SEAN ROBIN HUGHES

This follows Damage Management Team Part VI, Part V, Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

We made our way down two consecutive hallways, and there were no traps, no monsters, nothing. It was eerie as all hell. Why would it bother me? Why would it matter? This is my workplace, dammit.

Just a walk in the park. Another day in the life. Typical.

It was the human, the dwarf, the hot goblin, and the silly half-human with the big feet behind me that was giving me the creeps.

Probably. Maybe.

Definitely.

It was their fault. Stupid adventurers trying to get dead, and I was temporarily stuck with them. I felt a wave of something deep in my gut. Like a specter of rationalization telling me that I should know better.

I ignored it. Instead, I reminded myself that we were on the first floor. Still. The density of trouble looking to murderize us would be low, but I had the pervasive sense that someone was staring me down. Watching me. Eyes burned into the back of my head.

It had to be one of them? The four of them following along behind me and my crew, quietly having their own topsider conversations. I tried to not listen, but small snippets floated unbidden to my ears and nestled gently into the fore of my thoughts. Which was like a thorn in my damn foot, with every step forward, it felt worse.

Let’s be honest here, goblins are not made to be good at small talk, and the three of us on Team Kelpie were proving it the best we could. Grunk had floated a meaningful look or two my way nevertheless, but I tried to ignore it. It was as if he was expecting me to… chat.

Gross. I rather ram my face onto the pointy part of a knife. (Repeatedly.)

An intrusive thought wandered in, slyly sidling up to the side of my brain. I wondered if it was Miki staring me down. That didn’t bother me nearly as much (perv). Stupid sexy witches (and by extension, mages). (Double perv.) Why? Why was that strange topsider gob bothering me so much? Why was she so hot? Why am I talking to myself with a horny inner monologue and ignoring that growing sense of dread deep in my gut, right next to my scarred liver?

Distractions, I sighed heavily. My mind was wandering when I should be paying attention to the new scent in the air.

My crew and I felt the stairs on the air before we saw them. It was a small change… the air moved differently when there were stairs nearby. Like the air was heavier around the stairs, exchanging air currents as if there was a bellows pumping deep in the belly of the Underfell. Some levels would be fast to traverse. Others would be much bigger, but the stairs could be counted on to be consistent because of the air flow.

A dungeon had to breathe. It was a body. Each part was a component of the whole. The stairs were part of the lungs. The air exchanged in vast loops, circulating the air and ensuring that the lower levels were just as healthy as the top ones. I suppose that made us Dungeon Management Teams like the healing parts of a body. We came in like rushing blood, formed a scab, and built up the body of the Underfell again when it had been injured.

Making it to level 55 could mean that the stairs had been close and Christoph’s previous party had been both fast and lucky. Which was interesting… How often did folks come in? How far did they make it? Was there a Dungeon Management team that tracked things? That was another interesting thought, there could be a bunch of Underfell residents that did nothing but track the progress and outcomes… probably a bunch of netherfaires in little tweed suits noting the comings and goings in large bound volumes and diminutive scratchy feather pens.

I chuckled at the thought.

“Did you come this way before?” I asked the knight. I glanced over my shoulder. He was not interacting with the others, and his eyes were straight ahead, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Ah, he was nervous. “…when you made it down to level 55?”

“No. I did not. This seems different,” he replied warily.

Grunk looked back with an air of deference. “It should look different. The layout shifts time to time.”

“It shifts?” Streya interjected suddenly, abandoning her other conversation with the dwarf. “How?”

“Portaling. Did you happen to notice how symmetric… and boring… each gateway is between rooms and hallways, but the doors in the rooms or hallways are of any design?” Grunk asked.

“Yes?” Fror admitted, even though he seemed hesitant. But he was a dwarf, he would have noticed. Dwarves are well known for their interior design skills. No seriously. They are adept at such things (no doilies though, dwarves hated doilies.)

“They swap them around as sections. There is a whole department for layout design. They have to manage the interconnectedness of it all. Its a big job. And that is why we do what we do. To minimize the amount of work for them,” Grunk explained.

“How so?” Streya said.

“Mostly repairs. Sometimes retrofits. But its mostly walking into a mess and fixing it. The better we do, the less has to be shifted about. Its all about the masonry.”

Christoph tapped his chin. “But then you could just tunnel straight down?”

Grunk barked a laugh. “Definitely not. We go where we are needed. I couldn’t dig straight down even if I wanted to. I mean… I could get started, but I would not make it very far. The underlying principles of the Underfell would stop me. We are contained by the boundaries of the this place, the same boundaries that prevent surface access outside of the entrances halls. The rules of this place are strict. That is why it works.”

Miki shook her head, “No, its reason the Wizardking is still alive. If you are going to aim for immortality, you can’t cock it up with a shoddy attempt.”

Her ears swayed back and forth and I felt like a perv again for even noticing. I focused on getting to the stairwell.

Their eyes finally adjusted enough or the feeble light from Miki’s staff did its part. Streya noticed first.

“Thank the Sky,” she huffed. “I was getting worried we were lost.”

“That is hilarious,” I grinned like a fool.

Her face changed. It was not funny to her in the least. Her lip turned upward at the corner, “Why?”

“Do you have any idea how hard it would be to get lost? This is not a maze. I mean there are floors and rooms with mazes on them… but you either go inward or outward. Up or down. You would have to be an idiot to go in circles. Daft, even.”

“We were wandering for days.” Streya’s tone dripped with danger.

I ignored it. “Well, good thing you found us then, huh?”

“Yes.” Her tone was contempt-ish. Contempt adjacent?

Maybe they changed the layout while the party had made their way forward. Oh, that would suck. And… wait… if they could change the layout? How would the design team know there were people inside the section? They wouldn’t, right? What if they do that to us? What if we cross the same hallway twice? Would we know? Would we even realize? We could get stuck in some eternal loop of stuckiness.

I felt an attack coming on. My fingers got all tingly. Stairs would not be dangerous, at least not yet? Traversal down should be trivial? Why would I need to be in front? What if the stairs moved? Why am I not where I am supposed to be? We will never get back. We were going to wander. In circles. Forever.

FOREVER. Stuck in the stuckiness!

I leaned against the wall, put my head down between my knees, and waved them all to continue on. They didn’t. They stopped and stared at me.

Fuckheads.

“Tell?” Grunk raised an eyebrow. He lowered his voice to a near whisper, “You having an attack?”

I couldn’t say anything, just nodded curtly. My jaw was clenched.

“Is something wrong?” Christoph said, sounding worried.

His armor was still far too shiny for this place. Absentmindedly another intrusive thought popped in (I should find some mud.)

The others looked on with concern on their faces? WTF. Omish was not among them. He was only staring me down like Grunk was. Blank faces and eyes laced with scrutiny, because they both knew. Omish had a flash of fear cross his features, but he quickly shifted back to a stone-faced expression that would make the elder Grunk proud. That flash of fear told me all that I needed to know, like something terrible was about to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. His helplessness was but a quickly dying ember. Mine was in the process of consuming me like a wildfire.

“Ah,” Grunk turned to face the tall knight, laying a hand on my neck and massaging gently. “Teller occasionally has… uh, heart problems.”

He was lying. And I knew the truthsayer would see right through it. She squinted heavily at me, as if trying to scrye my mind. She was probably just picking up curse words and the fuzziness of falling deeper into the ugly noise of a panic attack.

“Huh.” She muttered, then remained silent. That struck me as weird.

Grunk leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper again, “Deep breathing, Tell. We can’t carry you out this time. You can’t give up. Stay with me.”

I tried. I tried so hard. I focused on my breathing, but it was like I was underwater and something large and heavy was pressing down on my chest. The darkness loomed at the corners of my vision, real darkness, the promise of unconsciousness. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My hands were shaking, so hard in fact, that I nearly flung my gauntlet from my hand.

This is how Dink felt.

This is how Dink felt.

This is how Dink felt.

Suffocating in the dark. No one to save… is this what Dink felt? His last moments, in a crushing black void.

My breath caught, it hitched in my chest as if it was captured on an nvisible hook in the sea of my desperation. I was about to pass out. Fainting wouldn’t be so bad. At least I wouldn’t have to see their eyes. I wouldn’t feel the pressure of their gaze, their judgments, all the things that a simple goblin like me did not need. But I did feel bad for Grunk and Omish. They had lost Dink too. We were all there.

But it was different for me. And because of it, they were losing me in pieces.

“Tell!” Grunk whispered all the more harshly. “Stay with us.”

I felt Omish’s hand on my other shoulder.

“I c-c-c-Can’t… b-b-B-b-Breathe.” I stuttered unevenly. Heavily. My lips were stone. My chest was stone. Only my hands knew life. Rattling like caged animals sinking in the waves.

“Teller. Come on. Just breathe.” Omish whispered.

“Is your friend in need of medicine?” Christoph asked again. “Miki could try something? Streya?”

Streya leaned against the wall. “This is not something we can heal.”

I glanced up at her, my eyes blurring and the edges of sight pulling in towards my consciousness. Smug? No. Certain. She looked certain about something. As if she had made up her half-breed mind.

“Guys?” Miki’s voice elevated up in pitch mid-word.

Christoph’s hand went to his sword handle, “Miki?”

“We need to back away from Teller. Ummm, like now.” Miki’s eyes were wide and she pointed a small finger my way.

Like all the others, my eyes followed the invisible line she traced in space, extending from the tip of her finger to my hand. My gauntlet hand. It was glowing. Pulsing. The pulsing was speeding up. My brain finally (FINALLY) kicked in, and the panic was forcibly shoved backwards as my first rational thought jumped to the fore.

Hex cores pulsed. When they were priming. Priming to do something huge. Like implode. Or explode. The variations were limited.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I stood upright, and tried to push and pull my hand free so we could all run. My EPG was latched on? My fingers could flex, and I could straighten them out, but I could not pull my hand free. The pulsing continued to speed up.

I finally managed, “I can’t get it off.”

“All of you should run,” Grunk said. He grabbed the flared edges of my gauntlet with both hands, put his foot against the wall and pulled with all of his might. I just went tumbling. He looked at the adventurers and lingered on Omish. “You ALL need to run. Go with them Om. I will be right behind you.”

“Tell?” Omish tried.

“Do what he says, Om.”

Omish nodded, and then grabbed the knight’s hand and pulled him towards the others, herding them all like a small green herding dog. His ears flopped as he padded along behind the other three, pulling the knight as a child pulling his father’s hand would. Christoph looked conflicted, but he allowed it.

“You should go too, Grunk.” I said. My voice was calm as death.

The pulsing was nearly constant. When it was solid bright white, the illumination would precede the growth of immense force that would turn into a pressure wave that would blow into bits whatever was nearby, rendering them to their constituent parts and hallowing out the stairwell into a spherical crater that the next damage management team would have to repair. Hex cores explosions were violent on a scale that very few understood.

Because anyone that could be a witness to the power unleashed never lived to tell their tale.

“Oh, now you are back with us, huh?” Grunk grinned with one side of his toothy smile.

“Sorry. I can’t control it, old man.”

“I know. I know.” Grunk nodded.

I didn’t know if he was talking about my panic attacks or the gauntlet.

Grunk yanked on my arm again. “You haven’t grieved him properly, you know. -Dink.”

“Mmmm.”

He yanked again resulting in nothing happening, again. He sighed, “I think we are going to die.”

“Run.” I breathed deep and resolved myself to my fate. I would feel nothing.

The pulsing reached its crescendo.

And then it was silent.

There was no boom.

There was no boom?

I opened my eyes (when did I close my eyes?), and Grunk met my own and then down to my gauntlet in apparent surprise. That made two of us.

“Huh,” He muttered.

“Yeah,” I affirmed.

My hand moved upwards of its own accord and I felt three of my fingers curl over. My palm was facing me, and my lone index finger waggled at me.

“Are you doing that?” Grunk asked warily.

“No. Most definitely not.”

My gauntlet was admonishing me like a parent would a child? What?

“I think my gauntlet is not my gauntlet anymore,” I muttered dumbly.

“Yeah no shit,” Grunk scoffed. “I think that was obvious when it did its little spider act in the dubndub. Miki said it was radiating mana. Only living things…”

“I know. Maybe keep it between us for now?”

“Sure. But you need to be careful with that thing. Maybe have Miki look at it?”

I felt a wave of outright rejection. “Why would I need to do that?”

Grunk laid his hand on my shoulder again. “She is a mage, Tell. Come on, you know as well as I do that she is the best person to help figure it out. And better or worse, our trailer is hitched to their horse for the time being.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good lad. Curious… can you take your hand out now?”

I set my gauntlet into the palm of my other, and like I had countless times, slid my hand free. My gauntlet appeared to be off, but I had a feeling that turning it off and on was something that I was no longer in control of. No more than anyone could to me. I slid my hand back in, and the hex cores rumbled back to humming life without me thumbing any of the controls.

It was as if it was telling me what I had already figured out. I patted the back of the gauntlet. “Yeah I know.”

“Who are you talking to?” Grunk raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. “Manners might matter.”

Grunk laughed, a deep rolling laugh that I did not hear often enough. “How strange this is. Alright! Let’s catch up to the others. They are probably at the bottom of the stairs wondering why their ears still work.”

I waved for him to go ahead, but he gently pushed my shoulder.

“Not this time,” Grunk demurred. “You first.”

I obliged.

This follows Damage Management Team Part V, Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

Grunk nudged me awake. “Get up, Tell. Time to go.”

I rolled over with a groan. “Are we seriously doing this?”

A stoic nod. “I think so. Is there a better option?”

“We could keep heading outwards…”

Grunk looked sideways towards the cluster of adventurers, Omish among them. “I don’t think they would let us. Lack of trust and all that.”

“Yeah… I have this fleeting hope that we still have options,” I mumbled as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “I need to feel like we are not doing something entirely idiotic.”

“Our lead is already shot. We don’t have a portal. We don’t know where a portal is,” Grunk frowned suddenly. “And I don’t know why, but I… believe them.”

“Believe them what?” I asked.

“I believe them about the Underfell, and the Wizardking… do you think it is a coincidence that our lives are short? We just accept it? I mean if I have a chance to live another thirty, fifty, seventy years? Is that worth it? If I can help the kids in my village live longer? Or Omish? Or even you, you hardass? Honestly, I would do it. I don’t know why, Tell, but I believe ’em.”

I felt some pressure at the back of my eyes like a tear needed to form. I pushed it down with a sense of righteous Goblin anger. Gobs don’t cry. “Alright, alright you sentimental lunk. Help me up. But what about the Underking stuff you said before? Him giving us power, and all that?”

Grunk looked at this hands, embarrassed. “Can’t both things be true? Now, I am not sure it is worth the cost. By the way, the little fire mage was asking about you.” Grunk offhandedly mentioned as he slapped dust from my shoulders.

“Hmmm?” I tried to act nonchalant. She was a smoke show. What was it with magic and sheer undiluted hotness going hand in hand?

Grunk grinned slyly. Pervert. “Asking where you grew up. Told her I had no idea.”

“Yeah you do. Stoccard-on-the-Well.” I made a face at his apparent lewdnes. “You going senile?”

A semblance of his own nonchalance via a shrug. “Maybe I didn’t think it was for me to share.”

“Hmmm.” I agreed emphatically for all the reasons he already knew. Grunk was a bastard.

“Let’s go my little Goblins!” Christoph announced from the door. “Miki, light the way!”

Miki tapped her wrist twice, and her staff appeared in her hand. She was a full blown mage, there was no doubt. Being able to summon a staff of power? Check. Being able to focus magic without it? Check. A goblin mage. The world was queer as fuck. Her staff end, terminating in a small blue jewel the size of an eyeball, radiated overly bright at first, then shifted downwards to a muted soft glow.

Yet, I still had to squint. “Maybe we should walk in front,” I muttered.

“We will walk in front of you all,” Grunk announced much more loudly.

The tall knight looked uncomfortable. “If we are together, we are safer, are we not?”

“If we are in front-” Grunk tried.

“They can see better. The light we need hurts their eyes,” Miki finished.

I scrunched up my nose in annoyance, but Grunk squeezed my wrist. I smiled instead. A big fake eat-a-big-fat-bag-of-troll-testicles kind of smile. “That’s right. And when we step into a razor trap, you will only get splashed with a tiny little amount of our blood.”

“Stop it,” Grunk whispered.

“No,” I whispered back.

Fror looked uncomfortable. “Razor traps? Is that a thing?”

“Oh yes,” Omish jumped in with glee. “Entire cows are rendered down to their prime cuts. Imagine a whirlwind of razor wires spinning about like a small tornado… slicing and dicing until all that is left is only chunks. They are aw-www-www-esome.”

“Great,” Streya smugly frowned. “Yet another scary thing to put into my book.”

“Book?” Omish looked confused.

Fror shook his head. “You had to ask.”

“Pay no attention to my dwarven friend. It will be the talk of the homeland. I am thinking using the title ‘The Underfell Guide, or perhaps, the The Idiot’s Guide to the Underfell, or maybe even, The Underfell and You, a Survival Guide. The title needs to be workshopped.”

“I would say.” I muttered.

“What would you call it then?” Streya looked at me sternly, but it wasn’t anger, it was… curiousity?

“What is it about? Like, uh, what is it focused on?” I tried to salvage my offhanded smartass remark.

“Oh, it is all the things. It is meant to be the source for new adventurers. At some point, the Underfell is inevitable for any growing population. Villages attract entrances. We don’t understand the mechanism, but when the village reaches a certain size, a dungeon entrance opens nearby. I am hoping to create a guide on all the ins and out of surviving, even thriving, in the Underfell. How to sleep, how to eat, how to avoid the traps, how to fight the monsters, how to survive. All the important bits.” Streya waved at the dubndub we were all filing out of. “How to use the washrooms… no one knows about how they work! Firewood? Waste gates? Fresh water? It is remarkable.”

“Not that remarkable. The Brownies have to put their dead somewhere,” Grunk sighed.

A horrified look came over Fror’s face. “What?”

“Brownies. When they die, they become wood. They are shuttled to the nearby burial site… which are the fire boxes in the dubndubs,” Grunk explained.

“We were burning corpses?” Fror’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.

“Its fine. They want it to be that way. Funeral pyres and all that. Its how their departed return to the Spirit Realm.” Grunk said. “And the smoke gets the harpies high.”

“By the Fist,” Fror had turned white as a sheet.

“Oh, its fine. Its fine! Everything is fine!” Grunk waved at him apologetically. “A little funeral, a little hookah action, everyone wins!”

“After all, don’t dwarves turn to stone when you die?” I asked.

“Absolutely not! Where did you hear that nonsense?” Fror protested.

“Around.” I tilted my head to my shoulder as an explanation. It was common knowledge.

“When we die we are just like any other living thing, we leave a corpse behind.” Fror grimaced.

“I think you would make a nice cornerstone if you did turn to stone.” I added thoughtfully.

“We don’t turn to stone!” Fror insisted. “But thanks. Cornerstones are important.”

I smirked. “This way.”

We walked down the wide hallway, the three of us in front, the four of them a few steps behind. The far end was lost to the dark, but with the steady mana glow behind us, I could make out a fair bit of the details. There were pressure traps across the full length of the corridor about two meters ahead. I held up a hand for everyone to stop and glanced across the length of the ceiling.

Small nozzles along the edge. Acid traps. Nothing like being dissolved and cooked at the same time! Slime shit. Literally. That meant that there was a slime cell nearby…

“What?” Christoph whispered.

Omish pointed as if it was obvious. “Pressure triggers.”

“Where?” Christoph squinted as if he needed glasses.

“How did you survive to get that big, human?” I laughed.

Christoph smiled in self-deprecation, “Lots of good food from a great mom, little goblin. How else? Teach me. I want to learn. How do you see them?”

Christoph kneeled down, his armor clinking lightly against the stone floor. Streya leaned over next to him, a little sketchbook in one hand and a well chewed pencil in the other.

Omish looked at me questioningly. I waved for him to continue.

“See the ridges on the stone? Its faint. All along the edges.”

“Noooo, oh yes, I do see them. Like scratches! Yet the plates are the same height as the stones around it?”

Omish made his hands flat and put them side by side as if representing the stones. “The pressure trigger relies on a static fluid pressure underneath. Its called hydraulics. The edging where the stone meets other stones allows smoother movement so the trap is triggered successfully. If they were perfectly flush, dust and dirt could make the trap stick. There is a trap disable along the line of the stones… we just have to find it, flip it and the static pressure will be negative. The trap can’t be tripped.”

“Why would there be a mechanism to turn it off?” Streya asked in a mild whisper.

“Why are you all whispering?” I teased. “The traps cannot be set off with sound. We have to be able to disable traps to work on them. Everything down here requires maintenance.”

I patted the tall knight on his blonde head and strolled along the length of stones. I flipped my trusty knife out of my belt, stuck the square edge of it against the disable stone, and flipped it up. All the pressure traps sucked downwards a few millimeters, as if relieved. Which in a sense they were, when you thought about it.

“Interesting.” Christoph stood up and walked over the stones.

“What is interesting is that you could have still tripped it there, bigfoot.” I grimaced. “Policy states not to intentionally step on traps even if they are in a disabled state, as the trap can still be triggered.”

“Oh! Oh!” Christoph danced forwards a few steps and looked at the three of us goblins with guilt written broadly all over his face. “Are we ok?”

“Are you melting into a screaming pile of goo?” I asked.

“Nooooo…” He exhaled, trailing off.

“Then you are fine.”

A look of relief crossed his features.

“Seriously? How do you survive?” I asked again.

Streya made a few scribbles in her little black notebook. “Why are they called dubndubs?”

That caught me offguard. “Sorry?”

“We call them washrooms… where we camped last night.” She clarified further. “You keep calling them something else. Something I don’t recognize. Like a different tongue? Dub-in-Duubs? Is that High Latter Orcish?”

“Nope, just laziness. Waste and Water rooms. Double U, Double U. Dubndub. Dubndubs plural.” Grunk explained. “In training, wthey are called safe rooms. No traps. No lairs. No distractions.”

“Why?” Fror asked confusedly. “It is a dungeon!? We are in a dungeon, right?”

“Yeah so?” Grunk raised his unibrow on one side.

“It kills explorers! It is designed to harvest lifeforce. Why put in safe places?”

I internally agreed. It never had made sense to me either. Don’t get me wrong, they are very useful. But that means they are useful to everyone, and that’s not great for us when the goblin killers feel nice and cozy (and fuck those guys sideways).

“Because they serve a purpose. It is an ecosystem. For the Underfell to persist, it has to be in balance. The dubndubs create balance in lots of ways. They serve water, they haul waste, they are used for transfer points for all sorts of community byproducts.” Grunk seemed to enjoy teaching the adventurers. “Each dubndub is at a critical junction on that part of the floor, and it is there for a reason. The communities around it need them.”

Streya put her hands up, pencil and notebook both held askew. “Hold on. Communities?”

“Yeah. Communities. These acid traps,” Grunk pointed at the nozzles. “Waste product from a cell of slimes. They are up there, or nearby, living their slime lives, doing whatever slimes like to do. I have no idea. They are slimes. As far as I know, the height of their civilization is forming geometric shapes. Tetrahedrons. Cylinders. Cubes. And digesting things.”

“This is wild.” Streya sounded like she on the verge of outright giddiness.

“How did you think this all worked?” I asked sardonically.

Streya’s eyelids spread wider as she thought about it. “From our side of all this, one day a dungeon entrance appears. Monsters start to come out at night to steal our livestock and our children. When that dungeon entrance appears that day, through the curse of the Wizardking, we are no longer able to delve near them. Our shovels stop turning the earth, our mattocks do not carve stone, and the wells cannot be dug any deeper. For some communities, that means fleeing at a minimum. Others are able to make do. Some thrive when they get lucky with where the dungeon entrance appears and they just have to guard their town from the monsters. For most villages, the dungeons are a pox. A plague. To us, it is a form of warfare being used against us. Sometimes a dungeon entrance sinks back into the earth and life picks back up… but that is rare.”

“It’s not warfare. It is our homes.” Omish’s nose wrinkled at the thought.

“Yes. That is true.” Streya nodded thoughtfully, turning back to her notebook and scratching out her secret thoughts.

“Slimes. Yuck.” Christoph shuddered.

“I agree,” Omish smiled. “Yuck.”

“We can keep moving,” Miki sighed. “As interesting as this is, we are still on the first level. The only way we win all this is if we keep making progress down.”

“By killing the Wizardking?” I asked. “Is that winning?”

No one replied. But some uncomfortable looks floated between the adventurers.

“Surface dwellers…” I muttered it under my breath. Grunk nodded sagely.

“How far down is it?” Christoph asked as he turned inwards to head towards the end of the hallway.

“How far is what?” I sighed. I knew what he was asking, but playing dumb apparently was also in my wheelhouse.

“The Halls of the Underking start at level one hundred and one.” Grunk’s voice was positively glowing with pride. “But even we don’t know how deep it goes. Need to know basis. And we don’t need to know.”

“Did you say one hundred and one?” It was Fror’s turn to make a face.

I loved seeing that face. What was that? Dismay? Defeat? Ooooooh, please let it be defeat! Turn around and flee, suckers.

“I have made it to fifty five,” Christoph said offhand. “Granted our mage had to emergency portal us out, but we did get at least halfway before. That counts for something, right?”

I was impressed. I had never gone below ten (for obvious reasons, such as dungeon management teams primarily having the bulk of their work closer to the surface.)

“Fifty five?” Omish whistled. “That’s not bad.”

“I lost half of my party,” Christoph frowned heavily. “It seemed bad at the time.”

“And you wanted to try again?” I teased. It did not sound like teasing. Grunk gave me a disapproving look.

“I have my reasons,” Christoph said tersely.

“We all have our reasons,” Miki admitted. “Alright Team Kelpie, where is the nearest stairs?”

I have no fucking idea, lady. But instead I said, “This way.”

This follows Damage Management Team Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

“Soooo… how long have you been in…?” Fror leaned back as he asked the question, not sure where to take it.

“Dungeon Management.” I inserted for him.

“Right. Dungeon Management?” Fror leaned back over the pleasantly crackling fire. “Grunk?”

“My entire adult life… so about fifteen years?” Grunk flicked a toothpick into the fire, watching it catch as it fell amongst the embers.

“Teller? How about you?” Fror was being polite.

He wasn’t a total orc taint, but he was still a dwarf, and an explorer. So he had a couple strikes against him. And I was going to hold them against him. I was goblin. We are great at grudges.

“I started in Dungeon Management after a stint in farming. It was what my dad and mom did, but it wasn’t for me. I have been at this for only six years.”

“This is my first year,” Omish volunteered.

Christoph chewed on a bit of journey cake, nibbling the corner thoughtfully. “When you do start working?”

“Five,” Grunk offered.

“Wow. Five years old.” Christoph nodded. “How long do Goblins usually live for?”

“My grandpappy died at the age of thirty. But I would be most of us kick off well before that.” Grunk shifted in his seat and I knew that he was farting. He would blame Omish if anyone looked uncomfortable.

No one noticed.

Does that mean that everyone was farting?

Should I be farting?

I had never hung out around a fire with a party of explorers before.

“Wait, that can’t be right.” Streya hooked her thumb and finger into some old bow twine she was refining into lashing. “I met Miki, what? Twenty five years ago? When I had my outparty?”

Miki winked salaciously. “Your fifty fifth! I remember that! Oh, I got so drunk!”

“You set the salad bar on fire. My da was pissed.”

“Who wants salad at a coming of age? Come on, Streya, beers and steaks. That’s all you need!” Miki laughed.

“Hold on. Back the fuck right up-” I interjected across their jog down memory lane.

All four of the explorers stopped and turned expectantly. Miki made a face. Something between an eyeroll and admonishment.

“Let me ask you a question first, Teller. Why do you think Goblins only live for twenty five years? And before you give me some bullshit… think about this. Christoph? How old are you?”

“Twenty eight.” The human meat shield replied.

“Fror?”

“I just had my one hundredth and fourth.” The beard with arms replied.

“Streya?”

“Eighty even. Still a maiden.” Streya crossed her huge hairy feet like she was keeping a secret.

“And I am nearing fifty.” Miki finished. She waved at me as if I needed permission to answer her dumb question.

“Stress?” I offered lamely.

Grunk nodded as if what I said made perfect sense. Omish, poor kid, looked so confused his might spin backwards and fall off.

“No. Not stress. This is an extractive ecosystem. This whole thing.” Miki waved her arms erratically.

“The whole thing? What whole thing?” I said.

“The Underfell.” Christoph said kindly, his voice was gentle. A stark contrast to the huge sword at his waist.

Grunk shook his head emphatically. “That is a lie.”

“I assure you it is not,” Streya said.

Miki continued, “Three hundred years ago the Underfell Wizardking was just another guy. War came to his part of the world-“

“We all know the story,” Grunk crossed him arms, his body reflected his opinion. “His family, his people, all of them were killed. He searched the world to find a way to protect others, those that could not protect themselves. He created the Underfell, reshaping the world to allow those that had been beneath the heels of the world above to have a place down below. He locked you all out from those protected spaces. He gave us the ability to choose for ourselves.”

“That is what they told you?” Miki was making that confused face again.

“That is what happened,” Grunk asserted firmly.

“Oh that is what happened, alright. But not for the reasons you think.” Miki snapped her fingers, a set of sparks lighting the space. “And you do NOT have a choice.”

“I have a choice.” I said.

“You have the illusion of a choice.” Miki fired back. “But you are inside one of the largest lifeforce generators ever devised. And everything you do is to keep it running. Smoothly.”

I frowned angrily, “This is dumb.”

“It might seem that way. But the Underfell Wizardking did not win three hundred years ago. He was defeated.” Fror recalled sadly. “Many were lost that day. My father included. Many tens of thousands of good people were lost. We believed it was a mighty victory under the direst of circumstances.”

“So you are telling us, that the Underfell Wizardking… fucking died? And then created the Underfell? And he just decided to hole up for three hundred years?” Grunk said, his lip curled like he was smelling a shit smeared across this upper lip. “This is bullshit. Look at all that he has done for us? For all the species underfoot of the ‘humans’ and the ‘elves’ and the ‘approved races’.” Grunk added air quotes for each, as if he was using prejorative slang. “The WizardKing has done more for all of our lot than any of your kind. What have you ever done? I mean besides kill us?”

Fror showed his teeth (a mash of white squares nestled in the darkness of his bushiness), “You think the dwarves have had it any easier? Or the Elves? Or the Humans? Or the Halflings? Our kind have seen violence and death just as much as your kinds, and usually at the hand of you and yours.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Christoph sighed. “Can we just agree for right now that none of us wishes harm to any of the others?”

Everyone nodded slowly, except me.

“No.” I grimaced. “I very much wish I could harm all of you. For being dumb. Grunk is right. We were the ones being stepped on. When have goblins ever won anything? We are not even in the middle of the food chain compared to all of you. And the Underking has been nothing but a protector for us.”

“I know you believe that…” Miki tipped her chin upwards, looking at the ceiling as if she searched for inspiration. “But the Underking is using you. All of you.”

Streya pulled an old flechette arrowtip from a pocket to pick at her teeth with the sharp point. “Teller. Look at me.”

“What!? I mean, what are you? A stunted human?” I said angrily. I don’t know why I was so upset. Something boiled in my gut, and everything they did was pissing me off. Grunk seemed uncertain, and Omish looked like the fucking idiot he was.

“I am a halfling. We are not human. We are not dwarves. We are our own. I have traveled very far and wide. Across the continent to the seas of the east, the deserts of the south, and the northern wastes, and in all of that travel, I have learned that there is much evil out there-“

“No shit.” I mumbled hotly.

“Let me finish. I have seen many evils, but they are simple evils. Mundane, even. Selfishness. Gluttony. Envy. The protection of kith and kin at the cost of others. Evil that seems to come out of good, out of love, but is a harm to the greater good. That is where our people’s struggles comes from, Teller… bad communication. Lack of patience. Lack of empathy. Lack of understanding. But the Underking is something else. He is evil personified… and the fact that he is causing you harm and you do not even realize it, that should be a consideration in just how evil he is. He has bent the world to his whim, and that is evil of a wildly different sort.”

Grunk groaned with a lilt of admission, as if it all made sense.

“It is no different than a dragon hoarding untold wealth that will never be spent,” Miki said. “The Underfell was created for one purpose and one purpose only.”

“And what is that?” Omish’s voice was full of wonder. Just a stupid ass kid entranced by a story.

“To keep the Underking alive,” Miki finished.

“I don’t believe it.” I groused.

“Come with us then. See for yourself,” Miki ventured. “Better yet, prove us wrong.”

“If I prove you wrong… what do I get out of it?” I tried.

“Knowing that you are right.” Streya offered with a shrug.

“I will go.” Grunk said.

I hit his shoulder. “Grunk!”

“I will go too.” Omish grinned. Yep he was hooked. Dumb shit intern.

I would have hit him too, but Grunk was in the way. So I hit Grunk again. He looked at me sidelong, annoyed as hell, but he did not move otherwise.

“What about you, Teller?” Christoph nodded encouragingly.

What about me? I grabbed my gauntlet, leveled it, and the red beam turned the knight’s top half into a red mist. I jumped into Miki with my fist extended splattering what was left of her pretty skull into Fror’s eyes. Then I death-beamed the stunted half-human thing, turning her midsection into a gaping hole of charred nothingness. She plopped backwards like a felled tree. Finally the dwarf roared, and I punched him as hard as I could in the face. His head popped free like a cork, bounced twice and hit the door with a dull thud. I cheered in victory, roaring over their carcasses. Omish clapped in admiration… while Grunk was in shock. And he shit himself again.

“Teller?” Christoph repeated. “Are you alright?”

I looked at the party of adventurers, inwardly bummed my fantasy was not true. I nodded. “Fine. I will go too. But only because someone needs to watch these two.”

I hit Grunk again.

“Stop it.”

“I need to get it out of my system, Grunk.”

“Then hit the guy with the armor,” Grunk said.

“If it will help, that is not a problem,” the infuriatingly nice knight smiled.

Fuck.

“I am going to go lay in the bench and attempt to sleep.” I grumbled sullenly. “If the world ends, please don’t wake me up. I rather die oblivious.”

I got up and did exactly that. I dropped my gauntlet from my hand next to me, curled up around it and somehow managed to go to sleep surrounded by the ancient stone, its presence making me feel like I was home.

… Even if it was killing me slowly.