While waiting for the guide to return, Roman prowled through the parking lot. At least, that was his excuse. Feeling exposed out in the open, he crouched next to one of the eviscerated cars—ostensibly to inspect it, but more so to use it as cover. The bare rooftops and dim windows did nothing to soothe his unease.

As he had suspected, it appeared as if some titanic monstrosity had shredded the vehicles apart. Deep gouges in their frames, thick as his arm, the edges of the metal bent outward as if peeled back by clawed hands.

No blood or other signs of struggle. Disappointing, in a way. That would have provided an easy answer for the missing party of Players. Signs of gore could have belonged to anyone, of course, but the vast majority of the population had been transfigured into abominations or ghastly rewards to support the ‘Game.’ Blood meant human survivors had fallen victim. Roman would have been all too happy to chalk the quest up as a failure and abandon the eerie shopping center.

He spread his domain once more, as if attempting to taste some discordant flavoring in the air, but nothing drew his attention. Activating [ Hunter’s Eye ] likewise revealed little beyond the superficial desolation.

The Attention-Boosting Pills had faded away completely, erasing the jittery energy circulating through his body. Instead of throwing himself into some silly acrobatics routine, he remained still, crouched beside an overturned car, considering.

After he had graduated high school, he had a short stint as a line cook until a heated argument with the head chef and a couple mutually-flung pans ended his unpromising career in the food business less than a week in. Rampant drug use had been endemic at the restaurant--probably most restaurants, from what he’d heard. Back then, he’d taken some of these ‘Attention-Boosting Pills’ from a coworker. After all, they were just some amphetamine salts the System had swiped from someone’s medicine cabinet without even bothering to relabel them.

From what he remembered, they were supposed to last much longer than a scant couple hours. Had the transformation of his body--his ‘improvements’--sped up his metabolism as well? Damn, did that mean he couldn’t get drunk? He wanted a drink, bad, though he intellectually knew that he needed to keep his wits about him. Hard habit to break, alcohol. Maybe the apocalypse would be his final, much-needed impetus to get his life on track. The thought was even more sobering.

The aftereffects of the pills had also left him with a gnawing hunger in his gut, even beneath the waves of nausea. He stood, eyeing the various restaurants in the shopping center. A Filipino dig, a Hawaiian BBQ, a Chinese buffet called Imperial Dragon with half of the neon-red letters flickering ominously. They reminded him of their fledgling Chef, now reduced to a couple fragments in his inventory. His nausea worsened.

John returned after a couple minutes, dragging him away from his spiraling thoughts. The guide appeared in an instant, an arm’s length away. The instant manifestation no longer made Roman flinch. Amazing what the human mind could adjust to, in time.

“I think the grocery store is--or, at least, was--their headquarters,” said John. “The other places are empty. Abandoned. Possible that there are traps that would activate in response to a corporeal form, though. Anyways, I couldn’t move more than a couple feet into the grocery store. Couldn’t see into it either, just this haze. Seems like one of the Players has some sort of Barrier spell meant to reject monsters. And uh, ghosts, I guess.”

Roman puffed out his cheeks and exhaled like a deflating balloon. “It’s like you’re trying your hardest to be suspicious, man.”

John rolled his eyes up to the sky, unamused. “Look, you try being transformed into a specter sometime. A few more days and you probably won’t qualify as human anymore. Come back when you’re having your own existential crisis.”

“Hmm,” said Roman. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” John hesitated. “Thanks for trying though.”

Roman shrugged and approached the idling pickup truck. He rapped his knuckles on the driver-side window.

After a few seconds, Mixie rolled it down. “Yes, Mister Miller?”

“How about some backup, Party Member?”

Mixie glanced at the seat beside him, swiveled his neck in a disgusting susurrus of cracks to look behind him. Returning his gaze back to Roman, he jabbed a finger at his own chest innocently, as if asking ‘little old me?’ Roman nodded sharply.

“I do not see how I would assist you better from the entrance opposed to here,” said Mixie. “I would not be able to pass through the monster wards.”

“You heard us talking about that from twenty feet away? Or you sensed it yourself?”

“I can hear much farther than that.” Mixie covered his mouth with a hand and grunted laughter. “Mortal ears. Truly reprehensible.”

Roman glanced back at the grocery store. “Come as close to the entrance as you can, then. Assuming I can make it through the barrier. I’ll go in alone, but if there’s trouble inside, I’ll run. I want you to be as close as possible if they decide to follow.”

Mixie tapped a finger against his cheek but remained silent.

Roman thought for a while. As annoying as it was, he was not going to change the ghoul’s nature with nagging or feeble arguments. Difficult enough to do that for a human, let alone a creature born of Greed. Better to appeal to his personality; in that way, the ancient ghoul was almost like a child, easily pleased as long as his wants and needs were met. Just like with the pick-up truck.

“Edible food is going to be one of the prime commodities in this new world,” he said. “Even if a group of Players has holed up in there, they wouldn’t have put a dent in the inventory yet. It’ll be the most precious resource until the survivors figure out how to grow their own food, and I wouldn’t trust people nowadays to even plant a seed right.”

The tips of Mixie’s pointed ears flickered, betraying the studied disinterest in his expression as he looked straight ahead through the windshield.

“If I go in there, I’m claiming it all for myself,” Roman continued. “At least, I’ll split it with the Party in there if they’re friendly. I don’t see why you’d get a share of all that loot for sitting on your ass.”

Mixie’s lips twitched, serpentine tongue darting in and out as if he was a starving man chained before a bountiful feast. Still he stared straight ahead.

Roman rubbed his chin. “I’m curious, can you taste food?”

Mixie grunted out something that sounded affirmative.

“Probably nothing too tasty in that store of yours, huh? You know, before you guys killed off the population, like half of this country was obese? You know why? Sugar, salt, just dumped into everything. Corn syrup. Ever have ice cream before? I guess that gas station probably had some treats in there, but not too impressive a selection, comparing.”

Mixie’s eyes shifted to the side, making contact with Roman’s earnest gaze. His gullet was so clogged up with secretions he sounded like he was drowning. “I have read about these mochis. Rice cakes coating a most delectable frozen core. Would they be in stock, mortal?”

“Hundreds--thousands, maybe,” Roman confirmed. “Hell, you know what, this first part of the quest will reward me with five organic fragments. Back me up, and they’re yours.”

He barely managed to stumble aside before Mixie kicked the door open with enough force to send him flying if it connected. Rifle in hand, the ghoul surged forth, clearing a dozen paces before landing. Despite his over-encumbered frame, he landed lightly, almost daintily, like a ballerina at the end of a graceful leap.

“Keep up, Mister Miller.”

After scooping the spatial satchel off the ground, Roman appeared next to Mixie via [ Flash Step ]. Shaking his head, John trailed behind the pair as they approached the grocery store.

The interior did not look particularly suspicious. Whatever barrier prevented John from peering inside did not affect Roman, assuaging a budding fear of his--that he was becoming more monster than man. His father, the rotten bastard, had drilled into him that a man was defined by the company he kept.

The automatic doors failed to open. Strange. No issues with the lights inside, bathing the store in standard fluorescence. He pried the doors open without much issue and stepped inside. The only sign of the barrier was the popping in his ears a few steps in, like he had undergone a sudden, rapid shift in altitude.

The others lingered behind. Mixie seemed to be taking his role seriously for once, rifle propped against his shoulder. The stance looked awkward given his gangly proportions, but it would work all the same. The arsenal studding his body would probably work better due to their magical enchantments, but Mixie favored his newest toy. Whatever.

A quick scan of the area revealed not too much--knocked over stands, various food items spilled across the floor. Detritus like crumpled bags of chips and empty fruit containers littered the floor. Roman sneered in hypocritical disgust, no clean freak himself.

The back of his neck prickled despite the innocuous sights. A heavy, coppery scent tinged the air: blood. A subtle pungency beneath it: shit. The odors of death. Domain activated, eyes enhanced, he proceeded forward with soft, careful steps.

A methodical sweep of the store was best, he thought. To the right was the produce section. Everything appeared normal. He squeezed an apple from the closest stand. Ripe. No signs of decay. He bit into it, savoring the crunch and subtle sweetness.

That, apparently, was a mistake. Bags of lettuce from the rows along the wall exploded in a fusillade of burst plastic. Dozens of skeins of leafy greens erupted outwards like the tentacles of some admittedly pathetic monster. They writhed, reaching towards Roman. A face grew in the center of the tendrils. More and more greenery congealed together, forming a small, humanoid body.

Roman cocked an eyebrow. He rotated the apple in his hand, wound up, and pitched it with a speed that would have been the envy of any professional baseball player.

The lettuce monster’s head exploded into drifting shreds. An instant later, the pulped remnants of the apple joined the flurry after colliding with the wall. The skeins broke apart into their constituent parts, decorating the aisle along with the confetti of burst-open plastic.

[ Leafy golem defeated. 15 experience rewarded. ]

“What the hell?” said Roman. He was, inexplicably, somewhat disappointed. Not by the low amount of experience. The monster was just bizarre. He expected more.

“Shit..” a low voice muttered.

A young Hispanic man in his early twenties was standing straight ahead in the bakery section. The fluorescent lighting gleamed along the metallic shaft of his spear; in an inversion of the usual construction, its blade looked to have been carved from wood. His eyes were wide at the sight of the intruder, his mouth gaping comically. No armor--just blue basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. An oaken circlet studded with small emeralds nestled atop the curly perm of his broccoli-top haircut.

“Wait,” said Roman.

The man did not wait. He turned to flee, shouting in alarm.

Roman appeared next to him with a [ Flash Step ]. The slap of air resistance was stronger than expected. The ability worked, at least.

Roman clapped one hand down on the man's shoulder, forcing him to crumple to his knees. His attributes must have been lacking. He made a feeble attempt at waving his spear, the angle too awkward to do much besides having the shaft thwack against Roman’s arm. Roman seized the weapon just below the wooden blade; the steel prickled unpleasantly against his palm as if angered by his touch.

Now that he had incurred the wrath of the Players holed up here, the environment seemed to reject his presence. Gravity weighed upon him more heavily. His face itched. Altogether, no more than a small hindrance. He suspected he could have stormed this place by force if he wanted to, but he had no intention of doing so.

He jerked the weapon from the Player’s grip. Spinning, he flung it with all his considerable might. It pierced through another monster, this one half-pulling itself together in a rustling of bread and cookies before the spear shredded its core. The wooden blade, incongruously sharp and sturdy, pierced deep into the wall beyond; the shaft quivered until its exhausted its kinetic energy.

[ Dough golem defeated. 15 experience rewarded. ]

“Look, I surrender!” the young man’s called out in a panic. He had not even attempted to take advantage of Roman’s exposed back, arms flung up in the air in desperate surrender. He stared at the ground as if transfixed by the sight of hell. “Please, don’t hurt us!”

Roman sighed and let the ghoul’s bag slump off his shoulder, onto the tiled floor. “I’m just the delivery man, bro.”