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 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. Just opened the pouch and dumped the contents onto a worn wooden tray. Magic stones tumbled out—gray, 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.