Handler Economics
The Dungeon's exit released me
into a wall of heat.
I stepped out and immediately
regretted it. The sun hit me like a personal attack. One second I was in cold,
damp stone corridors. The next, instant oven. My armor decided this was the
perfect time to become a portable sauna.
Sweat broke immediately,
tracing lines down my spine where the metal plates pressed against fabric. I
adjusted the pack strap digging into my shoulder and kept moving. Inside,
bundled herbs rustled with each step. The smaller pouch at my hip clinked with
magic stones.
Around me, the midday crowd
surged. Adventurers poured from Babel's shadow in loose clusters—some loud with
forced laughter, already spinning tales about near-misses that probably
weren't.
One guy was loudly explaining
how he 'totally could've dodged' the minotaur if he'd wanted to. His limp
suggested otherwise.
Others moved silent, limping on
injuries they hadn't earned yet, eyes tracking nothing, seeing everything. The
usual pattern.
I kept my head down. Moved with
the flow but not in it. The crowd parted around me without noticing—another
nobody in worn gear, unremarkable, forgettable.
Good.
The exchange area sat at the
plaza's edge where Babel's shadow didn't quite reach. Small booths lined the
worn cobblestones—independent handlers operating outside the Guild's main
building. Cheaper fees. Fewer questions. No divine oversight.
My usual handler worked from
the third booth. I recognized it from a distance—brass scales sitting slightly
off-center on the counter, the wood scarred from years of transactions, a
ledger open with cramped handwriting filling every available line.
He looked up as I approached.
Middle-aged, balding, with the kind of face that had watched too many
adventurers come and go to be impressed by survival. His eyes tracked me with
professional assessment—checking for visible injuries, estimating my mood, calculating
how hard he could push.
"Hey," he said,
straightening from his slouch. "You made it back!" His tone carried
practiced enthusiasm that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No dents and
scratches... running into fights?"
"I just play it
safe," I replied, stopping at the counter's edge.
"Ok... ok... that's
good." He nodded, already reaching for his scales. "Smart. Live
longer that way. Most don't figure that out until it's too late."
"I'm not far from those
myself."
"What do you mean by
that?"
"It's... It's
nothing."
I pulled the pouch of magic
stones from my hip. It hit the counter with a solid thud.
"Here. Sell these."
He didn't waste time on
pleasantries. He didn't ask me any questions or bring up the earlier
conversation either. He had no time for that. He couldn't give pep talks to
every adventurer he met every day. If he did, his head—
Never mind. It's already bald.
He just opened the pouch and
dumped the contents onto a worn wooden tray. Magic stones tumbled out—purple,
slightly luminescent in direct light. He sorted them with fingers that knew
texture by instinct. Counted. Weighed each batch on scales that squeaked
faintly. Made marks in his ledger with a pen that scratched too loud.
The sun beat down on my neck.
My ribs ached—yesterday's bruises from that fight in Daedalus Street settling
into deep soreness. I shifted weight carefully.
"Four thousand five
hundred vals," he announced finally, setting down his pen.
I waited.
His hand moved to the cash box.
Counted out coins with practiced speed—the clink of metal on metal. Then he
paused. Pulled some back. His expression didn't change.
"Handling fees..." He
said it like it was weather—inevitable, natural, definitely not robbery.
He slid the reduced stack
across the counter. Twenty percent gone just like that.
"Thirty-seven hundred
vals."
I stared at the reduced stack.
"Twenty percent to count rocks?"
"And the weighing. Very
technical work."
"You used a scale."
"Specialized equipment.
Expensive to maintain." He patted the brass scales like they were made of
gold instead of tarnished metal that was probably older than both of us.
The coins were still warm from
the box. I counted them by touch as I pocketed them. Not enough to live on for
more than a week. But enough for now.
"Nice doing business with
you," the handler said, already turning back to his ledger.
"It's not nice," I
muttered. "You just robbed me."
He laughed—short, genuine.
"That's the job, kid. That's the job."
'Nice.' Sure. Getting mugged
was also 'nice' by that logic. At least muggers had the decency to use knives
instead of ledgers.
I turned away. Behind me,
another adventurer was already approaching his booth, and the city's machinery
ground forward without pause.
The crowd swallowed me. I let
it, moving with the flow toward the main streets.
Herbs to sell. Potions to buy.
Tomorrow's dive to prepare for.
Simple. Just survive the
Dungeon, get robbed by handlers, buy overpriced potions, and do it all again
tomorrow.
Living the dream. My ass. 🤦