The Autoplate Pauldron on my shoulder bent with my arm, feeling almost like it wasn’t there—aside from the several pounds of weight that pulled on the straps across my chest. It had taken most of the day to figure out the rail gun attachment’s power level; six ended up being the right amount of Charge to not rip it from its mount with every shot, but I’d bracketed it perfectly by jumping from eight to five, then back to seven.

  That had given me plenty of time to work on the Pauldron, which was really shoulder, elbow, and upper right torso armor made of train steel, with leather straps reinforced with dozens of filed-down bolts, each of which held overlapping washers in place.

  The bigger advantage was in the gears at the shoulder. Right now, they were the only ones on the armor, but I had plans for more as I covered more joints. The gears connected to wires, and the wires led to the small, round battery below the pauldron. With it equipped, I’d created a pseudo-spell effect.

  Autoplate Pauldron, by Hal Riley (Created Item, Charge 8)

  The Autoplate Pauldron allows the wearer to use the spell-like ability Blitz Strike. First Created by Hal Riley of Earth.

  Blitz-Strike: Overclocks the user’s weapon and wielding arm, allowing them to deal massive damage on their next attack.

  It represented a big upgrade compared to the Quick-Hoof Boots, which I stowed away in my inventory for when I’d need them, but it was also incomplete. I was hoping for a full set of Autoplate armor eventually.

  First, though, I needed more Charge—and to get more Charge, I needed more levels.

  I’d also spent a good hour exploring what had made those guns work. I knew how to shoot, but I’d been under the impression that firearms wouldn’t work any better than lighting propane or gasoline had. And in the end, I was stuck. They were normal guns in every way, but when I tried to fire them, they just wouldn’t work.

  They were a mystery, and they weren’t one I’d be solving today.

  I headed over to Jessica’s place. I’d worked most of yesterday, and the sun was just coming up, but I’d also had a chance for a few hours of sleep. Hopefully, Tori had too, because the two of us had dungeons to clear and people to track down.

  Five hours later, Tori sat on a bench in the overgrown, canyonlike expanse of former Downtown Chicago, sucking at a plastic water bottle we’d found in one of the strange coolers that seemed to be scattered around the city. I finished off a subway sandwich and cracked my knuckles. “We should get back to it,” I said.

  “Or…” Tori said. She sipped from the bottle. “Or we could find a dungeon and work on our levels. Calvin’s not here, and if he is, we’re not going to track the guy down by wandering the streets randomly.”

  She was right. I hated to admit it, but we’d been looking all morning, and I hadn’t found any hint of Calvin, the twins, or even other people. It felt like Downtown Chicago was little more than a monster nest. We’d seen plenty of those—ranging from four-legged, two-headed dog-things to a winged monster that had dive-bombed us until Tori got a hold of it with a well-timed Pull. But we hadn’t seen anything over about Level Twenty-Two.

  She was right. That didn’t mean we couldn’t knock out two birds with one stone, though. “When I was clearing The Void—the planetarium, I mean—I noticed that none of the gangsters had pushed south of its doors. Is there anything else on Northerly Island?”

  “Yeah. There’s a music venue, an air control tower, and the Twelfth Street Beach.”

  “Great. Let’s get back to Museumtown and check out the island. Bet we’ll find a dungeon or two there.”

  Tori started running ahead, but before she could get too far, leathery wings flapped and a hissing sound cut through the air. I looked up. “All you, Tori.”

  “Got it.”

  I stared the six-foot-wide wings down as they tucked into a V and the featherless flying monster rocketed toward me. Its fanged beak snapped open and closed as it hissed through the sky overhead.

  Concrete Falcon: Level Twenty-Three Monster

  Its dive stopped about fifteen feet above me, and its hiss turned to a squawk as Tori’s Pull caught it and yanked it straight down. It hit the ground with a thud.

  I activated Blitz Strike, charged up the Trip-Hammer, and brought it down on the Concrete Falcon as it struggled to recover. This close, its body wasn’t made of flesh at all; it looked more like a gargoyle from a turn-of-the-century skyscraper—or maybe from the library.

  The hammer hit it like a train. A crack filled the air, and a moment later, the Concrete Falcon was nothing but rubble and gray cement dust. “Good one, Tori,” I said, coughing as the dust vanished all around me and the yellow-green experience orb appeared.

  “You too,” Tori said. She pointed at the orb. “Go ahead and take the Minecraft orb. I just leveled up.”

  “What does that make you, then?”

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  “Thirty-Two. I bet I could start soloing Tier Ones now.” Tori’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Or you could let me try a Tier Two’s first floor. I could handle it for sure.”

  “I believe you could,” I said. I was already walking down the street, heading east toward Lake Michigan. “But the answer’s always going to be ‘your stepmom said no.’”

  “I know.”

  “Then why ask? It’s just more work for both of us.”

  “In case you break.” The mischievous look hadn’t disappeared. “You never know. It could happen, and if it does, I’ll be ready to take advantage of it. Or, in case you realize that no is not a word to use with princesses!”

  God, Tori reminded me of Beth sometimes.

  My sister had pulled the same kind of tricks with Mom and Dad. She was an expert at them, all the way from ‘I’m Just An Innocent Girl’—which worked until she was eight—to ‘If You Want A Puppy, Ask For A Boa Constrictor.’ She’d been a master at ‘Ask Until The Answer Changes,’ too, but that one only worked with Dad. Mom wasn’t anyone’s fool, and she’d disengage from my sister’s needling and wheedling as soon as she realized what was going on.

  “It’s not going to happen,” I said. “We can get your level up in the Tier Ones, though. Then you can ask Jessica. Maybe things will be different then.”

  “I doubt it,” Tori said, pouting.

  I put her on ignore as we walked back toward Northerly Island.

  As it turned out, I was more wrong than right. Saul’s men had cleared most of the island; Meig’s Field’s old control tower stood with its doors open and a five-day timer over it, while the outdoor music pavilion had closer to four and a half.

  I wasn’t ready to give up, though.

  And neither was Tori. She started combing the beach, kicking at rocks and looking for any sign that someone might have overlooked a dungeon. It took almost twenty minutes of concentrated searching before we found it. Or, more accurately, I fell into it.

  The dungeon entrance was a sinkhole in the sand.

  Tier One Dungeon: The Dozen-Path Descent

  Objective: Defeat The Cancer (0/1)

  Objective: Survive (0/1)

  Completion: 0%

  Smooth, dark gray stones with lighter spots lined the hole, with the fog gate hanging over them. It felt like they’d been cemented into place by the sand, but also like a poorly timed spell or hammer swing would knock them all free and collapse the tunnel that led into the darkness on us. Everything felt damp, with the…unique…scent of rotten fish and kelp filling the air.

  Tori wrinkled her nose as she hit the ground. “Smells worse than the zoo.”

  “You asked for this, remember?” I said, picking myself up. Now, let’s find the boss and get this done with.”

  “Hold on,” Tori said. She held up a hand and pointed. “Let’s do this right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll only take right turns, get this whole place cleared out, and work on a one-hundred percent full clear, just like the Menagerie dungeon. It’ll be great for our experience, and you could use some more parts, right?”

  She had me there; I did need more parts. I always needed more parts. “Fine.”

  “Yes!” Tori rushed down the tunnel ahead of me. I let her go; she was right that she could almost certainly solo any given Tier One Dungeon at this point. That raised a question for me, though. How were we supposed to get strong enough to bridge the gap between Tier Ones or the first floor of Tier Twos and their second floors? It felt like we were missing something, but I couldn’t see myself killing the Queen Tyrant anytime soon.

  Jessica was working on unlocking the key, and when she did, I hoped she’d ask the Consortium a few questions about the leveling process. Whatever we were missing, it felt important—maybe even crucial.

  “Uh, Hal?” Tori shouted from up ahead. “I found something.”

  I focused up, starting up the Trip-Hammer and loading a cut-down, point-filed bolt into the Rail Gun. Time to be serious. “Is it going to be a problem?”

  “I’m not sure. Come here!”

  I followed her down the narrow tunnel; sure enough, her passing had dislodged a few stones from the walls, and their smooth surfaces had left perfect little round molds in the sand.

  Tori stood at the edge of a wide room; a half-dozen or more paths led into it from every angle, including one that seemed to pierce the space from the top to the bottom. The uppermost vertical hole dripped water in a slow, steady rhythm, but it took a long time for the droplets to reach the bottom of the lowermost tunnel. Every inch of the floor was lined with river stones, each large enough that I could have wrapped my arms around them and just touched my fingers together.

  The dead fish and kelp smell had only gotten worse, too.

  “Boss room?” Tori asked.

  “Probably,” I said, but something felt off about it. Something felt weird.

  Tori nodded. “Great. Let’s kill it. Should be worth fifty percent.” She stepped into the room, and every rock in the cavern turned in place to stare at her.

  Calvin had been in worse places than the Windy City. Wintering in Minneapolis was one. Every day operating out of Da Nang Air Base was another. But living day-to-day on the Chicago light rail had been a close third. Every day was monotony: wake up, beg five bucks off someone, board the train, ride all day, go to sleep. Only the particulars changed. Would he get kicked off or kicked in the ribs? Would he end up with a few extra dollars or be robbed?

  When the Consortium made their announcement and the Red Line slammed to a stop, Calvin made up his mind. He’d had a…he hesitated to say good…he’d had seventy years. It was time to call the ballgame.

  The choice came, and Calvin picked Hardcore. He found a store in the tunnels, fought his last fight against the ooze guarding a treasure trove of food, and settled in.

  He was done.

  Calvin knew, deep down, that he’d really been done, too. If Hal had threatened him, gone for a weapon, or anything, he’d have let the man kill him. But instead, Hal had told him about the girl he was looking for and even trusted him with his stuff. Calvin had made a split-second, gut-level decision. Hal was a good man, trying to do good by a stranger.

  He’d trusted his gut in Vietnam, and it hadn’t let him down. It had kept him going for the forty years after that, too.

  The decision was easy. Hal needed help, and Calvin could provide it. After that, it had been easy to slip back into the soldier he’d been in the ‘70s. And from there?

  “God dammit,” Calvin muttered to himself, looking at the overgrown buildings that reminded him too much of the jungles he’d fought and staunched wounds in.

  Chicago sure had changed.

  He walked down the street, looking for those goddamn twins, just like he’d told Hal he would when the Nebraskan asked him. Chicago wasn’t as hostile as they had been for the last twenty years—or at least, the hostility passed over his head. He was invisible to the monsters, and even harder for the few gangsters roaming the streets to spot. If he’d had these spells on patrol outside Da Nang, he wouldn’t have had to say goodbye to so many of his boys.

  That was really why he’d chosen to help Hal in the Redline Tunnels, and that was why he kept helping him now. He reminded Calvin of his lieutenant—young, stupid, and too willing to put himself on the line to solve other people’s problems, but a good man.

  Those twins needed an evac, and Calvin knew the streets better than anyone. He’d find them or die trying—and Calvin wasn’t ready to die. Not anymore.

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