Charity work is great. It's basically the easiest way to get a tax write off.

  -Bill Sporek, board member of NextLight Utilities

  I will be the first to admit that I'm not exactly a graceful sleeper. When my eyes creaked open from the good night's rest, I was in the completely wrong orientation in the bed. In fact, my head was actually completely off the bed. Not to mention the absolute travesty that was the bedding, with pillows scattered every which way and the sheets violently torn away.

  Good morning, Max.

  “Muh…” was the noise that I chose to issue as my response to the polite morning greeting before slowly rolling into a more acceptable position. Once I hoisted myself into a sitting posture, words finally began to string themselves into coherent chains of thought. “Ugh, what time is it?”

  9:34 AM. You slept for approximately eleven hours, which is to be expected with how much energy you spent travelling over the last week.

  A part of me bemoaned the wasted time, but I was willing to forgive it now that I felt hella refreshed from sleeping like the dead. Didn't want to burn too much daylight though, as today was a day to see what Orson had to offer, so I quickly hopped off the bed. “Excited to hit up the town today, Cal?”

  Actually, there is one thing that does need to be addressed. Over the night, you received a particularly important email from an executive of Murdock Mining and Excavation.

  Such news made me physically deflate.

  “...Alright? Don't I usually have you vet through those? Actually, how the hell did they sniff me out?” Would be far from the first time some corpo pencil pusher tried to get my attention since becoming a Samurai, and would certainly not be the last. It was frankly impressive how quickly they chased me and Kevin down for their snake oil schemes back in Targ, not even a day after the brunt of the incursion wrapped up.

  Regarding the latter, the most likely chain of events was the receptionist from last night did in fact choose to disclose your presence to their superiors, which evidently did get passed up to our sender. From there, only minor sleuthing would be needed to deduce the exact identity of the Samurai, especially with news about nearby incursions likely to have spread to neighboring towns.

  “Sounds like the person who sent the message is quite the big deal in this town, or at least the company.”

  That would be correct, but there were several other characteristics of this email that made it worthy of your attention. Namely, the fact that the sender's address is a personal one, not one routed through Murdock.

  That…did actually catch my interest. “Huh, let’s have a look then.”

  A new box popped up from within my augs:

  [Death Punch:

  I apologize for contacting you out of the blue like this, but my name is William Shermanson, Orson Branch Operations Manager for Murdock Mining and Excavation. While I feel obligated to disclose my position for the sake of transparency, this is not an email cleared by the rest of the company. There is a pressing matter that has not been reported to the wider organization for a variety of reasons, and this message is a request for your insight, if not your assistance.

  I can be found at the Murdock Orson Branch Office if you would like to talk in person. Any time is fine for your visit, although I politely request you respond to this email if you are planning to take up this offer.

  Thank you for your time.

  -Will Shermanson]

  Reaching the last words, I stewed on the contents of the message. It was… irritatingly vague, to be honest. Shermanson didn’t actually state any hints or details of what the issue was, just that there was an issue and that no one else higher up the food chain had been made aware of it. The message itself didn’t stink that much of Corporatese, but keeping his cards that close to the chest naturally made me a bit skeptical about the entire ordeal.

  Still, it did feel earnest. I needed a second opinion, so I asked the little voice in my head. “Do you think it’s legit?”

  I would not have brought it up if it were not worth deliberating on. Based on my calculations, there is, bare minimum, a 36.874% chance that William Shermanson’s request in some way involves Antithesis.

  That was the big word, wasn’t it? Should I really ignore such a request if there was the chance it could fester into something much worse?

  I sighed, pushing myself off the bed at the same time. “Well, it’s not like I have any outstanding plans today anyways, so let’s hear him out. If his request turns out to be bullshit, I'll cave his face in before going for ice cream or something. Sound like a plan?”

  Understood. I’ve gone ahead and sent a follow-up message stating that we will be meeting him later today.

  “Dope.” Finally awake enough to fully think coherently, my eyes scanned the mess I’d made in the room, mostly in silent disgust at myself, but lingered on my backpack sitting in the corner next to an end table. “Before we go, I think I have some tidying up to do.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I had made the conscious decision to travel light on my way to Orson, both as a way of remaining inconspicuous but also because having mountains of stuff to bring with me was both anxiety-inducing and exhausting to transport. Even with that in mind, having to spend up points on necessities did mean my pack did fill up with clutter, and it would only get more packed over time if left unaddressed. So now that I had a moment to breathe, it was time to trim the fat.

  Methodically pulling items out of the bag, the for-sure keeps were my Samurai equipment: my mask, bodysuit, boots, and, of course, my gauntlets. My mobile shelter and the few sets of spare clothing that I had brought with me also were quite easy for me to hold onto; while I imagine some people could probably get off to sleeping out in the elements butt naked, I certainly wasn’t one of them.

  The rest was mostly junk. Trade secret, but being a Samurai actually produces way more waste than one would expect, mostly because of all our fun little toys usually come in an easy to open box. My meals during the trip on foot, for example, all arrived in these little plastic lunch box containers. My magical hygiene spray, just like any mundane aerosol can, left an empty canister that took up space once used up. Even my new augs had that tiny little box with tiny little paper instructions. Cal did let me know there was a way to dispose of items summoned via the system, but a) it cost points just like everything else and b) if I bought something it was my responsibility to take care of it. I’ll be damned if I were to just leave those out to litter, even if the place it was littering was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

  All the excess boxes were tossed into the garbage or put into recycling once I found it, but just chucking the food containers seemed like a waste of perfectly good plastic. Cal actually informed me that the plastic used to make the containers was actually more environmentally friendly than the dirt they would be left atop, but I wasn’t having it, so I chose to wash them out. The only source of water was in the bathroom, so by the end of my cleaning session both the sink and toilet looked closer to being unwilling victims of a night on the town.

  “Caly’ pal, is there any place I can donate these in Orson?” I asked, washing the last of the food residue off of my hand after making sure the half dozen odd containers were spotless.

  First, there is a charity on the way to the Murdock building who would likely take the extra storage boxes. Second, I would prefer if you didn't call me “Caly’ pal” ever again.

  I laughed. My disembodied head voice could be so judgy sometimes. “Noted.”

  Making sure the room was as nice as I could before leaving, I dropped off the key and soon we were back on the streets, the bustle of the town far more prevalent than when I had arrived. Clearly some of the people out today were witnesses of last night's street brawl, as I got a few odd looks that probably didn't have to do with the long gloves. Luckily, they kept it to just those looks and nothing more. I had half a mind to double back to the diner just to check up on everything, namely the waitress, but that would only complicate my involvement in it further.

  Man, now that I think about it, I hope I didn't kill those guys.

  After about an hour of walking and some credits lost to bus fare, I arrived at a strip mall with Cal's directions. It had been there for a while, what with the faded neutral beige that covered every inch of the exterior and several of the stores sporting boarded up windows, which was then vandalized by various graffiti. Mostly penises. Classy. Still, a few determined shops still kept their doors open here, including the ever present liquor store and massage parlor.

  My eyes lay on one of the places on the corner, titled “Pick Me Up: Miner Relief Services”, decorated with a particularly faded bronze sign with a pickaxe flourish in its logo. The place didn’t exactly scream high budget operation, but expecting one of those in a relatively small town like Orson was always unrealistic. The inside was quite a bit nicer. The tiny reception there had a somewhat professional look with its dark wood counter in the middle, but the warm color of the walls and the plush couch off to the side gave a sense of down-to-earth comfort that any company’s marketing department would have loved to emulate with even a quarter of the charm.

  My entrance did indeed catch someone’s attention, that being the blond man at the desk who was very clearly losing a battle to male pattern baldness. With a vigor I didn’t expect he stood up and addressed me with a glimmering look in his eyes, the one that spoke of passion instead of exploitation. “Welcome in! What can we do for you?”

  “I heard y’all take containers for recycling or something? I just cleaned them.”

  A part of his look wavered at the death of any sort of monetary donation, but that immediately dissipated and his previous energy bounced back. “Sure, mind if I have a look?”

  Carefully I unloaded the containers from my backpack, making sure some of my more confidential items didn’t catch his gaze. As soon as they fell into his hands, the man’s eyes scanned each plastic box and it was clear he was impressed. “These are…really high quality. How did you get these?”

  “I, uh, ate at some pretty nice places a few towns back,” I quickly lied. “Just never found a chance to unload the to-go boxes I had with me. Don’t like wasting food and all that.”

  “I respect that, especially with how ludicrous some of the pricing can be in these small towns. Who woulda thought, a monopoly on most of the market with no competition will only inflate costs.” He did a playful bonk on his head. “Anyways, while they are a little less standard for a donation item, I'm sure we can find a good use for them. There’s probably a few of the miners who would love to use these as lunch boxes for their kids.”

  As he set the containers on the counter, my curiosity reached its limit. “So…what do y’all do here, anyways?”

  The man practically glowed at the question. “Well, we’re a smaller support group for a lot of the less fortunate miners in Orson, usually those affected by Murdock’s policy changes. Usually it’s stuff like food drives, outreach programs, and focused assistance if needed, but we don’t exactly run a fully comprehensive operation here. I’ve been saying ‘we’ but it's really just…me right now.

  “But that’s not to say I don’t do good work! Like, for example, recently there was an emergency closing of several quarries and mineshafts from Murdock due to what they quoted as ‘geological instability’, but it was far more likely those areas were not profitable enough to continue devoting resources to. Y’know, the usual corporation excuses. But, after a hefty bit of petitioning and pulling a few favors, I was able to get the workers who were laid off back into the company, working in different shafts with the same or even better pay.”

  “Wait, that’s actually cool.” I gave a nod. Stories about corporations screwing over the common man were about as common as sand in the desert these days, but it was always nice to hear a story of turning it around a little bit, especially when the man helming the story was clearly in it for the warm and fuzzies as opposed to profits. My attention went to the desk, for which I noticed a small business card display. Antiquated for sure in an age of digital advertising, but charming in an old fashioned sort of way. “Mind if I take a card before I get out of your hair?”

  “That's why they are there. I'm gonna move these to the back, but give me a holler if you need anything else. Tell your friends if you can!” Hoisting all of the containers into a small tower of plastic the man waddled into the back.

  “Don’t got many of those, but I’ll try my best.” I hollered back while I walked out the building. My eyes went down to the card in my hand, reading the clean black print and bronze logo on the cards side. In particular, my eyes fell upon the name at the center: Gil Hubble.

  “Not sure I'll have a use for it,” I mumbled to myself, sliding the card into the pocket of my pants. “But you never know.”