Strength Based Wizard (Book 1 COMPLETE)

Sugar on the Tongue

I'm suddenly sluggish. My entire body is heavy, like someone cranked gravity up and poured molasses in my veins. My eyes linger on the handcuffs around my wrists. I notice that they're not normal handcuffs. They're made of a black stone-like material, with veins of faintly glowing cerulean running through them. If it wasn't for the fact that they cut off my access to the System, I'd be amazed at how this technology was developed.

Instead, I'm grappling with how… weak I feel without the System. I guess I never realized how much I depended on its power. The System's cold shoulder is worse than getting ghosted by your gym crush. I want to throw on a pump cover hoodie and crawl into a bed deep and comfy enough to just disappear.

But I can't… Because… My mind crashes back down to the chrome-colored earth. Because I'm being arrested… God dammit.

"Okay, wait," I start, my voice rising with a hint of anxiety, of fear. "This is a huge misunderstanding! I'm not one of the bad guys! I'm not a Gate Crasher. I was part of the Extraction Team! We were right behind the Exploration Team—I swear!"

Nothing. My pleas are met with stone faces all around.

The old woman with the permanent scowl levels me with a cold stare, as though measuring me. She approaches, and I see the silver letters B.G.S. emblazoned on her black uniform. Bureau of Guild Security. Great, they apparently brought in the big guns, and not just a run-of-the-mill Enforcer Squad. I swallow. My mouth is dry as hell, and there's a lump in my throat.

"Y-you can even ask the others in Extraction… I only came here after the Exploration Team… Er, were taking too long. I—"

"He's telling the truth!…"

The voice is raw and strained.

It's the Party Leader. The guy who had a ski-masked ballet terrorist yanking him around by the hair earlier. Now he's being carried on a floating stretcher, shirt cut off his body and torso wrapped in bandages. If I'm being honest, he looks like he just got spit out of a meat grinder. I don't recall him looking that bad when I arrived, but I guess I wasn't too focused on the minutiae.

"He... he saved our lives…" he wheezes, coughing.

Sweet, glorious vindication washes over me. I exhale and grin.

The Enforcement leader does not smile back. She glares at me, the kind of look that says she's had it up to here with everyone's shit, including mine.

"So, uh…" I rattle the cuffs. "Now that I'm not Public Enemy Number One... can we maybe get these off?"

"Not a chance," she says flatly. "For starters, we need to dispel all surviving victims of any mind-altering or emotional-altering magics. Then, we need to question everyone. And I mean everyone. There's a lot of suspicious circumstances here. Including…"

She pulls out what looks like a tiny, transparent tablet—like a playing card made of glass—and holds it up. It blinks with blue light, scans my face, and displays something that makes her scowl deepen.

"As I suspected," she mutters. "You're not officially listed as having a Class."

Uh-oh.

"You are under arrest and will be held for further questioning. If you accessed your Class in an unauthorized manner, you'll be appropriately charged and face the consequences. Let's not forget the murder of four suspected Gate Crashers and use of unauthorized force within a Guild-sanctioned Gate—"

"Okay, technically you killed them when you slapped these on me." I rattle the cuffs again. "I was just, er... holding them up. You know. Like a... citizen's arrest?"

She stares at me like I just pissed in her coffee. Maybe I should have bit my tongue. Joseph, you asshat!

"This is the part," she says slowly, "where I remind you that you have the right to remain silent."

She nods, and two goons in Enforcement black step up behind me like twin refrigerators with magically-charged stun batons.

"Take him downtown for booking," she dismisses.

That's when a voice barks across the clearing.

"Not. So. Fast!"

Everything stops.

A man strolls in from the left side of the clearing like he owns the place.

He's tiny. Four and three-quarters feet, tops. He looks like someone stuck a sharp suit on a particularly ornery garden gnome. His skin is a warm leather brown, weathered like he's been alive since the Nixon era. He's bald as a cue ball, with ears extending from the side of his head like a bat. He's also got a large, bulbous nose and thick, dark gray eyebrows that sit over a pair of eyes like jet-black beads.

The newcomer is wearing a light gray suit that's well-tailored but cut in that old 80s Wall Street style, with shoulder pads and slightly too baggy pants. Under the jacket he sports a powder-blue shirt accented with bubblegum pink pinstripes. A flamingo colored pocket square and polished black dress shoes complete the ensemble.

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I blink.

The B.G.S. Enforcer blinks.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands, lip curling in anger and annoyance.

The man reaches into his jacket and pulls out a transparent card-like tablet, similar to the Enforcer's. It unfolds like a transformer, embossed with runes that dance across the surface. The woman scans it with her eyes and I notice the subtle reflection of blue light in her two cold eyes, recognizing that she's reading a System-generated message. She must be inspecting the object in the man's hands.

Her frown deepens.

The gnome-like man smiles, all teeth and old-world smug. "My name is Amos Labonte," he says. "Founder of the Harvest Guild."

His black eyes land on me. "And this man is under my Guild's protection."

"He's a member of your Guild?" the Enforcer growls. Her voice is dripping with disbelief.

Amos Labonte doesn't even blink.

"Not yet," he says, straightening the pink pocket square. "But he's a new Classer, with affiliation to my Guild, and is under my Guild's purview. If you'd like to launch an investigation"—he flashes a smile, teeth like polished dice—"you can contact our Guild's counsel. Until then, he will be coming with me."

The Enforcer's jaw tics. You can practically hear her grinding her molars into combat-ready enamel. I instinctively tense, ready for a fight to break out.

"He killed four men suspected of being foreign agents…" she says, tone glacial.

Labonte gives her a side-eye, then saunters over to the splattered, fishnet adorned corpses. He crouches beside the nearest one, his nose practically brushing the black lace tutu. He pinches the fabric between two stubby fingers, inspecting it like a jeweler might inspect a particularly interesting gem.

"Very... fascinating," he murmurs, voice raspy and bemused. "Enchanted equipment. Ridiculous appearance, but it's high rarity and with powerful Abilities."

He claps his hands and stands up with surprising speed.

"Anyway," he says, spinning on one shiny heel. "Better use of your time collecting those rare artifacts these weirdos are wearing. Could be worth a fortune, after all. Probably a better use of your Guild's resources, too."

He dusts his hands.

"We're leaving. Uncuff my man!"

Labonte's command hangs in the air, but only for a moment. He locks eyes with the Enforcer, staring at her with with those glinting black eyes and the smugness of someone who's had every parking ticket he's ever gotten expunged with a single phone call.

A moment later, the Enforcer exhales through her nose and gives the tiniest chin lift. Her goons nod and move forward. The cuffs pop open with a hiss, and the second they're off: Wham! My access to the System is restored. It hits me like a freight train.

My skin itches in that 'too much beta-alanine in your pre-workout' kind of way. I flex once and my forearms feel like overstuffed sausages. The pump sensation of the System's power suddenly flooding through my veins again is one of the most intense things I've ever felt.

I try not to moan. But I fail.

"Ohhhh, baby," I mutter.

Labonte raises an eyebrow, then winks.

"You happy to see me, or is that just a wand in your pocket?"

I stare at the little man in the pink pinstripes before my face flares and my eyes shoot down to my crotch, hands scrambling to cover myself. Luckily, I'm not rocking a stiff erection. I glare at the short man, who's giggling to himself.

What was wrong with this guy?

"Let's get out of here, kid," he says, turning on his heel and booking it in the direction of the Return Gate.

I glance over my shoulder to take one more glance at the carnage, and the crackling black Gate.

I follow Amos Labonte through the Chrome Forest. He doesn't speak. Just power-waddles ahead, muttering angrily under his breath about… Something, I don't quite catch it. Every few seconds, he huffs like someone cut in front of him at a bagel shop.

I just keep my mouth shut.

Still, my brain won't stop asking the obvious.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

We step back through the Gate in a flash of kaleidoscopic light and nausea. In the blink of an eye, we're back in Ohio and the flurry of activity surrounding the Gate Site. Labonte looks down at my legs. "Nice pants. Much better than those short-shorts!"

"Thanks," I mumble, though definitely a little more comfortable now that I'm no longer sporting my System-generated Daisy Dukes.

Labonte leads me to the parameter of the Site. Two matte-black luxury cars are parked just outside the barrier fence.

Two, towering figures stand next to each car. They're both pink-skinned, bald, and so absurdly broad it's like someone ran a sumo wrestler through a Men's Wearhouse. They're both donning black suits with ties, black caps and a pair of sunglasses. Something about their whole vibe throws my [Perception] into overdrive, but I suppress it, trying to keep my cool.

Labonte turns to me. "I'm running late for a meeting," he says like I'm his assistant. "We'll talk more tomorrow. I brought another car to take you home."

Before I can say anything in return, he's already ducking into the first car. The attendee closes the door and squeezes into the driver's seat, which seems like it would be impossible, but he somehow manages it.

The pink behemoth attending the second silently opens the rear door of the second car. He turns his head towards me, waiting.

I get in because… what else am I gonna do?

Inside, the car smells like expensive leather. Waiting across from me in the plush rear seating is a tall, thin black man in a navy-blue suit. He's got glasses, a neat goatee, and braids pulled back tight.

"Mr. Sullivan," he says, voice calm and crisp like a piano chord. "My name is Jerome Williams. I serve as General Counsel and Vice President of the Harvest Guild." The door closes behind me and the attendee slides into the driver's seat. I feel the car kick into drive and take off. Jerome continues, his voice steady and his face as stoic as a statue. "I'll be brief. Please just listen."

I nod. My mouth is dry.

"Mr. Labonte has identified you as a promising candidate for membership in our Guild," Jerome continues. "He would like to extend a formal invitation, contingent upon standard testing and licensing requirements under Guild Regulations."

"…Is this normal?" I ask, finally finding my voice. "I mean, for a Guild to do this? How did you even know I was in that Gate? Or that we'd been attacked."

Jerome actually smiles at that. It's small, reserved. "Normal? Mr. Labonte has his own way of doing things. As for your other questions, I'm not at liberty to speak on those matters."

"Right…"

Jerome continues. "Mr. Labonte would like to explain the particulars of your offer himself. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."

He produces a card like a magician, appearing in his hand smoothly as he extends it to me.

I take it.

The card contains one line, followed by an address:

Schvitz Social Club

What's this?" I ask.

"A local cultural institution," he replies. "And preferred meeting location of Mr. Labonte."

"And what if I'm not interested?"

Jerome simply shrugs.

The car slows, then stops.

"This is your residence, Mr. Sullivan."

The driver steps out and opens the door. I get out, still holding the card.

Jerome leans forward slightly. "Please don't hesitate to reach out with any questions. And speaking personally—not in my official capacity as a representative of the Guild—I would recommend you take Mr. Labonte up on his offer. He's a good man."

The door shuts. A moment later, the car glides away down the suburban street like a shark made of tinted windows and high-end suspension.

I'm left standing on the sidewalk in front of my parents' house.

I glance down again at the card in my hand.

"…Schvitz Social Club?" I mutter aloud.

Then, a realization hits me.

"Shit, I didn't sign out… I might not get paid for today!"

And—

Double shit!

My car's still back at the Gate Site!

I stare at the horizon, at the black, gleaming car's taillights pulling further, and further away.

I sigh.

"Goddamn it."