This Class is Bonkers! (This Trilogy is Broken (A Comedy Litrpg Adventure) Book 2)

by J. P. Valentine

  “I’m telling you guys,” Wes chimed in, “fire.”

  “Fire is a last resort,” Eve said. “I’d rather do this subtly if we can.”

  “I need to stretch.” Preston pushed himself to his feet. “You’d think they’d at least give us chairs so we don’t have to… whoa.” He stumbled, catching himself against the back wall.

  Eve watched him steady himself. “Are you alright?” She quickly checked her notifications, confirming they said nothing about ingesting any toxins.

  Preston rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I’m just… a bit unstable.”

  I feel funny.

  “Art? What’s wrong with—” Eve trailed off as she turned to find the trellac hatchling sitting in the back of the cell with an ornate silver flask clutched within his taloned hands. “Art, no!” She leapt across the room and snatched it from him.

  This juice isn’t very good.

  Preston rubbed his temples. “Gods below, Eve, you let him into the brandy?”

  “I let him? You’re the Caretaker.”

  As they argued, Wes stood, unsteadily crossing the cell to press his head against the bars. “Hey.”

  Preston groaned, walking along the wall to approach Art. The cell flashed gold. “I don’t think he drank enough to hurt himself.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Eve said. “Now I just have to be locked in a cell with four drunk companions.” She looked down at the flask in her hand, considering taking a swig for herself.

  In the background, Wes continued trying to hail the guards. “Hey!”

  Preston sank to the floor. “So much for planning our escape.”

  Eve nodded. “You’re not going to be much use like that. I can keep at it while Art sobers up.” She sighed. “We really need to train him to a point where he can stop leaking his emotions even when not thinking clearly.”

  I Spy! Art demanded. I wanna play I Spy!

  “Hey!” Wes barked one last time.

  The guards finally turned away from their game of dice. “What do you want?”

  “Do you wanna ride a fucking dragon?”

  One of the guards over-emphatically shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think we’re supposed to—”

  The other cut him off, slamming his hand into table. “Shit yes!”

  “Ray,” the first guard protested, “we’re working.”

  “Fuck you, Jason.” Ray stood. “I’m gonna ride the gods-damned dragon.”

  Eve watched in awe as Ray fumbled with his keys, realizing that they too were under the effects of Art’s intoxication. Hells, back in the mountains, his fear had cleared out an entire dungeon.

  Eve was ready when the cell door swung open.

  Neither guard had their fingers on their belts. Neither was ready for a five-foot tall Emissary to Jet directly at them with a punch to the face. They went down hard.

  “Well, that was easy,” Eve commented. “Now we just need to get the hells out of here.”

  Wes stared dumbfounded. “But he was gonna ride Reginald.”

  “Not anymore, he’s not.” Eve stepped to the chest with their gear, wrenching it open to reclaim her gear. Fortunately enough, most of the supplies had made it down from the suite, including all three packs and the party’s not inconsequential supply of gold. As she donned her armor and strapped her club to her back, Eve quietly lamented the gorgeous dresses that likely still hung in the closet upstairs.

  Everything gathered up, Eve handed Wes and Preston their packs. “Alright, let’s move.”

  They both just stood there with stupid smiles on their faces.

  Eve groaned. “Of course. It couldn’t be that easy.” She stepped back into the cell, scooping a giggling Art—no doubt the source of the dumb grins—from the cell floor and handing him off to Preston. “Can you get Reginald on his feet? Draconids are supposed to be resistant to magic; he’s probably the most sober one of you.”

  “That was so mean,” Preston muttered. “To offer up Reginald like he’s some prize pony at the fair.”

  It took Eve a moment to realize he was talking about Wes. “That doesn’t matter. We’re breaking out. Now let’s go.”

  Eve ushered Reginald up and Preston onto his back. The drakeling moved slowly, his footing stable but not exactly graceful either. The Caretaker, on the other hand, was anything but. His left arm occupied holding Art against his chest, only Preston’s right hand clung to Reginald’s spines, leaving him to sway dangerously on the draconid’s back. His feet similarly dragged along the floor as Reginald walked.

  “Okay,” Eve exhaled as the drake-riders left the cell. “Now Wes… shit. Where’s Wes?” She darted from the jail room to find the bulky fire mage wandering the wrong way down the empty hallway singing an improvised song about prison breaks.

  “We’re breaking ooooouuuut! Can’t hold us dooooowwwwn. Your guards are clooooowwnns.”

  It was not the first time she’d heard Wes sing, but given his skill at it, Eve certainly hoped it would be the last. She ran to his side. “No, Wes, we’re going this way. Please stop singing.”

  He kept singing. “I’m turning aroooooound.”

  Eve slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shhhh. We have to be quiet.”

  He licked her hand.

  Eve let out a sigh but kept her hand in place. With her other arm, she gently pushed Wes back down the hall, stopping just outside the room with the holding cell. “Okay, now let’s get… damnit Preston.”

  Preston was healing the guards. “They were hurt!”

  “They were keeping us prisoners!” Eve snapped. “They’re gonna raise the alarm.”

  Wes wrenched away from Eve’s silencing grasp. “You guys gotta promise not to raise the alarm on us, alright? You’re my best friends, and that’d be super rude.”

  Jason nodded silently. Ray stared up, slack-jawed. “I’ve never had a best friend before.”

  Eve maneuvered Preston back onto Reginald’s back. “Okay, let’s go. We’re wanted criminals, and not everyone is a friendly drunk.”

  She kept one hand on Reginald’s neck and another on Wes’s back as she guided her companions through the servants’ passages and narrow stairways of the royal palace. A dozen times as she reminded Wes to keep quiet or Preston to actually hold on to Reginald, she breathed a silent thanks that Defiant Mind inoculated her against Art’s influence. They wouldn’t have made it past the hallway without her immunity.

  They encountered a few members of the palace staff on their way out, most of whom were sitting on the floor or leaning haphazardly against the wall. Wes told bad puns to everyone they passed, prompting every response from dumb laughter to visible disgust to stunned silence. All in all, the denizens of the royal palace seemed pleased to sit and laugh and socialize, something Eve attributed to Art’s own giggly mood. She only hoped it wouldn’t shift too soon.

  Eve brought the procession to a halt just before the final door outside. She peeked through it.

  A dozen guards had congregated in a loose circle just beside the palace gate, shirking their duties in favor of what looked to be an impromptu boxing match. Even the loser grinned stupidly through the blood on his face.

  “The guards are distracted, but there’s a lot of them,” Eve relayed to the others. “Preston, how fast can Reginald run?”

  Regi’s the fastest! Art answered for him.

  “Okay, but how fast can he run without you two falling off?”

  “Super fast. We’re not falling off anything. We’re the stablest riders you’ve ever seen.” Preston swayed as he spoke.

  Giving up on that avenue of inquiry, Eve addressed Reginald directly, hoping his magic resistance left him somewhat sober. “Do you wanna race? You versus me, first to make it past the palace gates wins, but if Preston or Art fall off, you lose. Okay?”

  Reginald let out something between a growl and a dog’s bark dropped several octaves. Eve took it as a yes.

  “He says yes.”

  Eve exhaled. “Thank you, Preston, I got that
.” She grabbed Wes, not waiting for his consent before tossing him over her back like a sack of potatoes. It brought back memories. “Once I open the door we go. Ready?”

  A voice rang out from down the hallway behind them. “Eve?”

  Eve spun, eyes widening when she saw her. “Emily…”

  She stood over a pair of servants engaged in a very public display of very intimate affection. “What’s going on?” the queen asked, her tone accusatory. “What have you done?”

  “It’s not what—” Eve tried.

  “We’re breaking outta here!” Wes yelled from his vantage on Eve’s shoulder, contorting his free arm to flash a rude gesture. “Can’t hold us!”

  “Wes!” Eve snapped. “Let me handle…” She trailed off. With a groan, she put the muscular fire mage down. “Stay here.” Carefully gesturing several times to make sure Wes stayed back with the others, Eve turned to approach her once-friend.

  Emily tensed as she drew near.

  Biting back her feelings about that reaction, Eve held up two calming hands, keeping some distance as she spoke. “One of my companions, Art, he… he’s a powerful telepath, but he’s just a kid. He got into that brandy you gave me, and now he’s too drunk to keep his emotions from leaking to everyone around him.”

  “And you’re unaffected.”

  “Neither are you.”

  Emily huffed. “A Monarch can hardly expect to rule if she’s vulnerable to hostile telepathic influence.”

  “We’re not hostile,” Eve barked, gesturing wildly around her. “All this happened by accident. We’re just taking advantage of it to avoid that execution you promised.”

  “You expect me to believe that you accidentally stumbled on an escape plan?”

  Eve paused. “Um… yes?” She scratched the back of her head. “To tell you the truth, half of our successful plans happen by accident.”

  “And it’s by accident that my people are all drunk and you’re all sober?”

  “Do they look sober to you?” Eve gestured back to where Wes and Preston were trying to thumb wrestle with both hands at once. She sighed. “I’m like you. My class protects me.”

  That raised Emily’s brow. “You’re no Monarch.”

  “No, I’m something different. Something Unique.” Eve paused as she heard the sharp intake of breath from Emily. “It’s a quirk of fate that I Appraise as an Emissary, not intentional deception. When your Steward found me and started treating me like one I just… went with it.”

  “You lied.”

  “I did.” Eve shrugged. “And I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you that I was afraid for my life or that I did it for some greater good, but the truth is, I didn’t. I lied because it was more believable than the truth. Because it was easier.”

  Emily scowled. “And why should I believe you now?”

  “Because I’m leaving,” Eve put it simply. “And because there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I have no reason to lie any more. I’m only even talking to you because I care about you. I don’t want to leave you behind thinking you’ve lost a friend, or that I never was one in the first place.”

  Emily stared, her mouth ever so slightly ajar as a crack showed in her regal composure.

  Eve continued. “I wish things could’ve been different. That the lie had held for just long enough for me to finish the tournament and leave without this shitstorm. That you and I could still be friends or maybe…” She exhaled. “Maybe once you heard the Trueseer you would’ve forgiven us, or maybe you would’ve kept your promise and had us killed. But either way, now--”

  “Now it’s too late,” Emily breathed. “Accident or not, your companion has directly assaulted the royal palace.”

  Eve nodded.

  Behind her, Reginald growled at Wes as the Disciple tried to mount the already over-encumbered drakeling. Wes paid little heed to the snarls of warning, repeating some chant about ‘riding the dragon.’

  Eve groaned. “I need to go.” She turned, stepping away from the Fledgling Monarch, but Emily caught her wrist as she tried to leave. It was a gentle grasp, one Eve’s mighty Strength could’ve broken without a thought, but the meaning behind it stopped her cold. She turned back.

  Emily met her gaze with wet eyes. “Stay safe,” she whispered.

  Eve let herself linger there, reveling for a precious moment in the warmth of her touch. “Goodbye, Emily. I hope I’ll see you again.”

  Eve pulled away, dashing up the hallway to yank Wes away from an annoyed Reginald and toss him onto her own back. She looked over at the drakeling and his two passengers, gritting her teeth to bite back the encroaching thoughts she didn’t want to face quite yet. “Ready?”

  Art chimed, Yep!

  Reginald growled.

  Preston clumsily nodded.

  “Three, two, one, go!” Eve kicked open the double doors, Charging through into the open courtyard. Reginald bounded after her.

  Telepathically intoxicated as he was, Preston still had the wherewithal to hold on for dear life as Reginald raced through the cobblestone courtyard. The drake’s footing was uneven, his claws scraping haphazardly against the stone, but his animal instincts kept him upright.

  Eve kept pace, unwilling to run ahead in case something went wrong. Reginald traveled slowly enough that she hadn’t even really needed to Charge.

  A few of the guards noticed their passage, but most took to cheering for either Eve or the drake-riders to win their race. None thought to stop them.

  The gates hung ajar, no barrier for the party of adventurers barreling towards them. Eve allowed herself a brief moment of relief as they escaped the palace grounds, only to stop as alarm bells sounded out behind them.

  She turned to Reginald. “Congrats, you won. We need to keep moving, get out of the city before Art sobers up. Hopefully everyone’s too out-of-it to react to that alarm.” She ushered them forward, keeping a slower pace for the sake of Art and Preston’s safety.

  The streets of Pyrindel were a scene all their own. Nobles shared jokes with the beggars in the gutter, shopkeepers threw goods to passersby or shuttered their windows or abandoned their stores entirely. On one corner, nearly forty people had congregated into a drunken chorus to sing an off-key rendition of Emma’s Eve.

  To Eve it was at once entertaining and horrifying. As much fun as these people seemed to be having, they were having it against their will. By all definitions, the city of Pyrindel was under assault by a telepathic monster. It just so happened that the telepathic monster was a cute child that had got his talons on some brandy while nobody was looking. The sight of parents, themselves intoxicated, trying to corral their drunken children punctuated the wrongness of it all.

  Eve kept the party moving. As far as she could see, nobody was getting hurt, and with any luck this would soon all be a strange shared memory of the city’s residents. As long as they could get out of the city unharmed, everything would be okay.

  Wes had another different idea. “Oh gods do you smell that? I want a meat pie so bad.” He struggled against Eve’s grip, but she was stronger than he.

  “We can worry about food later,” Eve chided. “Right now we need to leave.”

  “But I’m soooo hungry.”

  “No.”

  Wes grumbled and went silent for a moment.

  Eve smelled the fire before she felt it. She stopped short, frantically batting out her burning vambrace. She smacked Wes across the face. “No fire!”

  “But I like fire.”

  “No! Not while you’re like this.”

  Wes sulked but didn’t argue further.

  Eve pressed on, carrying Wes and guiding Reginald through the busy streets towards the outskirts of the city. More than once did passersby approach her, either because they recognized her from the arena or to talk about how cool her eyes looked. She tried to ignore the few flattering comments, especially the ones about how well her armor fit around her chest. She reminded herself these people were the victims here.

  On fou
r separate occasions someone asked if they could pet Reginald. Excited as the drake seemed at the attention, Eve turned them all down, her focus single-minded.

  She noticed the first change when Reginald’s pace slowed, his head lowering as he let out a high-pitched whine. It was only then Eve noticed her shoulder was wet with tears.

  “I just… I feel so bad for Emily,” Wes sobbed. “She just found out her friend was lying to her, and now… and now she’s running away. She must feel so betrayed.”

  Eve awkwardly patted Wes on the back. “It’s okay, it’s okay. She seemed… I don’t know. I think she’ll be okay. I hope she’ll be okay.” She left the following, I hope I’ll be okay, unsaid, certain she’d be crying about a similar topic were she too under Art’s influence.

  The trellac’s comments didn’t come in the form of words but of a barrage of images and emotions. A loving mother gently preened his feathers. A team of adventurers dragged her away as he hid in a dark crag. Loss. Fear. Sorrow. He missed his mama.

  All around her, the people of Pyrindel collapsed into their misery. They cried into each others’ shoulders lamenting the griefs of life, wallowing in shared catharsis.

  Preston, hugging Art tightly to his chest, joined in. “I’m a terrible father,” he cried. “What kind of Caretaker lets his child drink brandy?”

  Eve, still reeling from Wes’s outburst, did her best to comfort the healer. “Hey, hey, you’re doing the best you can. You’ve already made sure he’s alright, and in a few hours everything will be back to normal.”

  “I’m a failure.” Preston elongated the vowels of that last word, letting it out with a heaving sob.

  Eve sighed. “You’re not a failure. Look, even now you’re holding him so tenderly. You’re a good father, Preston.”

  Preston sniffled but stopped audibly lamenting.

  At least Reginald remained well enough put-together to keep walking forward, even if his head drooped with what Eve assumed to be sorrow.

  Eve’s words appeared to have done some good, both for Preston and the hatchling in his arms, as the aura of melancholy slowly subsided. By the time the poorer outskirts of Pyrindel gave way to the farms and fields of the countryside, a silent sense of contemplation had taken its place.