the imposing jawline above me. I swallow hard, “just trying a new spell,” I squeak weakly as the various pointy things around me vanish from sight.

“Ha Ha Ha!” Reynard bellows, “No problem my sorcerous friend!” he drops his head so fast I’m forced to flinch back to avoid knocking myself out on his chiselled jaw. He pulls close anyway and his voice changes from heroic exuberance to back-alley throat slitter so completely and quickly that I would be impressed if I weren’t trying not to cry. “I suggest thinking twice the next time you contemplate pulling something so…” he pauses, allowing the maximum possible terror to seep from his words, “distracting.” Then he pulls back, all smiles and walks back to the head of the group, as if he hadn’t just injected levels of malice I hadn’t known existed into three simple syllables.

I instantly fall back in step with Emmet, no sudden movements. I rescind all comments relating to wholesome camaraderie – holy shit. Thankfully he’s looking basically as pale as I feel. He did say that he was new, maybe he’s not as batshit as the others. We walk stiffly for a few minutes, myself hyper aware of the archer’s eyes behind me – him probably not so much. Of course, being some kind of group mascot, Emmet chooses now to start talking. Got to start up some of those religious feel-good vibes I guess.

“That was some explosion wasn’t it, Lucien – uh, can I call you Lucien? I guess it’s a bit forward…” holy crap Emmet stop the blushing maiden routine.

“No Emmet, Lucien is fine” I decide to interject before he starts blushing, I don’t think I could deal with that.

“Oh, thank you”, he bows but continues before I can formulate anything cutting enough to karmatically balance the awkwardness of it. “I was wondering if you needed any healing done on your hands? That blast looked pretty painful.” Nice one, bringing it back to healing. A nice, safe common ground, couldn’t have done it better myself Emmet.

I look down at my hands and sure enough, my fingertips are barely even red; initiate my ass. I show them to Emmet, “nope, looks like it was a successful cast in the end, no mana feedback to speak of”

“Oh, that’s good to hear”. Somehow, he manages to sound disappointed, doubtful and paradoxically upbeat all in the same sentence. But who does he think he is looking doubtful? Ignorant of my petulant rage he continues, “So what did you try to cast?” He asks after a long pause – possible sensing that I wasn’t about to offer anything of value. “It didn’t look like you meant for that to happen.”

He looked properly interested for some reason. Even if it had worked it’d still just be a simple light spell, nothing to get worked up about. I sigh, whatever, religious folk are weird anyway. Maybe he’s accepting my apology from earlier, it’d actually be nice to have someone to distract me from the psychos stalking around me. Does this count as kidnapping yet?

“I was trying to cast a spell to make some light”. He’s still staring with polite attention. Coughing I continue. “I-er, I think I pushed the mana a bit too hard.” He nods along so I continue. “That, or maybe the overall structure of the spell was faulty. Maybe I should snap my fingers less – or more. Or maybe the incantation is actually important. My aunt always swears when she casts anything.” I trail off, quickly realising that I don’t know what I’m talking about and not wanting to advertise the fact. Emmet blessedly interrupts.

“Have you tried reciting some scripture while you cast?” What? Scripture? My hands drop to my sides from the illustrative gesturing I had been doing. Oh, I don’t think he understood any of that. Smiling placidly, he continues, “Passages 36 through 82 contain some frankly inspiring lines on Our Mother’s gift of light”. His eyes are shining with a helpfulness that threatens to divulge hundreds, if not thousands of recommendations of choice religious prose. I hold up my hand to stop him there.

“Wait why would that help? I’m pretty sure that incantations are only used to get consistency in repeated castings – wait. Do you do a whole chant every time you cast a spell?”

You are reading story Darke Mag’yx at novel35.com

“Well yes – though we don’t cast spells, we incite heavenly intervention,” I cut him off.

“Aren’t you clerics—or whatever—just healing mages?” Isn’t that right? I thought the psalms and prayers were just aesthetic. I’ve seen a Greater Heal in action and the damn prayer took at least three minutes, I thought it was just to pander to the audience. “Can you not just like, do a really long one in the morning and drop the incantations for the rest of the day?”

“Of course not!” Oops, I think I insulted him, maybe he’s sensitive about it. “Our power is based on rigorous meditation and study, not merely a branch of a mages magic. There are lifetimes of devotion laying the basis for even the most basic of miracles.” He looks set to go on, some actual venom in there somewhere. Luckily a distraction presents itself. Once again in the form of Reynard’s iron bulwark bumping into me.

He swings his arm out, his body erect and looking forward intently. That’s probably a signal for something. The moment that thought’s out, the other two take positions either side of him. The swordsman, David, to Reynard’s right. The girl, er… Meli-something-or-other, slightly behind and to the knight’s left. Though counter to common sense, I’m pushed to the front besides Miss Archer. It’s at the point that we’re four abreast (Emmet left at the back, the twats) that I realise the tunnel is opening up into some kind of cave. It’s at the point that I realise that all the torches had been put away that I realise something bad is about to go down.

Not liking the way these guys were handling me (the word meatshield springs to mind) I attempt to extricate myself. Reynard’s gaze darkens and snaps to me for half a second, any objections dying on my tongue. I guess that counts as ‘distracting’, the thought alone making me feel very small indeed.

As one, the three of them begin pacing forward, pushing me to keep up, Emmet lingering for a second before following. This is becoming increasingly dodgy, on top of the already established dubiousness. I notice that the tunnel has become completely silent, even Reynard’s artisanal plate-mail barely making a sound; it’s the kind of silence that (funnily enough) screamed intentional and furthermore, professional. The eyes of the three adventurers have sharpened to shards of ice, the whites of their eyes glinting dangerously in the darkness. David and the Archer seem to have lost all trace of warmth, their previous casual glances having completely morphed into grim utility. Reynard’s face in particular can be called nothing but predatory as he stalks forward. It is at this point that I notice his sword completely unsheathed.

With the torches extinguished and my eyes finally adjusted, I see what looks like the mana pool cave from earlier. Creeping up closer, the tunnel opens up completely into a massive cavern. I probably couldn’t have seen the ceiling even if it wasn’t completely pitch black. A way off, towards the centre seems to be a large depression, the cave sloping into a shallow crater. The pit glows with an arrangement of torches – probably magical (you can tell. Flames tend to move – and they’re not usually blue). Inside the crater, a bunch of robed figures mill around, and seem to be generally working on some giant structure that rises from the centre. A few worker golems position big glowing crystals on the raised pedestal that makes up the most of the structure. Some kind of summoning platform? I think Uncle Bastian had a book on Warlock rituals and demon summoning, though he never let me read it. The markings on the platform look close enough, I guess. Who are these guys? I feel like I’ve asked that question a lot today.

Walking right up to the edge of the crater’s torchlight – with magic torches it’s a really distinct boundary – Reynard steps forward into the light and decides to take a lot of the guess-work out of the proceedings.

“Magus Scum! Cease your vile arts! Her Majesty, the Empress of Caithurt demands your death; and in her name I would move mountains!” Then he charges.

What? Who? Magus Scum?

I glance at Emmet, who glances back – vaguely terrified. I don’t think he knows what’s going on either. A furtive look at my handler tells a different story as I meet her stern gaze.

“Magus”, she seems to stress the word. Yes, thank you, I do see the link, I was there for Reynard’s whole ‘Magus Scum’ speech too. Probably to give Emmet a chance to get it, she feels the need to add, “Make yourself useful. Or else.” She quickly runs after Reynard, shooting arrows at one of the golems. Does she want me to kill these people? Fuck that.

David pushes Emmet and I forward, following the others towards the pedestal, his expression grim and unyielding. “Sorry kid. Wrong place wrong time, you know? Best do what she said.” The earlier shock from Reynard’s sudden appearance must have worn off as spell-fire starts streaking around us. A bolt of crackling energy passes inches away from my head, vaporising a rock a few paces back. I yelp and stumble into David, this is seriously bad. David grunts and with a shouted “Look out!” pushes Emmet and I out of the path of a lightning bolt that barely missing us, sending tendrils of energy to lick at our clothes. The bolt hits David straight on, but what should have been a completely lethal strike fizzles into nothing as the gilding on his cuirass starts glowing – enchanted armour. They were specifically prepared for this.

We stumble behind the body of a felled golem, spells either whizzing over us of being absorbed by its thick armour – no clue how Archer girl killed this thing. Reynard is still swinging his sword around, somehow engaged in combat with another of the huge golems while the Archer covers him from behind a stalagmite. The ten or so bodies around them illustrating just how fucked the situation has gotten. I draw back behind the golem as the spell-fire suddenly becomes a whole lot more ordered and in turn, a whole lot more effective. I doubt even their enchanted armour can hold out for long under this. There’s a lull as Reynard is driven back a step and a strong voice rings out.

“Imperial dogs! You have no idea what your actions stand to ruin today. Scamper back to your mistress and we might let you live!” That sounds like the leader. I peek out and – yep. Blonde, good looking, and with eyes literally radiant with self-righteousness – this has got to be a cult, right?

Apparently not to be outdone, Reynard shout back at his fellow blonde. “Traitor! You stand in the midst of a plot that threatens the sanctity of Her Ladyship’s kingdom. We stand here with the blessings of the church and the support of its priests!” Emmet shrinks down on himself, probably having come to the same realisation. Looks like somebody’s found themselves to be a cog in a machine.

While these two cult leaders are busy shouting at each other, David motions for us to follow. He makes a series of hand gestures, to which I nod seriously while having no idea what he wants. He starts darting between cover – workbenches or rock formations. Emmet and I stick as close to the career warrior as possible. We make a path around the outside of the skirmish – Ah, flanking, that’s what he was going on about – until we’re squatting behind some machinery on the other side of the pedestal, behind Sparkly-eyes. David starts gesturing again but I stop him, “What the fuck are you telling us?” This probably calls for a touch more specificity.

Not missing a beat, David replies, “The next chance we get, I’ll kill the two guards” he points to two cultist a few metres in front of us. “Then you” I don’t like the way he’s pointing at me when he says that, “run up and take out the leader”.

I stare at him incredulously, “Fuck you, I not going to kill someone just because you told me to.”

Someone shouts excitedly and the glyphs on the platform start glowing mana-blue. Definitely a summoning ritual. David doesn’t even glance back, “I strongly suggest you do as I say,” and in one leap, crosses the distance and plunges his sword through the chest of the first guard.

I don’t know why I follow. Maybe I’m pulled along by his momentum again, or just left dazed by the past few hours; either way, before I’m conscious of my own movement, I’m past David and at the foot of the platform. Another robbed figure (cultist? Who were these guys again?) gets impaled on a blade. Emmet wide eyed and still hunkered behind a crane, shakes his head. David just stares at me. Why did he want me to do this anyway? Shouldn’t this be his job?

I walk slowly up the stairs until I reach the summit as spells fly vaguely around me, the summoning circle in front of me. I suddenly very exposed at the top of the platform. Ah, that must be why I’m the one doing this then.

There’s a weird lull in the action, not that the battle (battle?) is slowing down; if anything, Reynard is being pushed back under a hail of directed spell fire. Maybe it’s that for this brief moment, it’s not relevant to me – I’m just another guy in a cloak on the pedestal – It gives me a moment to think (which I don’t seem to be doing).

I stare at the cultist leader (was I ever told that? Who was he again?) standing with his back to me – I don’t want to kill him. I don’t think I can. The glyphs glow brighter, a deep humming grows audible over the cacophony of magical combat. No, I can’t kill him – I won’t – I just need to remove him, I have to (I’m reminded that I’ve lost track of the Archer – and her sharp eyes). I catalogue my capabilities: firebolt? (mostly) lethal. Air freshener spell? Useless. A punch to the temple? Ha. I’m left with one option as the lull quickly fades, my experiment, the slap-dash attempt to broaden my utility. Light.

I snap twice, rosy mana blossoms in my palm.

Mind racing, why didn’t it work out last time? Too much mana? Do I need different gestures? I’ve never covered any other elemental spells. The humming reaches a critical peak as I walk forward, a droning that drowns out all else. There’s no time, the mana’s already formed; I start running. I can feel the magic of the runic array swirling around me – Gods, I really shouldn’t be here. My mind races through molasses. Running. Is there anything that can make this work? I remember Emmet’s stupid idea – not the scripture – more the intent behind the spell. Running. Don’t think of it as an attack or it’ll explode – think non-lethal thoughts.

His back fill my vision.

The glyphs pulse and space wobbles. His eyes turn around, trained at the blinding runes. There’s a flash and a girl (a girl?) appears in the circle. I think non-lethal, run towards him and ignore everything else.

“DAZE!”

O – O – O – O – O

Even the most bright-eyed high school graduate will admit that money tends to make people play fast and loose with traditional expectations of decency. A lawyer may take a break from cross examining the sobbing girl-scout’s baking credentials to admit that yes, one wouldn’t usually shout down a 10 year old in polite company. An insurance agent may concede that perhaps it isn’t really that likely for your new motorbike to be caught in a miniature localised black hole – but do you really want to take that chance? And a used car salesman will agree to basically anything; but it still won’t change the fact that this BMW sounds like a lawnmower.

The myriad reality warping effects of money all seem to stem from one basic evil – ironically, it’s the perception that one could be spending less than they might otherwise have to. The Discount. I shudder dramatically.

These thoughts pass through my mind as I try desperately to keep the Frappuccino I’d had for brunch in my stomach where it belongs. I watch as a nauseatingly vascular meathead stuffs his third straight ‘Easy Al’s’ convenience store hot dog down his throat – His thyroid bulging as the meat slurry passes by. I pretty sure those things have been sitting here in this hotdog heater since the store opened. At least they were here back when I started, and as the second most senior employee (two months - woo!), I certainly don’t remember seeing the damn thing even get cleaned.

Our valued customer turns back to the oven to go or round four (maybe five?) and I am reminded of my earlier musings. You see, about 10 minutes ago I found a big 50% off sticker that had fallen behind the counter, and reapplied it to the hotdog oven. A carless action thus prompting this monument to Western excess, as Mr. universe over there perked up like a rat in an abattoir. The sausages themselves are the kind of grey you get when all hope and happiness is leeched out by months of rotation heating. And as I watch, mesmerised by the macabre spectacle, they leak a sludge that honestly looks like a fetid mix of bone splooge and sick. If the power of a discount (he saved like what? 50c?) is able to convince someone to actually put that in their mouth, truly there must be some dark magic at work. That or he was really desperate to hit that fifteen-minute protein window.

“Evelyn!”

I jerk up to see my manager across the counter, glaring at me – no doubt for dreamily gazing at some power lifter guzzling ‘dogs. I raise an eyebrow in question, elbow still leaning on the counter, cheek resting on my fist. Claire just glares harder and nods meaningfully towards sausage boy. Oh yeah – shit. He should be paying for those. I stand and smile winningly, arms pressed together out front in the company approved non-confrontational service pose. I interject before he reaches for abomination number six (else I’ll be here all night).

“Sir, your total comes to $2.50, will you be paying with cash or credit?”

Just like that, the discount’s dark influence is broken, and in the face of such a vast sum ratty nose scrunches up – tantrum incoming. He begins spluttering inarticulately, flecks of god knows what start to sprinkle the counter. I forge on ahead, a smile stapled across my cheeks.

“Will that be all sir?”

An equally enormous dude sidles up beside him, the both of them protruding from their loose tank tops. The first one just keeps chewing vigorously. I almost suspect that he’d suffocate if he stops.

“… Sir?”

“mmmgr”

“… …. What?” what?

His friend puffs up. Jumping through every possibility and straight to confrontation. Like a dog with a ball.

“Manager.” Hotdog guy manages between gasps of oily air.

Oh, thank Christ, yes. A real smile spreads across my face as I basically skip off, not my problem now. I can feel Claire’s icy gaze as I prance away to the exact opposite side of the store. She won’t be happy with that, but fuck her – she’s only got like a week of seniority on me, tops. The sound of incoherent spluttering fades into the distance as move to the international food’s aisle (really just the cup noodle section) – it’s not much, but I’m hoping the promise of empty carbs will be enough to deter the gym rats.

In the chrome of the microwave dinner section, I see Claire reflected, still attempting to demand payment in the politest tone possible. Christ, I bet if I met those two literally anywhere else, they’d be perfectly respectful – if intimidating – people. Then money enters the scene and suddenly they’re The Customer, years of societal developed decorum go out the window. Whatever, one day I’ll be rich and powerful – then I can be the one to act like a worthless scum-heap of wasted human potential who could never have amounted to anything even if they were born in a gem encrusted gilded cradle. Okay – maybe I’m projecting a bit here.

I try to tidy up some of the aisle, more for the benefit of the security cameras than anything else – gotta look busy. Though apparently people who eat cup noodles are weird enough to take the time to line everything in neat stacks – that, or whoever bought them last was blazed out of their mind.

I stand up again to look for more shit to fiddle with when the aisle kind of wobbles. First thought – am I having a stroke? Can’t be, I’m young and shit, I did like 10 sit-ups literally yesterday. Second, more coherent thought – holy shit is this a gas leak? What are you meant to do about those?

I guess protocol would have me telling my supervisor, who is still hilariously arguing with those fat fucks – lol fuck that. I sniff the air, can’t smell anything - can you smell gas? Maybe I can just walk a bit closer, scope it out, it could be nothing.

I take one slow step towards the shimmering air, trying desperately to remember those tedious safety courses we had in primary school. However, as if my foot crossed some invisible threshold, the wobble goes berserk, my vision going crazy myself falling – Holy shit, did I just shit the bed?

In barely a second, I’m on my stomach looking up at some fine as hell blonde guy and Easy Al’s has turned into a stone platform in the middle of a dark cave. We lock eyes and totally have a moment, as a gentle smile shows off his perfect white teeth – then some albino dude charges in, slaps a hand over those sparkly eyes and blows his face off.

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