The Sisters at the House of Healing had recommended the Dungeon Janitor's Guild on the basis that they were always hiring. They said the pay was good. I didn't have the slightest clue what they had been talking about, but they had acquired an application for me and helped me fill it out.
That's when they also educated me on what Dungeons were.
It all felt strange, like things I should already know…but the last thing I could remember was waking up in a soft bed with a severe head injury and several broken bones.
The whole system, as they described it, worked like this: adventurers went in, killed everything, took all the treasure that was apparently there, left. Then the janitors cleaned up. Then everything came back. Then the adventurers went in again. I asked if anyone had considered simply not doing that. Sister Maren looked at me the way you look at someone who has said something profoundly stupid, and moved on.
This all seemed rather insane to me, but I was in no position to question. So once I had sent off my application and received an acceptance letter, I finished recovering and journeyed from the little village I had apparently been carried to, Stonewall, all the way to the big city of Moorhaven, capital of the Delvenmoor Empire. The weather was kind – I had been told that the Empire had moderate weather year round – and I managed to hitch a ride with a merchant caravan.
I'd never been to a big city - I'd never been anywhere, really, as far as I knew. It was a lot; big, sweeping streets, tall buildings, and bright colors. The marketplace was teeming with smells and sounds that were distinctly pleasant, but overwhelming. And so many people. More people than I had ever seen, apparently.
I saw the headquarters of the Adventurer's Guild: a huge castle that reeked of riches and conquest. Flags, banners, guards, the works. The Merchant's Guild was similar: a sprawling complex that just felt like every gold coin in the world flowed through it.
I didn't know what I had been expecting the Janitors Guild to look like, but it wasn't what I found myself looking at when I arrived.
It was dreary at best. A plain, concrete structure designed purely for function. Not a banner or flag in sight - only a sign that read "JANITOR'S GUILD DEPOT 1" above an ordinary set of iron-shod oaken doors.
I couldn't say I was surprised; the title of "Janitor" didn't exactly scream glamor.
I squared my shoulders and pushed open the door.
Inside was just as clean, functional and distinctly lacking in fun as the outside: The lobby was a large room comprised of a long counter on the far wall, occupied by several very attractive women in clean pressed uniforms, all engaged in clerical work with various people lined up in rope switchbacks. There were three large tables on other walls for filling out forms, and that was about it. Simple. Efficient. Appropriate.
I stepped into line, toying with my acceptance letter between my fingers. Seeing the other guilds on the way here had left me feeling wistful, but there was something about this place that seemed to feel just right.
The wait was both more, less and exactly as excruciating as I expected, all at once, but eventually I came closer to the counter, only four people ahead of me. I could hear the nearest receptionist speaking to a burly man in a gray jumpsuit. Her voice was pleasant, but carried a practised, rehearsed tone.
"Alright, Mr. Davenport, I've received your custodial report, I'll make sure it's stamped, filed and sent to your superiors for review. Here's your payment: twenty five gold pieces and five silver, as agreed. Your services in the Screaming Vortex dungeon is greatly appreciated. If there's no other business, I hope you have a wonderful day!"
As I watched the gentleman shuffle away, the line shifted again, and I was able to gather which receptionist I was likely to be seeing.
She was exceptionally pretty, with long auburn hair, dark brown eyes and stunningly white teeth. Her white collared blouse clung to her without being revealing, tucked into a black skirt.
But what really stuck out to me was her expression. She kept a smile on her face at almost all times, but the smile seemed just a little too wide, like it was at least slightly forced. She seemed almost manic beneath a facade of happiness. And the smile didn't fully reach her eyes.
I had to be imagining that. There was no way I could tell that from her smile alone.
I was pulled from my thoughts by her looking straight at me and calling "Next!" I had apparently shuffled up in the line without realizing it. I shrugged and stepped up to her at the counter.
Her smile was broad as ever. "Hello, sir! Welcome to the Janitor's Guild. What can I help you with today?"
I proffered my letter. "I'm here to begin training as a Janitor. Here's my acceptance letter."
She took it from me and unfolded it, her eyes flicking over the page. I could see from the movement of them that she was a very fast reader.
There was no way I could know that. She was probably just skimming. She took a long moment before speaking again.
"Alright, Lorne Callister! A signature from the Guildmaster himself. Quite an honor! I see your console is assigned. Now, to get your intake all squared away, I'll need to ask you some basic questions."
I nodded. "Right."
She smoothed out a wrinkle in her blouse and cleared her throat. "First. What town and province are you from?"
I furrowed my brow. It was a pretty easy question, but the second I considered it, I realized that not only did I not know, but I hadn't thought about it once. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure. I came here from the House of Healing in Stonewall village. Waking up there is the earliest memory I have."
Her smile faltered for the briefest of moments, before the corners of her mouth shot right back into place. "Very well, that's something we can probably sort out eventually. Next question: height and weight?"
I shook my head. "I'm not sure exactly. Tall? Not very heavy?"
She let out a small laugh that sounded like she didn't actually find me funny. "No problem! Please stand perfectly still while I take your measurements."
I looked at her bemusedly for just a moment before I heard a gentle humming at my feet. I glanced down briefly to see a bright pattern of light at my feet, all sigils and lines, glowing a bright blue. Was this magic?
"Please stand completely still." Her tone, while still polite, was much sharper than before, but she snapped back quickly. "We can't get accurate readings if you move."
I apologized and stood still, staring straight ahead, until the humming stopped.
"Six-foot-two, one-hundred-fifty-seven pounds, six ounces. Excellent!"
She wrote something down on a piece of parchment, which took a few long moments.
"And final question, at least for now: What is your ideal vacation destination?"
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I blinked slowly, unsure that I had heard her correctly. "Beg pardon?"
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Your ideal vacation destination. What would that be?"
I was a little dumbfounded. I struggled for an answer. "Ummm…maybe a town in the mountains? One with hot springs?"
She beamed in that semi-artificial way. "Wonderful! That should do for now. Here is a requisition form for a beginner's Janitor loadout. If you head down the hall to your left, fourth door on the right, you'll find the equipment room. You've also been assigned your initial skills."
"Skills?"
She paused, but then pressed on, undeterred. "Correct. All will be explained once you meet your Foreman. Please head to the equipment room!"
I took the form she was holding out to me. "Will do. Thank you ma'am."
It was at that moment, as I was turning away, that I felt all the air go out of the room. I watched the receptionists on either side of her snap their heads in our direction and I even heard small gasps from people behind me in line.
With a chill racing down my spine, I slowly turned my head back to my receptionist. Her smile was gone. Completely gone. It was replaced by an expression that would stop my heart if looks could kill.
"Did you…just…call me ma'am?"
I couldn't think of what to say. "Ummm…I'm sorry?"
Her response was soft and measured in a way that made my skin crawl. "Did you…just call me…ma'am?"
I was stunned. "...yes, ma'am?"
In that moment, I thought I set a bomb off in the lobby. The friendly, if put-on demeanor was long gone, and the scream that tore from this pretty, perfectly kempt receptionist made her seem more like a rampaging monster.
"LISTEN HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
The force of her rage made me step back slightly, every muscle in my body tensing.
"'MA'AM' IS AN HONORIFIC USED TO ADDRESS AN OLDER, MARRIED WOMAN! I AM A YOUNG, BEAUTIFUL, SINGLE LADY! HOW DARE YOU SUGGEST OTHERWISE, YOU DISRESPECTFUL PUNK!"
I took another step back. "I'm sorr-"
"I WILL END YOUR CAREER BEFORE IT EVEN STARTS! YOU MIGHT NOT KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, BUT I'LL FIND OUT AND TORCH YOUR FUCKING HOUSE!"
As I stared in utter disbelief, I watched as a door behind the counter opened and a large man in a formal suit emerged. He stepped swiftly behind the raging receptionist and grabbed her under the arms. Being hoisted bodily into the air didn't seem to deter her one bit.
"I'LL MAKE YOU SUFFER FOR THAT, YOU LITTLE BASTARD"
Her voice faded through the doorway as she was pulled, kicking and screaming, through the door. But still she continued.
"I'LL KILL YOUR FUCKING DOG! IF YOU DON'T HAVE A DOG, I'LL BUY YOU ONE, LET YOU GET EXTREMELY ATTACHED, AND THEN KILL IT. I'LL-"
Her voice finally became muffled as the door slammed shut. It was but a brief moment before another pretty young woman with a more natural smile took her place at the counter.
"Our deepest apologies, Mr. Callister. Poor Emily is…going through some things."
I laughed nervously. "Aren't we all?"
She tilted her head in the direction of the distant hallway. "If you'd kindly head down the hall to the equipment room, a clerk will happily get you kitted for your first day of training!"
I nodded politely, not daring to speak, and turned on my heel. My pace was not slow. As soon as the lobby was out of sight, I stopped to breathe deeply.
As far as I knew, that was the first time I'd ever feared for my life.
The first thing I noticed when I entered the equipment room was that the clerk didn't acknowledge me. I took a second to look around the room: sparse, no flair. Just equipment; brooms and mops hung on racks on the stone walls, shelves of bottles full of liquid that I had no clue what purpose they served; stacks of sponges, bins of dusters, and all manner of other implements. And boxes. Lots of boxes.
I fidgeted with the precisely folded parchment the receptionist had given me. She had said that I should just hand it to the clerk and he would set me up. I found myself stalling - I wasn't nervous; I just wanted to watch this man for a moment.
He was clearly bored, using a long-feathered quill to scratch figures into a ledger. He rested one hand on his cheek while he worked, that hand pushing up his round glasses on one side. His gray hair was thinning at the top but looked well-maintained. His eyes had deep laugh-lines, as did his mouth, despite his expression being one of complete detachment. He wore a bracelet on one hand that seemed to be woven haphazardly, most likely by a child. This was a family man with a happy life, albeit a boring job that he was probably quite good at.
I stopped - why was I observing him this way? It didn't make sense; I was just here to get my starting gear and go. It wasn't a hostage negotiation.
I shook my head and prepared to make myself known. As I was inhaling to clear my throat, the man spoke: "I'm sure you didn't come here to enjoy the ambience, young man. Come over here, please."
I paused hesitantly, but then stepped forward. "Good morning, sir."
The man quirked his eyebrow at me curiously. "Good morning yourself. Nice to see a youth with some manners around here."
He sat up from his desk, adjusting his glasses and focusing his eyes on me. "Do you have your requisition paperwork?"
I slid the folded sheet across the desk respectfully. He took it and flipped it open, eyes scanning. He lowered his glasses to perch on the bridge of his nose. He was near-sighted.
Why? Why did I notice? Why did I care?
I waited patiently as he scanned the form. "Hmmm…basic requisition kit…" He looked up from the letter. "Could you show me your skill array?"
His question caught me off guard: skill array? What was that? And even if I knew, how would I show him?
"Apologies, Sir…my what?"
His eyebrow quirked again, and he adopted an expression of mild annoyance tinged with genuine curiosity. "You got accepted to a Guild and don't know how to access your skill array?"
I was getting more questions than answers. I shook my head. "Let's say I took a blow to the head. Help me out?"
I watched him sigh, not in frustration, but in a way that one might sigh if you had to explain the concept of breathing to someone. "Your skill array is your unique entry into the Guilds' Grand Database. It shows you everything you're good at, and what skills you currently have."
Perhaps I had a dumbfounded expression, because he clicked his tongue before continuing. "Perhaps it'll be easier to show rather than tell. Close your eyes, focus on your thoughts in this moment, and, with intention, say 'console'."
It sounded like lunacy, but I was also a newly minted janitor with memory loss and nowhere else to be, so I did as instructed. "Console."
With a magical beep, a pale blue window, appearing to be made purely of light, manifested before me. It had several lines of text:
NAME: LORNE CALLISTER
AGE: 19
GENDER: MALE
PLACE OF ORIGIN: UNKNOWN
CUSTODIAL DESIGNATION: FRONTLINER
SKILLS: MOP PROFICIENCY I
I blinked in surprise at this sudden illusion, and the clerk gave a stifled snicker. "I've never seen someone who has never seen their own array before."
I shrugged. "Well, here you go."
He glanced briefly at it. "Okay, frontliner, just the one skill for now. You'll probably wind up branching into something more advanced…but for now…"
He stood up from his chair and shuffled over to a wall. I clocked that he had a limp; maybe from age, injury, or both.
"Okay, let's see…"
He took down a mop and bucket, hobbled his way over to where the brooms were and lifted one free of its rack, and then proceeded to pile a few other items into a wooden box before returning. "Standard new recruit mop set, broom kit, a couple of squeegees. Powder bombs for drying wet mess, basic cleaners like Grime Reaper and Gore-be-Gone, and some simple dungeoneering equipment: pitons, holsters for tools, bedroll for longer jobs, etcetera. And of course a standard issue Gear Pack, but I'll let you organize your tools on your own time; you'll want to find a system that works for you."
I almost felt half of that information go in one ear and out the other. I'd pick it up later, I was sure.
"This is a fully generic loadout. Your teammates, when you have a team, will probably have more specialized gear. Once your Foreman can observe how you work, they'll send you back to me."
I had no response ready, and he stared at me for too long before giving me a smirk. "Any questions?"
"About a thousand."
He laughed – it was the first time I'd heard it this whole conversation, and it was surprisingly genuine. "Sounds right. Well, you can address them to your Foreman. Your paperwork says you're in Hask's group; it's coming up on lunch time, so you can probably find him in the mess hall. Be polite with Hask. He's an ex-adventurer. Real stern."
I nodded politely, throwing the straps of the empty pack over my shoulder and hoisting the box of supplies. "I appreciate it, sir."
He waved dismissively. "Just doing my job, young man. You be safe out there, and…"
His eyes fixed on me for a very long moment. "Watch out for that head wound."
I bobbed my head in acknowledgement, confused, and shuffled out to find the mess hall.