The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Dale didn’t respond to the slang with any visible confusion. He’d probably heard worse from panicked Hero students who’d blown holes in their parents’ walls.

"Wish I was joking, kid. The materials alone run about six to eight hundred. The labor’s specialized because we have to reinforce the patch against future kinetic impact, which means we’re not just slapping drywall and spackle up there. We’re installing impact-rated backer board behind the finish surface, which requires cutting out a larger section than the hole itself, framing it properly, and then finishing to match. And ceiling work’s always more expensive because gravity’s working against you and my guys charge a premium for overhead labor."

I rubbed my face with my free hand. The coffee had stopped tasting good approximately thirty seconds ago.

"Can I get back to you?"

"Sure. I’m booked today but I can squeeze you in tomorrow morning if you want. Or Friday. Your call."

I thanked Dale. Hung up. Stared at the phone in my hand.

Three to six thousand dollars to fix two holes. Two holes that I’d created in approximately 0.3 seconds with a weapon that the System had given me for free. The cosmic irony was so thick I could have spread it on toast.

I sat at the kitchen counter and pulled up my bank balance. The trust that Marcus Belmont had established for his son’s education contained a meaningful amount, but using it to repair property damage from a midnight weapon test felt like the kind of decision that would make a dead Hero roll over in his grave. Diane had access to the trust as well. She’d notice the withdrawal. She’d ask questions. Not hostile questions, because Diane didn’t do hostile. She’d ask the kind of quiet, measured questions that peeled you apart layer by layer while you sat there thinking you were having a normal conversation.

I could ask Diane to cover it. She had the money. She would probably do it without complaint, because she’d already committed to the progressive manifestation cover story and unexpected property damage fell within the acceptable parameters of raising an Aspect user whose powers kept evolving. But the look she’d give me while writing the check would communicate approximately seven paragraphs of unspoken commentary about responsibility and foresight and why grown men test their weapons at public athletic fields instead of in residential gyms at one in the morning.

I could fix it myself for six to eight hundred in materials.

I sighed so deep that my lungs scraped the bottom of wherever lungs end.

I didn’t know how to fix this shit.

That was the actual problem. Not the money. Not the timeline. Not Sloane’s training schedule or Diane’s insurance premiums. The raw, fundamental, embarrassing truth was that I had eighty Intelligence, eighty Dexterity, two supernatural abilities, a Legendary weapon in my inventory, the third-highest entrance exam score in the country, and I could not patch drywall.

The Oracle Feed pulsed in my peripheral vision.

I ignored it.

It pulsed again. More insistent this time, like a cat that had learned where the treat drawer was.

I read it.

The notification contained a single line of text: Tutorial content available. Home repair. Skill integration: 0%.

I sat up straighter.

"You have a home repair tutorial."

The System’s response materialized in bracket notation.

〘 The System contains informational resources across a wide range of practical domains. Home repair falls within the domestic capability subset, which was unlocked during the tutorial phase when you demonstrated cooking proficiency. You never accessed it. 〙

"You’re telling me I’ve had a drywall repair guide sitting in my System this entire time."

〘 Along with plumbing basics, electrical fundamentals, minor carpentry, appliance maintenance, and a surprisingly detailed module on grout restoration. The domestic capability subset was designed to support long-term household integration. You have used exactly one module: cooking. Your engagement rate with the remaining content is zero percent. This has been noted. 〙

I put my coffee down.

"Pull up the drywall module."

The information populated my vision like a heads-up display from a video game. Diagrams of wall construction. Cross-sections showing studs, plates, and sheathing. Step-by-step procedures for cutting out damaged sections, installing backer boards, applying mesh tape, layering joint compound, and feathering the finish surface. The text was clean and practical, written in the System’s characteristically dry voice, and it covered everything from golf-ball-sized nail holes to the exact type of damage currently decorating Diane’s gym.

Estimated completion time: four to six hours. Materials cost: approximately three hundred dollars.

Three hundred.

Not three thousand. Not six thousand. Three hundred dollars and a Saturday afternoon.

I read through the module twice. The eighty Intelligence made the absorption instant. The eighty Dexterity meant my hands could execute whatever the knowledge required. The combination of both meant that what would take a normal person a weekend of frustration and YouTube tutorials, I could potentially finish before Diane came home from whatever Saturday errands she’d manufactured as an excuse to leave me alone with the damage.

The System added a final note.

〘 For the record, the domestic capability subset has been available since Week One. You chose to allocate your attention toward combat abilities, romantic progression, and property destruction. The current situation is what professionals in my field would call a natural consequence. I am not judging you. I am observing a pattern. 〙

"You’re absolutely judging me."

〘 The distinction between observation and judgment is a matter of tone. I do not have tone. I have data presentation preferences. If those preferences occasionally align with what humans interpret as smugness, that is a coincidence I find interesting but do not control. 〙

I picked up my coffee. Drank the rest of it in one pull. It had gone cold. I didn’t care.

Hardware store opened at seven. I had a list. Three hundred dollars in materials. Four to six hours of work. And an eighty in every stat that mattered for the job.

I grabbed the Range Rover keys from the counter and headed for the garage. My phone buzzed on the way out. A text from Percy.

Good morning. I mapped three alternate routes from our building to the 1-B lecture hall last night. Route C requires passing through a courtyard that has suboptimal sight lines for anyone concerned about approach angles, but it saves forty-seven seconds compared to Route A. I wanted your opinion before I finalized my walking schedule. Also I found a desk chair at a store on Fourth Street that has lumbar support rated for twelve-hour sessions and I bought two. One is for you. You don’t have to pay me back. Consider it a neighbor investment.

I stared at the text. Read it again. This kid bought me a desk chair at whatever time he decided to go shopping and was now asking my opinion about walking routes to class like we were planning a military operation.

I typed back: Thanks for the chair. Route C. See you in nine days.

His response was immediate: Route C confirmed. I already labeled it as primary. The chair will be delivered Tuesday. It’s grey. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t know your color preference and grey felt statistically neutral.

I pocketed the phone and backed the Range Rover out of the garage. The morning air hit me through the open window, cool and clean and smelling like eucalyptus from the neighbor’s landscaping. Creston Hills stretched out ahead of me, all manicured lawns and expensive silence.

The hardware store was twelve minutes away. I had a module full of repair knowledge, a wallet full of trust fund money that Marcus Belmont would have approved of more than a six-thousand-dollar contractor bill, and roughly six hours before Sloane returned from her run and demanded the gym be operational.

The Oracle Feed updated one final time as I turned onto Meridian.

Domestic repair protocol: active. Estimated savings versus professional service: $2,700 to $5,700. Host competency rating: untested.

Untested. The System’s favorite word for me.