Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

"Are you using a different deodorant or something, mate?"

I ignored Mooney's question, finding it faintly outrageous that a man who smelt like something had crawled inside his soul, died and then spent the next decade fermenting and rotting could cast aspersions about anyone else's hygiene.

"It's just," he continued, "we're getting quite a lot of the old stink-eye."

Sadly, he wasn't wrong. We'd barely been walking the Barbican terraces for five minutes, and it already seemed as if I was transporting a portable social weather front. There'd been three office lads in slim suits who'd walked past, performed a neat double-take, and then spiralled away like starlings avoiding a windscreen. A jogger's pace had hiccupped, then accelerated as if fleeing an exam. Even the security guard on the podium level had watched me over a finger pressed to his earpiece, and a hand rested on his rapidly fluttering heart.

Everyone who came near me, or laid eyes on me, was having two conflicting emotions at the exact same time. The overwhelming desire to kick my arse, whilst at the same time being thoroughly intimidated.

I was feeling rather overinterpreted.

Eye contact slid off me as I was given a metre of clearance without anyone quite knowing why, then felt angry about it and wanted to punch me on the nose, then gave me another half for luck. A kid pointed and said, "Mummy, why's that man feel so scary?" before Mum hastily steered the pram behind a planter as if avoiding a passing a minor landslide.

"See?" Mooney said, peering around in concern. "Old stink-eye."

"They just don't know me yet," I said.

But it wasn't even like it was just humanity that seemed to be wary of me. Even automatic doors hesitated at my approach before opening wider than necessary. A revolving one tried to close me out and thought better of it.

"I still say this is a horrible idea, Undershaft," Mooney whined. "I've never got involved in any of your heavy, heavy stuff, have I? You're going to get me into some serious trouble."

I strode onwards, still ignoring him. He hurried to keep up, talking faster in case, presumably, any sense of morality caught up with him. "I'm light admin at best, mate. I'm more of your… curatorial crime, yeah? You know what I do best, and its not anything like this. I don't steal; I rehome. Pre-loved electronics looking for a fresh start. Bespoke logistics for wobbly merchandise. I'm HMRC-adjacent on alternate Tuesdays. Victimless commerce, really—unless you count corporations, and they love insurance. More than anything, mate, I don't do guns. Christ, on weekdays. I don't even do knees. At least, not unless the client's unreasonable about repayment windows. I am a community recycler, Undershaft. I upcycle handbags. I offer cash-flow counselling to distressed assets. In fact, I'm practically a charity, if you squint."

I sped up a little to try to escape the rest of that self-serving little monologue. During my working life, I'd dealt with plenty of men - and women - like Mooney. People who believed they floated above the muck because their own hands didn't quite disappear into it. Of course, Mooney's paws were objectively filthy, but the metaphor still stands. The truth is, the big sharks – and I'm self-aware enough to recognise I'm one of those - don't cut their own watch straps. They swim, and the remoras do the delicate work. Nibbling the parasites and guiding the big mouth to the soft spots. Or picture a crocodile with a polite little bird picking steak from its smile. Helpful, hygienic, and knee-deep in someone else's blood.

People like me and Griff might be the predators, but we run faster, bite cleaner, and get away with more because a thousand Mooneys oil the hinges, sell the burners, whisper the names, and invoice in cash.

Mooney might be doing his best harmless Fagin act right now, but anyone who's actually read Oliver Twist knows Fagin's fun runs red. A few steps removed from where the bad things happen is still on the same staircase. I know for a fact that Mooney has arranged "misunderstandings" that have turned into, at least, significant hospital stays. On top of that, he's moved product that moved needles, and he's pointed lads at doors he knew would open with screaming. He might call it facilitating, but I know better.

But right now, I needed him. Or, more precisely, I needed the doors he could open.

"Which way now?" I said, pausing as we emerged onto street level.

"Depends," Mooney said.

"On what?"

"On how many cans of worms you're really set on opening?"

That gave me a moment's pause, and I thought about the details of my latest quest. Four more Shadow Orbs to find. Then Griff's throat to locate and introduce to my hands. And a timer blinking down in the corner of my vision. I wasn't just set on opening a bunch of cans, I was thinking of franchising a bait shop.

"Let's just say I'm not too bothered about consequences right now and take it from there"

Mooney looked at me, and something approaching sincerity swam across his face. Watching it happen was somewhat disconcerting. Like seeing a goldfish attempt trigonometry and get one of the questions right. His eyebrows wobbled, nearly capsized, and yet somehow stayed upright.

"Are you sure you're okay, mate? I mean. Properly? Because you're giving off all sorts of vibes."

I opened my mouth to answer, but then shut it again. Now did not really feel like the moment to unburden my soul about the fragility of the Veil, Aunt Margaret's meddling in the fabric of the universe, or the small matter of my going to war with a god. And even if it were, Mooney would not be my first-choice confessor.

"I'm fine, mate. Now, which way?"

He stared at me for a few moments more, but then turned and squinted down the street "Left is people who owe me favours. Right is people who think I owe them. Straight on is where nobody admits to owing anyone, and everybody's carrying. So, y'know—pick your theology."

"I've always been a straight-on type of guy," I said, and the timer ticked, and I felt the day lean.

***

"What do you want, Mooney?" the heavily-accented voice said from behind the door.

To my expert eye, this particular rectangle of iron had once been a fire exit and had since taken a PhD in not being easily openable. It was heavy, reinforced and studded with a small constellation of bolts that were definitely not decorative. I looked up and saw a cluster of cameras watching us.

Mooney glared back at me and then leaned into the intercom grill. "Just a quick social call, Niku. Got a solution looking for a problem, if you know what I'm saying."

A metal hatch snapped open at eye height. Two inches of darkness beyond, a breath of cold and the corner of a man's gaze.

"You're being the problem right now, Mooney," the voice said. "A small one. Mosquito-size. Squashable."

"A mosquito with a story to sell," Mooney said, all false cheerfulness. "Tell the your boss I've got premium goodies to offer for sale."

Behind him, I did as Mooney had instructed. I kept quiet, kept my hands visible, and tried to look like back-up in a large harmless coat. As I did so, my minimap was blooming all sorts of stardust around me.

Proximity Hostiles: 7

— Door (2): pistols (holstered), blades (concealed)

— Stairwell (2): SMG signatures (suppressed)

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

— Roofline (1): overwatch (unknown)

— Rear service corridor (2): contact-ready

Advisory: Aggro Magnetism — DO NOT USE

Status: Equipment Swap still available

"Who's the muscle?" the voice asked, the hatch not moving, just the voice moving around inside it.

"Don't worry about him. He's no one," Mooney said quickly. "I'm just looking after him as a favour to his mother. He's slow. Touched in the head, if you know what I'm saying? Don't let him pet any soft mice, you get me?"

"Make him raise hands," the voice said.

I raised my hands, trying to project as little threat as I could. I was pretty sure I could crash through the door with no worries at all, but if I was going to get a line on Griff's whereabouts, I needed people who were actually willing to answer some questions. Using Mooney to make the introductions felt like the smart play, right now.

The hatch slid to the left a little further and a second pair of eyes appeared. These looked to be younger and hungrier than the first set.

"You've got a nerve," a new voice said. "You owe my cousin money."

"I owe a lot of cousins money," Mooney said, shrugging. "So he shouldn't feel especially victimised. Right of passage almost. Besides, once your boss hears what I have to sell, we'll be square up, down, left, right and always on Sunday. Now let me in."

The hatch slid closed, leaving us in a boding quiet.

"Just to reiterate, Undershaft," Mooney whispered, taking care not to move his lips so that his words wouldn't be captured on the CCTV, "when this gets spicy, you're on your own. Pissing off the Albanians was not on my day's dance card. Push comes to shove, I'm Switzerland in there."

"Neutral?"

"Screw neutral. I'll be looting all the gold I can find."

Then we stopped whispering as the bolts thunked open in a vertical sequence: top, middle, bottom, each with their own force of personality. A chain whispered, then stopped halfway.

"This better be worth it, Mooney," the first voice said. "Or there'll be hell to pay."

"Trust me," Mooney said. "It'll be worth it."

"You'll have two minutes to be interesting. But the big guy stands by the wall, and keeps his hands where I can see them."

The chain came off, and the door opened about three inches. A large man with a shaved head and a jaw like parquet stared out over the chain's ghost. He squinted at Mooney, then up at my face and he didn't blink often enough to be friendly. Mooney bobbed and slid through the gap—sideways, knees, shoulders—born for apertures. I went to follow, but the chain kissed my chest. There was no version of this world or Bayteran where I was fitting though.

"You're going to want to open the door properly," I said to the man behind the door.

From the hatch: "House rule. Maybe you should go on a diet."

"New house rule," I said. "Open the door before I come through the wall."

"Through the wall?" there was a laugh. "The big guy thinks he's something."

"Hey, hey, hey," Mooney called from inside. "Let's not all get off on the wrong foot."

"You already are," the guard said. "And both of them. Say 'please.'"

I took a breath and reminded myself that there was a wider picture here. As fun as it would to gear up and crash through the door, it wasn't going to provide me with Griff's whereabouts. "Please. Could you open the door."

"You see?" Mooney, seizing his moment. "We're here to make friends."

Inside the half-open door, I could see more details: a narrow space that had once been a loading bay, now a tunnel of metal shelving containing plenty of shrink-wrapped boxes. The floor was painted with yellow hazard chevrons. Somewhere deeper, a radio muttered low in a language I didn't speak but in a rhythm I recognised. Bored men waiting to do something permanent.

A hungry-eyed youth opened the door wider, his cheek was grazed, and his hair had apparently been cut by a man who liked to see as much skin as possible. He kept his hands in his jacket and the jacket itself loose.

"What's up with the big guy?" he said. "Not seen him before."

"He's with me," Mooney said. "An old friend. Don't worry about him."

"Who is he?" Niku said.

"Honestly, don't worry about him," Mooney said. "Think of him like a decorative wardrobe, but ambulatory. Now, can I get a few minutes with your boss?"

I said nothing, but my threat pane was pulsing again. A roofline dot moved a step left and some stairwell dots traded places like bored chess pieces.

[Threat Delta]

Overwatch shifting arc: 14° → 27°

Door guard: safety off (left-hand)

Stairwell 2: posture relaxed → ready

Note: Your presence is escalating alertness

"Why we let you in?" the youth asked Mooney. "You sell phones that never charge. You give directions that go wrong. You are a map to disappointment, Mooney. I kill you now and maybe make lots of people happy."

"Because the last time you needed a spare set of wheels at five minutes' notice, who had a van with the right plates? Because when your man Leka had that situation with parking and the council, who introduced him to a solicitor with the right connections? Because, sure, I'm annoying but you can always count on me to answer the phone. Unlike your cousin, the one with the hair."

"And the wardrobe?" Niku said.

"Is here to make sure I don't get run over by events," Mooney said. "Do me a courtesy and I'll see you right."

Niku considered things, then lifted his chin at me. "Open coat."

I did so, revealing nothing but big man, hoodie. Niku's gaze dropped to my hands, noted the lack of tremble, moved on.

"You can put your hands down," Niku said. "Slow."

I lowered them, taking a moment to read the two men in front of me. Only the big one—Niku—pinged with a Class. The kid beside him was just attitude, which I found interesting.

Name: Niku Dervishi

Class: Enforcer — Level 4

Disposition: Professional | Territorial

Passives: Vestibule Authority (Intimidation advantage within 5m of any door); Pattern Intercept (flags approach anomalies); Pain Budget (ignore two minor injuries per engagement)

Notable Traits: Close-quarters restraint; joint breaks; lock-control; weapon familiarity (pistol/SMG)

Mana Affinity: None (Vigilant)

Combat Style: Choke-point control | Two-step shots | Crowd denial

The kid's pane tried to be something and ran out of courage.

[Inspect]

Name: Leka "Zig" K.

Class: Aspirant (Unbound) — Level 0 (Provisional)

Disposition: Agitated | Opportunistic

Notable Traits: Quick hands, quicker temper

Mana Affinity: None

Combat Style: Swarm-and-scramble

Note: No formal path chosen; gains +1 ego when watched.

Only Niku had a role the world recognised. The other one was still auditioning.

"You'll have two minutes," Niku said at last, gesturing us onwards. "If you try to sell the boss news he already knows, I kill you. If you try anything funny, I kill you. If your wardrobe even looks at me funny, I…"

"Bake me a cake and wish us all many happy returns?" I said.

Niku stared. The youth stared harder and Mooney hissed under his breath.

"Just go upstairs," Niku growled.

We moved in single file: Niku, then Mooney, then me, then the kid. The vestibule gave onto a loading bay that had retired from honest work and gone into secrets.

"Eyes forward," Niku said, not bothering to look back.

We hit the stairs. Mooney tottered up first, narrating his footsteps like it helped. "One and two and—look at that—health and safety!—and three—don't you love a mezzanine?—" His voice got swallowed by the industrial hum.

Halfway up, a door at the landing opened, and another man, same short haircut, glanced at Niku, glanced at me and then let us pass into a corridor that smelled of bleach and men who didn't throw shirts away.

Niku fobbed a lock, and the corridor dog-legged. Fluorescents complained, and I clocked yet more cameras and more guys lurking with poorly concealed guns. We reached a final room and Niku knocked once without looking.

"Sir?" he said.

"Come," a voice said. Not loud. Not loud at all.

"I'm coming," Mooney chirped, and then, to me, under his breath: "Don't, whatever you do, loom."

"I only come in one size," I said.

Inside, a red-and-black eagle flag hung beside an icon shelf, packed with saints in gold leaf who were not enjoying the company. Two rugs overlapped, and a bottle of Skënderbeu brandy glowed on a cabinet beside a water jug.

The boss himself sat with his back to the light, which is an old trick that only works if the darkness loves you. He was hatless and jacketless, and his hands were resting flat on the desk.

Mooney stopped two paces in and folded his smile. Niku took up a left shoulder position while the kid drifted to the right.

"Nice to see you…" Mooney began

"Stop," the boss said.

He lifted a hand which cast a shadow that didn't land where it should. The stripes across the desk lagged a heartbeat and then caught up. The overhead fluorescents ticked with an insect wing sound on the edge of hearing. My minimap threw up an error box, small and earnest.

[Inspect]

Target: —

Error: Lightfield incongruity detected

Error: Subject returns multiple edge profiles

Advisory: Adjust viewing angle

I shifted left a quarter step and concentrated. There was something up here. Then the boss turned his head to look at me and the room turned slower. Our gazes touched and something cold climbed my molars from the inside.

[Inspect]

Name: —

Class: —

Result: Contested (Host field interference)

Fallback: Folkloric cross-reference (Albanian set)…

The boss smiled. It arrived on his face and then arrived in the air an instant later, like thunder after lightning.

Yeah. This dude was a Shadow Demon.