The Esteemed Mr. Labonte

I double-check the GPS. Then glance back up at the building.

"This can't be it," I mutter.

It's got all the charm of a condemned DMV. All concrete walls, with a nice rusty metal awning. I'm sitting in the middle of an unpaved driveway, staring at a big-ass chain link gate, wide open like the jaws of a sketchy alligator inviting me in for a spa day. Not a single sign in sight telling me I'm in the right place.

"Fuck it," I say to no one as I drive through the open gate and into the lot.

A man stands in the back of the lot, leaning against an old Chevvy. He's a dark-skinned man in street clothes, and has one eye that may or may not be glass. A cigarette hanging from his mouth, and he's holding a black cat in his arms, petting it gently with one hand. If it wasn't for the cat, he'd definitely look like someone with 'don't screw with me, I've seen some shit' energy. He waves me toward a row of parked cars.

I nod and pull into line with the other parked cars.

Grabbing my gym bag from the passenger seat, I step out of my car. It's just finished raining, and the air smells faintly like wet stone and grill smoke.

The guy points toward a steel door. "Up the stairs," he grunts.

I give a friendly wave of my hand, mumbling a thank you as I head towards the door.

Inside, I follow the narrow stairwell to an even narrower landing that splits into two hallways. The walls are covered in pictures of half-naked chicks and old cigar advertisements. Everything is slightly yellowed and smells faintly of cigarette smoke and garlic.

A small sliding window is built into the wall. Behind it is a guy with a walrus mustache and a pencil behind one ear, hunched over a ledger. Over his shoulder, I can see a few other guys busily working away in an industrial looking kitchen. I swear I notice a circular table saw being used to cut thick steaks.

The man at the counter doesn't look up. "Name?"

"Oh… Er, right… Joseph Sullivan."

His finger trails down a list with the slowness of a man picking lottery numbers. His finger stops. He nods, bringing his pencil to the parchment. Then he looks up at me.

"You've already been paid for. You havin' the steak today?"

"I mean… sure?"

"Everything on it?"

"Why not," I say, though now I'm starting to wonder what qualifies as 'everything.'

He scribbles something onto the paper, then pauses. Looks up. One eye squints behind thick rimmed glasses.

"First time?"

I nod.

He stabs a fat and arthritic pointer finger down the hallway. "Locker room's back there. Door to the right leads down to the sauna and pool."

"Thanks," I say.

I head down the hall and walk through an open doorway into the locker room. It's a single, large square room lined with narrow lockers and benches. The room is dark and windowless. The center of the room is filled with massage tables. One man is laying on one of the tables, snoring soundly. A few other men are in the room, standing in front of open lockers.

Near the entrance to the locker room, there's a shelf stacked with fresh towels, and they're warm. Not just "not cold." Warm. Like someone just took them out of the dryer. Nice, I think as I take one and stroll towards an open and unclaimed locker.

I strip down to my briefs, throw everything in a locker, then glance around.

And, yep. Everyone else is naked. Not in a weird way. Just in a this is the way kind of way. Which is even less unusual given all these dudes are old and gray haired. Yup—typically locker room fare. But it's hard to tell if that's the expectation or just old guys being old guys…

As though appearing in direct response to my thought, a younger, heavyset gentleman with a scar down his back strolls by, towel over one shoulder, dong out like it owns the place.

This is clearly not the place to get shy.

So, I sigh, drop the briefs, wrap the towel around me, and head out of the locker room.

I look around. No sign of Labonte yet. Maybe he's already in the sauna?

"Alright," I murmur, stepping toward the door marked with a worn wooden sign: SAUNA.

I push open the door and descend the stairs, the heat already licking at my skin like a warning. A slow, humid breath of the inferno lying in wait below.

At the bottom, I step into a large, tiled chamber that looks like it was ripped out of Seventies. There's a pool to one side—a rectangular length of cool, dark water. A few other doors break up the walls, one leading to a row of showers, the other marked "Sauna" in old, carved wood, the letters blackened and slightly warped from years of exposure.

I take a breath. Adjust the towel around my waist. And walk in.

Heat punches me in the chest. It has to be nearly 115 degrees Fahrenheit.

The air is thick. Everything in here smells like cedar, sweat, and a whisper of eucalyptus.

Tiered benches line one side of the room, climbing in neat little steps toward the ceiling. Two old men are parked on either end of the bottom row, both wrapped in towels. One is cross-legged and humming tunelessly; the other is leaning back with a look of transcendent peace on his face, like he's achieving enlightenment through slow-cooking.

There are two black iron ovens along one wall, as well as a small bench with a bucket resting atop it. Beside the bench is a spigot jutting out of the wall.

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I climb the benches to the top level, because if I'm going to be here, I might as well cook like a rotisserie chicken. I settle in, finding a comfort in the heat and quietude of the room. Time slows. Sweat beads on my arms and chest. Then it pours, turning to river across my muscles.

Just when I think I may take a breather outside, in walks Labonte.

He's in nothing but a towel and a pair of flip-flops that have seen better decades, despite the man being wealthy enough to afford designer flip-flops if he wanted. His short, squat frame somehow looks smaller in the shimmering heat, his gut protruding in cartoonish fashion. The heat of the room makes his pink hued skin practically glow instantly. Covering his bald head is a sauna hat that reads "Pain in the Tuchus."

His smile is wide and weirdly proud. "Nothing better than a good schvitz!" he declares before letting out an absolutely monstrous belch.

He climbs the steps, each flip-flop slap echoing around the tiled oven we're now both cooking in. He plops down next to me like we're two old war buddies sharing a foxhole.

"Johnny," he calls down to one of the old men. "Throw another couple buckets in, why don't ya?"

Johnny, who has the movements of a man who's been doing this ritual since the Carter administration, gets up. Grabs a wooden bucket. Fills it from a spigot. Walks over to the oven like a priest approaching an altar.

He stands off to the side of the open oven, before tossing in the water.

Hsssssss!!...

A wave of heat is vomited from the open oven. My nostrils scream. My eyeballs try to retreat into my skull. My skin feels like it's being poached by the air.

"Again," Labonte says, grinning like a lunatic.

Johnny obliges.

WHOOMPH… Hsssss!!!....

I didn't think it could get worse. But it gets worse!

I'm sweating so much it feels like I've turned into a human salt lick. My head swims, but I press my hands together and focus, doing my best to settle into the heat. I take a few deep breaths, ignoring that each breath feels like it's trying to strangle me with heat.

"Holy shit," I mutter.

Labonte closes his eyes and breathes it in like he's snorting the essence of life itself.

I grip the bench with both hands, praying my towel doesn't betray me. My brain may be melting and my bones may be turning into steam!...

Mr. Labonte, meanwhile, looks like he's thriving. The old man glistens and grins at me with his big, weathered teeth. He lets the immediate surge of new heat dissipate for a moment before leaning in, elbows on knees.

"Took you long enough to notice one of my pixies by the way," he says. His voice sounds like it could be the spokesman for Marlboro Reds.

"I've been thinking about that," I say. "That's how you got to the Gate so fast… After the Gate Crashers. You had something watching me. Following me."

Labonte raises his hands. "Guilty as charged. Think I'd only have one pixie doing that job?"

"Seems like overkill for local Guild recruitment…"

The little old man chuckles. "Perhaps. Perhaps it is…" He looks eyes with me, expression stern, and points a finger at me. "But Harvest Guild isn't going to get ahead doing what all of the other new Guilds are doing. Do you know why all the top Guilds are 'the best'?"

I consider the question. I'm not well-versed in what the Guild landscape looks like, but I can't help but think of the Pegasus Guild. Of Sarah, and the other Guild Captains. Each announced on public television across networks, with powerful sounding Classes. Pegasus Guild was one of the first officially sanctioned Guilds in the U.S. It had only been four months after the System's arrival.

"Time. They were granted licenses before most State-operated license lotteries were put in place."

"Bingo," says Labonte. "They were given a temporary monopoly. In such a new industry, those weeks… Months. Hell of an advantage. That's also time and resources training and recruiting powerful Classers." He shakes his head. "If we want to catch up, we got to work smarter, not harder."

"That makes sense," I say. "But what does that have to do with me."

"You've got potential kid. And you meet unique criteria my pixies have been tasked to look for…"

"You mean, I'm sparkly?" I ask. It's what the pixie had said about me. Whatever the hell that means.

Labonte rests his elbows back on his knees, but his smile doesn't waver. "Yes, that is what the little ones say, isn't it?"

"What does that even mean?"

The old man glances at me and I see a glow in his eyes, like two little lanterns filled with green fire. "I have a Trait called [Eye for Talent]. It helps me assess others. And I can pass it along to my candy constructs…" His glowing eyes take me in, and I suddenly feel more naked than I already am.

"That doesn't answer my question," is all I can say.

"What is the Source for your Spellcasting?"

"What do you mean?"

Labonte scratches his belly. "For most Spellcasters, it's their Mana Reserves. A Sub-Attribute of Intelligence."

"Sub-Attribute?"

"Oh, kid. You've got a lot to learn."

I stand up and my towel almost drops, but I snatch at it just in time, keeping it loosely wrapped around my hips. "I'm not here to get lectured about how dumb I am. I get enough of that elsewhere."

"Hey, hey, hey… Sit back down. No one said you were a muscle-headed idiot. I'll explain."

I sigh and take a seat.

Labonte continues. "There are six Statistical Attribute. On the Physical side, you've got Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution. On the Magical side, there's Intelligence, Willpower, and Spirit. But none of it makes sense. It took some very smart people—smarter than me—to realize there must be more to these numbers. Two people with very similar Strength scores may have entirely different builds. Some of the differences are explained by Classes, sure. But not all…"

"So, the six Stats are just a simplified view?"

He nods. "Exactly, kid."

"How do we see what our… Sub-Attributes are?"

"A machine that only wealthy enough Guilds have access to."

"Oh."

"Like the Harvest Guild." He flashes me a toothy grin.

"… Right."

"All this to say, if I had to bet, I'd suspect you don't cast Spells using Mana."

What do I say to that? It's probably a good idea to play dumb. Keep the specific details of my Class closer to my chest.

"That's an interesting idea," I say.

"… Right," he retorts. "Let's just say you don't. I'd also wager you use Strength or Constitution, and either the Sub-Attribute Vitality, or Fortitude."

"If I knew anything about Sub-Attributes, I might have an opinion on your theory. But I'm just a muscle-brained idiot…"

Labonte chuckles again. "Right, right… Well, that's what my pixie meant when it said you were sparkly. Your unique Spell Source offers a lot of potential."

"What do you mean? Mana or Vitality, or Fortitude… What difference does it make?"

The old man's eyes start to glow again. "The System is an unnatural thing. Humans can access it, but it's very clear to anyone with two brain cells that our bodies aren't made for channeling Mana. Even with the improvements the System makes to the body, the two are not perfectly compatible. There are upper bound limitations, kid."

"Sure," I reply.

"But with the System's assistance, there is a near limitless potential on our bodies' lifeforce or durability being improved."

"That seems like a wild postulation."

"I'm a betting man. And I'm willing to put my money on it. The big Guilds have snapped up the most powerful of the traditional Spellcasters. When it comes to my Guild, I'm looking for the gaps in the market. Someone who channels magic through a System-enhanced body—and not Mana—might just become the most powerful wizard on Earth."

I freeze. "I—" Pause. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Labonte stands and begins walking down the steps. "You're welcome to test my theory by joining Harvest Guild and seeing just how far you could go with proper resources and support."

I stand and move to follow, not quite done with this conversation. We exit the sauna room and as we step into the main chamber, the air feels practically frigid in comparison. I sharply inhale a relieved breath of cool air.

"If someone like that has limitless potential, why aren't all of the mega Guilds just snapping them up and doing the same thing?"

"Because," says Labonte. His pink skin is slick and steam is rolling off his shoulders. "They don't need to. They already have the best Spellcasters and can pay for the second best… And have the prestige and name recognition to draw anyone away from a smaller firm like us."

I think of Clyde's words of caution about speaking to a smaller, lesser known Guild like Harvest. Amos Labonte may have a point.

He continues. "They can't see what they're not looking for."

"And how are you the only one looking for it?"

Labonte tightens the towel around his waist, when his hand leaves the towel there's suddenly a stick of flavored sugar candy in between pinched fingers. If he didn't pull that from his Inventory, I don't want to know where that stick was hiding. He sticks out his tongue and empties the colorful sugar mixture into his mouth. Then, he closes his mouth. I see his jaw work, moving the sugar around his mouth, before he swallows.

As soon as he swallows, my [Aura Sense] erupts. Labonte's aura is powerful, so powerful I can see it even though I'm not fully focusing my [Aura Sense]. Pink and yellow tendrils flow from his body like tentacles, and the green glow is back in his eyes, completely filling them. The power flooding from the old man is intense.

Did this old man seriously just turn sugar into magic fuel?

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