Cordyceps One
Cordyceps One
The more I learned about the world, the further my ultimate goal felt.
I lived in a capitalist-industrial hell, but its foundations were a tangled web of diverse interests. Cutting one stem wouldn't untangle that mess, and it was likely that it would heal better than before.
If I wanted to improve things, actually improve things and not just burn it all down and hope that whatever came next was better, then I'd need a few key things. First, knowledge.
That was something I was severely lacking at the moment. My eight-year-old self was educated, but that had been on another Earth, and while a lot of that education carried over--I was a mathematical genius for my age, and my critical thinking skills were sharper than anyone my age should have had--a lot of what I'd learned was moot.
My education had been tailored based on a system of governance, a culture, and a history that no longer applied.
It was one of the reasons I was so eager to take on the Ratesco's Union job. Infiltrating the best school in the city would be a boon. The education I'd receive to be able to pull off that infiltration? That was a much greater prize.
A week after gaining my second class, [Angel of Death {Rare}] I headed back to the new union building.
The city had calmed down even more a month after the last of the riots died out. Food was flowing once more, and the status quo had more or less returned. There were fewer jobs to be had, the pay was worse overall, and things were more dilapidated than ever, but no one had the energy to fight anymore. The union had grown in power and popularity though, for sticking it to the man and for providing food when the city government failed to.
It was probably why there were so many people out around the union building in baggy coats and with shifty eyes keeping a lookout. I focused on one of my new skills, [Unnoticeable]. It was a stealth skill of sorts, one that didn't so much make me invisible as it helped me blend in as someone beneath anyone's notice.
I was spotted by Gary the moment I stepped into the union building, of course. The skill had its uses, I was sure, but at lower levels, and tested against skilled individuals, it proved less helpful than I would have wished.
No point in sweating it. I was sure it would come in handy in the future.
I didn't get to meet with Markham. The union leader was too busy for me. Instead, his secretary pulled out a few notes for me, then a fairly large, heavy bag.
It contained a couple of textbooks and a blank notebook, as well as a simple steel nib pen and a small jar of ink. The note had an address to a home right on the edge of the Mistbank district to the west, across one of the walls keeping the slums out of the... well, the other less awful lower-income neighbourhoods.
It was the address and name of my tutor, and it was a name I re-read six times before it really sank in.
Hortense Digglestein's house was a nicer place than where I lived. It had proper dungeon-excavated brick walls, and despite having no front or side yards, the alley to the back did lead into a backyard that was just a bit longer than I was tall and as wide as the entire home. It was too shaded for any grass to grow, so it seemed to be a place for Hortense to park his bike.
I finished my inspection tour of the exterior of his little home, including a few glances through soot-stained windows, and decided that Hortense wasn't a threat.
When I met the man, that impression only heightened.
Mister Digglestein was a severe older gentleman with a bit of a mean streak and a face so flat a pug would have been envious.
I imagined that his immediate unlikability might have been why he was no longer working at any of the prestigious schools he'd once occupied. He took one look at me and decided that I was a scrawny idiot who couldn't possibly figure out how to count my own fingers, let alone my fingers and toes.
But, he wasn't being paid for his opinion of me, he was being paid to tutor me, and after a rough start, we got to work on that.
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I was better at maths than he was.
Sure, I was used to calculators, but I could work out most solutions without, and I was sharp enough to do it all in my head. When it came to reading and writing, I was somewhat behind him. My persuasive writing was fine, but my grammar was poor, and my handwriting barely legible.
I'd never minded that in my last world. A doctor-like scrawl wasn't a problem for an adult who happened to have a PhD--medical or otherwise--and anything important was going to be typed on a computer in any case.
In this world, that didn't fly as well.
In any case, it was with history and geography that I was really behind.
For some reason, Digglestein viewed me with nothing but suspicion, and I often heard him muttering that I was a 'strange child' and a 'bizarre aberration' whenever he thought I couldn't hear.
I didn't care. Our relationship was professional and that was all. If it turned to anything else, I had a knife strapped to my calf, another at the small of my back, and an angry panbadger in my bag. That wasn't to mention the various poisonous, explosive, and poisonously explosive mushrooms I carried on my person.
Digglestein and I would spend the next two years together, the old man skipping from subject to subject as he tried to cover every topic I needed at least a passing understanding of.
More interesting than the rote memorization that I needed to do in history and geography, were the lessons on how to behave in a 'proper place' like the Academy. There was a level of decorum and politeness that was expected there that was far more formal than anything I was used to in either life.
Unfortunately, at some point I'd picked up a few habits.
And an accent.
I knew I had a gutter accent, but I didn't know how bad it was until Digglestein started giving me speech lessons. He had me read from mouldy old books aloud and smacked me with a ruler when I pronounced something in gutter-speech.
Well, he smacked me once.
That session ended with Digglestein bent in half, clutching at his stomach and shivering on the floor while I looked down at him and carefully confiscated his ruler and explained—in what I supposed was my normal gutter accent—that corporal punishment didn't work as a form of encouragement.
He got better a day or two later.
He—politely—explained that I wouldn't be able to get away with such behaviour at any proper academy.
I didn't refute that, nor did I point out that I could very much get away with it if I was never caught.
As we spent more time together, meeting four times a week for two years, I learned surprisingly little about the man, but I supposed that was normal. I was there to learn from him.
Early on in our meetings, he encouraged me to pick up a skill or two that he himself had, and which helped with learning. Some of the skills he had made him a better teacher, others made it so that when he lectured, it was harder not to pay attention—which was an interesting experience with a plainly obvious social skill—and some helped him remember lesson materials.
Academic Mind {Uncommon}
This skill helps you recall, remember, and apply anything you were taught, read, researched, or noted down previously.
Category: Academic skills
It was merely an {Uncommon} skill, but as I learned it was better in some respects than the {Rare} variants. Rarity, I learned, often meant specialisation. The less common a skill was, the more potent, but also the narrower its scope.
This skill helped one remember across a broad spectrum, and it was a skill worth keeping once someone was out of school since it would help them recall anything they'd learned while in school.
I liked that it helped me remember the many notes I was taking back home. I didn't need to forget which poison did what, after all, or which mushroom needed which condition to grow best.
Of course, lessons with Digglestein weren't the only thing I did over those two years.
I was a busy little mushroom, spreading my mycelium around and sharpening more than just my wit.
***