“So,” the barbarian said, “That ‘other shop keeper.’ Are we going to do something about that?”

“Hmm?” the bard muttered.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” the wizard asked, “The other shop keeper wasn’t human. Or elven, or orcish, or dwarven, or-”

“I get it,” the bard chided, “What about her?”

“She smelled like those things we found in the forest,” the barbarian said, “The shapeshifters. I think we should kill it.”

“I agree,” the wizard said.

“So do I,” the bard added.

“So it’s concluded?” the barbarian asked, “We’re going to kill her?”

“We should contact the cleric first,” the bard said, “Just to make sure we’re not dealing with a rogue agent.”

“I’ll cast magical message,” the wizard said.

…

“Brain her!” the cleric instructed.

…

“Yep, we’re clear to engage,” the wizard said.

“Good,” the barbarian said, “Wizard, do you want to track the shapeshifter down?”

“Don’t we need a piece of her for scrying to work?” the bard asked.

“We would, if I was awful at casting magic,” the wizard explained, “Thankfully, I’m excellent at casting magic, so we don’t need to worry.”

…

Diane stood in her room, her eyes glazed over and muttering quietly to herself. Down the hall, the T.V. was set to static, casting harsh shadows across the unlit house. The lawn was freshly mowed, there was not a speck of dust in the house, the wood floors were clean of scratches, dents, or gouges, the garage was clean. A perfectly normal house in a perfectly normal neighborhood. The neighbors often said it was a shame that Diane never invited anyone over, she was such a lovely young woman.

Diane didn’t hear the barbarian creep in through the windows, and wouldn’t have seen him even if she looked. The wizard kept an illusion in front of the barbarian, masking him behind a scene of the normal backyard. All of the adventurers had heard enough evil chanting to recognize it, and the barbarian wrapped one steely arm around Diane’s shoulders and twisted her head off like a bottle cap.

The shapeshifter collapsed to the ground in a puddle of grease and sludge, viscera and gore spilling out of its neck hole. The bard scooped the remains of the shapeshifter into a bottomless bag that she had written “to be disposed of” on while the wizard used a few minor cantrips to clean the floors. Less than one minute in, and less than one minute out.

Until the bard heard murmuring coming from Diane’s room. She tapped the wizard and the barbarian on the shoulder. When they turned to face her, the bard pointed one finger up and spun it in a circle, then brought her hands to her eyes and pointed forward.

“Continue search.”

The barbarian touched a hand to the hilt of his axe then his neck.

“Hostiles?”

The bard rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, then held one hand out horizontally and speared her fingers through it from underneath.

“Treasure. Traps.”

The adventurers crept back into Diane’s house, the bard keeping her ear low to the ground. She picked a small metal orb out of the carpet, something that had fallen out of Diane when the barbarian killed her, and held it up to her ear.

Definitely what she was looking for. The bard looked at the wizard, pointing to her ear then to her mouth. The wizard cast a quick Learn Languages spell, then a spell to amplify the sound coming from the orb.

“Are not responding to transmissions,” the speaker said, “You think these agents are the cause?” The bard looked at the barbarian and wizard, they both nodded.

“I do,” the bard said, imitating Diane perfectly, “We have every reason to suspect them. No one else could have done it.”

“Other scouts reported plenty of people that could have beaten our installation,” the speaker reminded.

“They don’t have any motives,” the bard explained, “Our cover wasn’t broken, our mimicry was perfect. They attacked without provocation. It was luck.”

“I am worried that they can detect us,” the speaker said, “Dimensional gates are at eighty-three percent. The time of the invasion is nearly upon us. They located another scout today. Command is worried this will become a trend.”

“It shall not be,” the bard declared, “Their behavior goes against the social norms of this planet. Society will turn on them.”

“They may subsist on the fringes of society,” the speaker said, “Track them. Report on them. Those are your orders. Handler out.”

The orb went quiet.

“Well,” the barbarian grunted.

“Seems our recon is complete,” the wizard said.

“I still don’t have armor,” the bard reminded him.

“Does anybody have ideas where we can find armor?” the barbarian asked.

“I could scry for it,” the wizard suggested.

“You can scry for it?” the bard asked.

“Yeah,” the wizard said, “I’m the wizard. I’m quite powerful.”

“Why didn’t you scry for it earlier?” the bard demanded.

“Well, that-”

“We have been marching around this endless city all day!” the bard shouted, “And you could have just scryed for it!”

“Lights are coming on from other houses,” the barbarian said, “We should get out of here before the city guard arrives. Way to blow our cover!”

“He could have scryed for it!” the bard said in a furious whisper, “Then why didn’t you?”

“I wanted to conserve my magic!” the wizard retorted as they slipped out through a window, “What if I needed it to cast another spell?”

“You’ll want to conserve a lot more than your magic once I’m through with you!” the bard threatened.

“Quiet!” the barbarian demanded, “Do you want the entire city chasing us? Think about how long we had to run the last time that happened!”

“That was such a hassle,” the wizard groaned.

“Exactly!” the barbarian hissed, “Now let’s get going!”

“Wizard, scry for armor shops,” the bard demanded, hopping over a fence.

“Now?” the wizard asked.

“Yes, now,” the bard commanded, “If we’re going to be running, we ought to be running somewhere.”

“But we’re running,” the wizard complained, “Casting spells takes-”

“Don’t give me the wizard run around,” the bard instructed, “Just cast the spell.”

“Alright, fine,” the wizard complained, waving his arms as he ran.

Under the cover of night, the adventurers cut across a two lane road and melded back into the shadows.

“Huh,” the wizard remarked.

“What,” the bard said.

“You know that shop we passed by earlier today?” the wizard asked.

“We’ve passed by dozens of shops today,” the barbarian remarked, “Which one?”

“The one called MilSurp,” the wizard explained, “They sell armor.”

The bard rolled her eyes. “Seriously?” she complained, “I’ve been looking for an armor shop all day! Who calls an armor shop “MilSurp”? Probably some kind of cult.”

“Eh,” the barbarian grunted, “Not really a cult sounding name or word.”

“Sounds more like some kind of royalty,” the wizard commented, “Anyway, let’s get going.”

…

Michael and Elliot woke up before dawn to open the military surplus shop, unlocking the doors at 6:00 AM sharp. Weapons technology had been advancing at unthinkable speeds, each new kind of armor turning the last super weapon obsolete. New weapons turning armor that could protect someone from high speed car crashes into junk. It was lucrative, when were weapons ever not?

It was also worrying. No matter how powerful the ordinance was, there was always someone who could shrug it off. And they were always crazy. Crime was on the rise, but Michael and Elliot had heavy enough guns and muscle to keep the worst of it away.

Elliot was woken up early today, his old phone ringing on his nightstand. Blinking at the harsh light, Elliot recognized one of the hired guards.

“What?” he asked, his voice raspy with sleep, “Dom, were we robbed?”

“No, there’s people waiting outside the shop. Three of them,” Dom said, waiting across from the shop in a parked humvee, “CCTV shows them standing there almost all night. Around 1:00 AM.”

“Did you talk to them?” Elliot asked.

“No,” Dom answered, “One of them is a giant with an axe.”

“Gorestrike?” Elliot asked.

“No, the dude’s shirtless,” Dom said.

“Alright,” Elliot said, “I’ll call up Mike. You and the boys gear up, I’ll be down in fifteen.”

…

“Guards are showing up,” the barbarian said, “This could get ugly.”

“What time is it?” the bard asked, “It says here that MilSurp opens at 6:15 AM? When is that? Why can’t they just say ‘Dawn’? Is that really so hard?”

“We might need to run soon,” the wizard said, “People are showing up, and they don’t look happy.”

“Well that’s normal,” the barbarian said, “People are never happy to see us.”

“I’m not leaving,” the bard declared.

“When are we ever happy to see other people?” the wizard commented.

“I did not stand here all night just to run off because the city guard is showing up,” the bard said, “I’m getting armor, even if it’s unenchanted leathers!”

“I could enchanted some bits for you,” the wizard said, trying to sooth her, “Enchanting isn’t that hard.”

“Even if they do sell magic armor, I might still want that,” the bard said.

A man walked up to the glass doors, the man and the bard glaring at each other all the while, unlocked the door, and stomped back to the register. The bard’s eyes flickered to the door, and the man waved her in.

“No magical traps,” the wizard whispered.

The bard’s glare wasn’t quite cutting. It could have been, it was something she could do that frightened the barbarian, but she wasn’t quite at that end of her rope. When the bard stepped in, the odor of canvas fabrics, leather boots, hard metal and an odd tang, drifted towards her. There was a shopkeeper and an “other shopkeeper.” The bard glanced at the barbarian, and he shook his head.

“What do you want?” the shopkeeper demanded.

“Armor,” the bard said, “Enchanted, if you have it.”

“I don’t carry witchcraft,” the shopkeeper said, “Plenty of ceramic plates, though.”

“You carry plate?” the bard said, flashing a smile, “Well, that’s better than what I expected. Can I get fitted now, or do I need an appointment?”

“You mean… platemail?” the shopkeeper asked with a scoff, “No, we carry ceramic plates and vests, not some medieval garbage.”

“Ceramic?” the bard asked, “Like pottery? You make armor out of that? Why?”

“Because it stops bullets,” the shopkeeper explained, “You do know what bullets are, don’t you?”

“If “bullets” can be stopped by tableware,” the bard seethed, “I don’t think I need to worry about them.”

“You’d be surprised,” the shopkeeper remarked.

“Then hit me with one,” the bard said.

“You- what?” the shopkeeper demanded

“If you really want me to buy your tableware, hit me with whatever a bullet is,” the bard, “Then I’ll decide if I want one.”

“You want to get shot,” the shopkeeper groaned.

“You’re right, I don’t know what bullets are,” the bard explained, “And my job involves a lot of danger. So hit me with one.”

“Our CCTV has audio,” the other shopkeeper said, “If she takes us to court, we’ll win. She clearly said she wants to get shot.”

“This is so stupid. Hold your hand out,” the shopkeeper said, drawing a heavy revolver.

The bard did so, arm stretched out away from her. The other shopkeeper set up a heavy metal plate behind her. Both the shopkeepers put on heavy ear protection, and the barbarian and wizard looked on curiously.

“Now, for the record,” the shopkeeper said, squinting as he aimed for the bard’s hand, “Please tell me, in plain english and clear speech, that you want to get shot.”

“I, the bard, want to be hit by a bullet to test their effectiveness in combat,” the bard declared.

“Your name is The Bard?” the other shopkeeper asked.

“Huh? Oh, no,” the bard said, “My name is, uh, Blake.”

“What’s your full name?” the other shopkeeper asked.

“Blake,” the bard repeated, “I said all of it the first time. It’s not even very long.”

“Agh,” the other shopkeeper grumbled, “Do you have any gaps in your memory? Medical conditions? Are you being mind controlled?”

“The only things I don’t remember are the unimportant bits,” the bard said, “I receive healing prayers every night, and my mind controls my body at all times.”

“Are you, in some way, being forced to act against your will?” the other shopkeeper asked.

“Are you going to hit me or not?” the bard asked.

“Just answer the question!” the shopkeeper demanded.

“Fine!” the bard barked, “I am in no way being forced to act against my will! I am not being mind controlled, or possessed, or blackmailed, or manipulated into doing anything except answer these stupid questions! Are you happy now?”

“No,” the shopkeeper said, pulling the trigger. A heavy crack echoed through the small shop and the bullet splintered on the metal plate.

“Ow.” the bard looked straight through her hand, “Ow! What was that?”

“A bullet,” the shopkeeper said, rolling his eyes, “Now, do you want a bullet proof vest or not?”

“I want that,” the bard said, pointing at the revolver with her shot hand.

“You should want a doctor,” the other shopkeeper grumbled.

“Try it on me,” the barbarian said, holding his hand out.

“No!” the shopkeepers barked.

The adventurers all concluded they could do that after buying the revolver. The three of them were smart enough to not say that out loud, but the shopkeeper could almost hear them thinking it.

“How much does it cost?” the bard asked, “Wait- do you have anything stronger? Is it enchanted?”

“It isn’t,” the wizard said, “Quite remarkable.”

“Really?” the bard asked the wizard, “Look, I’ve got the gold, now fork it over!”

“Ma’am, I don’t feel comfortable selling a-” the shopkeeper said, his mouth snapping shut as the bard slapped a gold ingot onto the counter.

The shop went quiet.

“How serious are you about this?” the shopkeeper asked.

“Completely-”

“No! I mean how serious are you about being a superhero?” the shopkeeper asked, “You said your job involves a lot of danger, and they’re dressed in costume. I’ve seen a lot of good people die. Young and old, big and small, strong and fast, dozens of heroes have thrown themselves into that meat grinder and never returned. Now, I have some unique pieces that a woman like you would want. But I want you to tell me, how serious are you?”

“All my life,” the bard said, “I have risked life and limb to push back against the darkness. My soul, bound to the defense of peace, justice, and liberty for all. I have been beaten, mangled, bitten and hacked apart. This?” The bard poked a finger through her hand. “This is nothing. I have felt more pain than whole worlds, and I have never looked back, never shied away from my duty! My friends and allies keep our virtues strong and our minds sharp, but I need to be able to keep up with them. Know this, if you sell me your weapons, the evil of this world will tremble before my wrath, but the righteous will be emboldened.”

“You think she’s legit?” the other shopkeeper asked.

“It sounds weird,” the shopkeeper said, “But I’ve never heard a more honest answer. Follow me downstairs.”

The shopkeeper led the adventurers down a trapdoor behind the counter, down into a small, dusty room. In the center, held up on a mannequin, was something that Elliot was certain he’d never see again. It was a powered exoskeleton. It was crude, professional heroes having already advanced far past it, but Elliot had made sure it was in working order. Standing long jumps over chain link fences would never get old, but he was scared to bring it out. Treasures like this attracted trouble.

“Now, just know that if you break this,” the shopkeeper said, “You will never see another one like it. I can’t fix it, and anyone who can fix it will just take it from you. It will need to be refit for a woman as, uh, endowed as you. I don’t know who made it, but they clearly didn’t have your hips or your waist.”

“Thank you,” the bard said, “How much?”

“I never really thought of a price tag,” the shopkeeper admitted.

“You want me to just toss gold bars at you until you say we’re even?” the bard asked.

“Well, not at me,” the shopkeeper said.

The shopkeeper called it even by the time the bard had pulled out a twelfth ingot, and was kind enough to throw in ten boxes of ammo for the revolver, five speed loaders, a heavy combat knife, a suppressor, a set of black, steel toed boots, and a six pack of heavy boot socks when he noticed the bard didn’t wear any.

“By the way,” the shopkeeper said, the barbarian lifting the exoskeleton as the bard stuffed the ammo into a bag that couldn’t possibly hold all of it, “What’s your name?”

“I already told you,” the bard said, her face scrunching with a mix of irritation and curiosity, “It is, um, Blake! Yeah, Blake.”

“Fer the love of- that’s not-” the shopkeeper growled, “Just go!”