The rest of the week was unremarkable. Beth got a new job at a bar called “Milly’s.” This place was closer and wanted to train her on the bar right away. With tips, she stood to make a lot more than she would have hostessing. For her sake, I was relieved she found something better. Losing a first job as quickly as she did would be demoralizing for most anyone. That was a tough way to start a new life.

  Scanning records was as dull as ever. As I closed in on wrapping up another Friday, I still had yet to see anyone after that first day. If the same was true Monday morning, I intended to find someone who knew what I was supposed to be doing. Waiting a week to double-check that I was executing this properly was already an absurd amount of work to have to repeat if I screwed up some key fundamental from the start.

  Not everything I digitized in that time was completely boring, though. I learned a few interesting facts about the CDM that I probably would never have heard of otherwise.

  For example, the CDM sent nuclear bombs into gates in part to learn more about the structure and strength of dungeon gates and in part because they were just really curious to see what would happen. The bombs wouldn’t go off.

  That was not a system-approved weapon, so it didn’t function.

  At one point, the CDM solicited a few proposals for research projects on using gates for interdimensional travel. I had heard about similar research but didn’t know that the CDM was ever involved in something like that. To date, no one is known to have survived being inside of a gate when it closes. The nature of the evidence makes that statement sound a little strange because these people were just gone, yet experts continued to argue that this topic was worth investigating.

  They believe people have survived, in other words. We just don’t know where they went.

  And lastly, there were meeting minutes on an initiative to make CDM service mandatory for all citizens for a year. A few countries in Europe had similar policies but for military service. The pitch was that levels improved the quality of life for everyone, and in the event of an unprecedented dungeon surge, civilians would have no choice but to fight for survival.

  If that was the case, then everyone should have some level of training and experience.

  That was the argument, at least. I had never heard of this initiative in the news before, but it was also from the late 1970s. Maybe it stirred some controversy when it was first proposed, and I just didn’t know about it. Entirely plausible.

  After five days of nonstop document scanning, I couldn’t wait to do something that didn’t involve screens and text.

  “How do you know about this place?” Beth asked as the city disappeared behind us.

  “I saw it during my weekend work. It’s just an old field.”

  “And we’re allowed to do this?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not worried about it.”

  We pulled off to the side of a narrow gravel road and followed a footpath a few dozen feet into the woods. A long, flat clearing had been cut and was backstopped by a wall of dirt.

  “How did you know this was here?”

  “The guy that I got partnered with for weekend work said, ‘Hey, there’s an old range right there,’ when we drove by.”

  Beth rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I added. “I appreciate your help.”

  “No, this sounds fun.”

  With my bow and a quiver full of arrows, we set an old soccer ball I found in the back of my closet on a stump downrange.

  Handing my phone to Beth, I said, “I don’t need anything special. Just hold it still and record my form.”

  “Are you becoming an influencer?”

  I gently pushed her away from me for that teasing comment. “I found a guy who gives technique critiques over video. It’s pretty affordable.”

  “And he’s legitimate?”

  “Seems so. He has a pretty popular YouTube channel about archery and has won a few competitions. If this first one sucks, I won’t do any more, but I would really like it to work out.”

  Beth recorded me shooting three times. I hit the ball twice. Then she repeated the process on the opposite side. I hit all three of those.

  Because of my system-assigned class, basic aiming was never an issue for me. I wasn’t getting nonstop bullseyes or anything, but I tended to hit my target far more than I missed. Maintaining that accuracy in the fray of a crawl was more challenging, however. I couldn’t take my time or focus on a lone target. As I loosed one arrow, I needed to choose my next target and stay mindful of my surroundings all at the same time.

  TailF3ther said we should start with basic form, though. I could appreciate that, so I recorded what he asked me to.

  “Can I shoot a few?” Beth asked.

  I handed her the bow.

  “Sometimes I get sad I took spear for my Proficiency,” she said as she inspected the bow. “There are so many more interesting weapons out there.”

  Beth had the fighter class, and they were one of the few classes that had a customizable ability at level 1. They were born with Basic Combat Proficiency, making them more naturally tactical and more perceptive of how people and creatures moved, but if they practiced with a single weapon for one hundred hours, Basic Combat Proficiency upgraded to a stronger, weapon-specific version.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  In Beth’s case, she trained long enough with a spear to gain Basic Spear Proficiency. She could have chosen any weapon, including the bow, but there was no changing it now.

  “You can take another proficiency at level 2 if you want,” I said. “Some fighters take a ranged proficiency and a melee proficiency to be more well-rounded.”

  “Going to sneak me into a gate so I can level?”

  “Okay, fair.”

  Beth had shot a bow before. They weren’t hard to come by in our church community. That little bit of practice combined with her built-in combat intuition made her a decent shot.

  “I have something I need to tell you,” she said with a grimness that immediately filled me with panic.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have a date tonight.”

  “A date.”

  “Yes.”

  I scratched my neck. “That’s what you needed to tell me?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Jesus, Beth. I thought something was actually wrong, like you invited mom or dad over for dinner or something.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Shaking my head, I answered, “I didn’t mean that specifically. I started imagining terrible scenarios, and that was one of them.”

  “What are the others?”

  Counting on my fingers as I went, I began, “You were going back to the church, you were sick, you were on drugs, you were pregnant, you signed up for an MLM, you-”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “I don’t care about you dating. I’d appreciate you being safe and smart about it, but I figured you would meet someone eventually.”

  Beth went back to sending arrows downrange. “I thought you might get overprotective and tell me I couldn’t.”

  “All I ask is that you don’t do anything in my bed, and we should try to limit visitors if we can. Not saying no visitors at all, but Nathan’s been really cool about us both being there. I don’t want him to regret that.”

  “One: Ew. It’s a first date, and it’s your- No, ew. Two: I didn’t think of that, but I agree. He’s been so nice.”

  “Where did you meet?” I asked, accepting the bow back for another turn.

  “He’s a barback at the old place.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s sweet, and it’s only a first date.”

  “I’m not against it, but I do need to give you a big brother speech.”

  Beth gestured for me to continue and get it over with.

  “Please share your location with me on your phone. Keep an eye on your drink at all times. You are never obligated to go anywhere with anyone for any reason. If you want to leave, call me or call a rideshare. I don’t care what it costs. You shouldn’t need more than one ‘no’ if the guy isn’t a scuzzball. And-” I had to swallow for a moment. “And please, use protection if you… you know.”

  “Are you intentionally torturing me right now?”

  “I had to say it. That’s stuff you probably knew already. There are too many shitbags out there for me to not be sure, though.”

  “Okay. I hear you.”

  “Good,” I said. “Mind if we do a few more shots? I already feel rusty after just a week. Feels good to do something.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m having fun.”

  I waited up for Beth to come home from her date. She returned at midnight, so I would have been awake anyway, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about her. She gave me a hug and told me she had fun. I didn’t get any more details than that, and maybe that was for the best.

  Monday morning, I emailed Grensmith for direction on whether or not I should proceed without anyone having reviewed my work so far. He said it wasn’t his call and that I should be bothering the woman I met my first day, not him.

  He emailed me her contact information. I called, left a message, and then followed up with an email to document the effort.

  I waited for fifteen minutes. No response. So I went back to work.

  The first half of my Monday output was nothing but old office supply inventory reports, but then I uncovered a tantalizing folder. The words “Restricted Access” were printed on the side with “Clearance Level: 99” beneath it, whatever that meant.

  The folder was thin, four or five pages at most, and I knew immediately it wasn’t supposed to be here. Back in 1983, based on the dates listed on the folders I found this material between, someone accidentally scooped this folder up by mistake or grossly misfiled it.

  The first page was an audit report:

  Project Unsung Heroes

  Status Report #757221983

  Off-Schedule Audit Report

  Reason: Director Request

  Conclusion: No Irregularities

  Recommendation: No Action

  Summary: Despite the significant costs of maintaining Project Unsung Heroes, the research definitively shows that its existence has spared the United States government catastrophic loss of life and property at a scale that is difficult to accurately calculate while also extracting a return greater than its annual budget. Furthermore, these results have been achieved with exceptional OPSEC. Our audit found no evidence of private or public suspicion of the Project’s mission or existence. It is our conclusion that the compensation for Unsung Heroes, while sizable, is a worthwhile investment for the Center for Dungeon Management, and we therefore recommend against cuts to any person or thing associated with the Project.

  It was signed with a signature I couldn’t read.

  An intern was definitely not supposed to see this. The next three pages were tables full of data. Every column header was an abbreviation, and I didn’t immediately recognize any of them, so I had no idea what these numbers meant either. The cover letter made it sound like good news, though. I wasn’t much for corporate speak, but the language seemed plain enough: We’re paying these people a lot of money, and we should continue paying them a lot of money.

  A lot of money for what, exactly? What did they do that saved so many lives and also turned a profit? And why did it need to be a secret?

  Stealing this was never an option in my mind, but I did catch myself wanting to take photos with my phone. I know. That would have been a very stupid thing to do with a classified document.

  In my orientation for this project, I was led to believe that some sensitive information in these stacks was to be expected, and the concern for that was fairly nonchalant, I thought. My job was to scan everything in here, so I would scan this too and flag it for review. Maybe this wasn’t as interesting as I thought it was.

  Five minutes after I pushed the scans to the database, the door to my document dungeon opened.

  “We need to talk,” Enforcer McDouglas said.