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HC: Handyman | Ch. 211 - Tests
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 11:00:36 +0000 UTCJack’s father opened the back of the van. Inside, it was packed with gardening tools, tangled wiring, old toolboxes, and other odds and ends. He rummaged through the clutter and pulled out two long boxes.
“Here. Carry this.”
“O-OK.”
Then came a ladder, which his father handed to him without pause. “This, too.”
Jack balanced the long, thin boxes of bulbs under one arm and wedged the ladder beneath the other. He’d been jogging and doing push-ups lately. However, that exercise seemed to make no difference here. The muscles required for the task were different. His forearms and hands began to burn from the awkward grip.
His father emerged again, this time with a hefty toolbox, and slammed the van shut. “Let’s go,” he said, already striding toward the AirBnB.
Jack scrambled after him, wobbling under the load, trying not to knock the bulbs together or catch the ladder on a door frame.
They descended into the basement, the air cooling as they moved farther from the sunlight. The boiler room greeted them with the faint smell of rust and dust. Exposed pipes lined the walls like metal vines, and the boiler itself sat hulking in the corner—an old, rust-spotted beast with a faded control panel. It gave off an uneven hum, sputtering now and then, like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or shut down. Somewhere out of sight, a slow drip echoed in the background.
“Leave the ladder and the bulbs there for the moment. OK?”
Jack did as told, watching as his father crouched to inspect the machine.
“So, it’s not heating enough?” Jack tried.
“That’s what they said.” His father stood up and turned toward him, arms crossed. “How would you fix it?”
Jack blinked. “You’re asking me?”
“Yes. Aren’t you learning how to be a proper handyman?”
Jack swallowed hard. First, the sigh in the lobby. Now this quiz. When his dad had mentioned the labors of Hercules and the plagues of Egypt, he really hadn’t been joking.
His father was testing him.
He’d told his dad the game was teaching him real-life skills. Said it with conviction, back when he was trying to get his parents on board with his career. And his father—he’d said he’d put those claims to the test.
He wasn’t joking.
Did I really believe that when I said it? Or was I just trying to sell it—trying to get them off my back?
Jack took a breath. No. He’d meant it. I do believe I’ve learned a lot in the game. I just... have to show it now.
He forced himself to slow down. I don’t know boilers. Not really. But what if I think of it like a crafted item?
In New Earth, he’d spent hours troubleshooting why an item came out low grade—figuring out what was missing, what was misaligned, what needed reinforcing or adjusting.
Okay. Imagine the boiler is like an item you’re crafting. It should work. It’s designed to. So what could make it malfunction?
His heart rate began to steady.
“So?” his father prompted.
“If the water isn’t getting hot, maybe the thermostat’s broken? Or the heating element’s dead?”
His father’s eyebrows lifted. He gave a nod. “Not bad. And how would you fix it?”
Encouraged, Jack tried to follow the thread. The first answer that came to mind was: I’d look it up online. But something told him that would earn him strike two.
I just hope not knowing doesn’t count as a mark against me, Jack thought. But what else can I do—pretend I’ve got all the answers?
He sighed softly and gave a small shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Dad. I have no clue.”
There was a pause. His father looked at him for a moment longer than Jack expected, his brows ticking up ever so slightly. Not in disappointment. In... something else. Surprise, maybe?
“No problem,” his father finally said. “This is an old boiler. Problems with them are usually all the same. Come here.”
He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and unscrewed the access panel. The cover came off with a small metallic click. He gestured for Jack to lean in and pointed to a bundle of wiring.
“See these wires right here?”
Jack peered closer. “Yeah.”
“These wires are the sensor. If the little guy doesn’t see the flame, it shuts off the gas. Safety thing. But sometimes it gets dirty, or it’s a bit loose, and then it thinks the fire’s out—even when it’s not.”
Jack nodded slowly, trying to follow.
“Here’s the thing,” his father went on, voice low and steady. “Most times with machines, it’s not something big. It’s a small thing. Wires, sensors, something not plugged in right. The big parts rarely break.”
Jack blinked. “Most times? How often is that?”
“Hmmm… 8 out of 10.”
“Woah! That’s a lot.”
His father gave a little grin. “You’d be surprised. Many times you clean it, tighten something, and boom—it works.”
He gently wiggled the thermocouple wire. It moved just enough to show it wasn’t firm. With a twist of his pliers, he snugged it down, then pulled a piece of steel wool from his toolbox and gave the sensor tip a few quick scrubs.
He closed the panel, gave the side of the unit a firm pat, and twisted the ignition valve. A low whoosh followed by a steady hum filled the room.
With a grumble and hiss, the boiler shuddered to life.
Jack blinked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“No kidding,” his father said, smirking. “It’s fixed.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. His father had fixed it in under a minute. So fast. No hesitation. Just experience and a few simple tools.
“Now, I guess we’re done here, uh?” his father said, glancing around the room.
Jack paused. His father didn’t move toward the door. Didn’t head off to the next thing. He just stood there.
Feels like another test. Haven’t we finished up here?
Jack shifted his weight, thinking. What was he missing? The boiler was working again. Nothing looked out of place.
So why is he still waiting?
He glanced at the access panel—it was closed correctly. The boiler's casing seemed clean enough. He racked his brain, scanning the room again.
What is it? What is it...
Drip. Drip.
The sound ticked at the edge of his awareness. Then it clicked.
“What about that dripping noise?” Jack asked. “Shouldn’t we check it out?”
“A drip?” his father said, brow raised. “The receptionist didn’t mention anything about dripping. Maybe we just leave it, huh? Doesn’t seem important.”
Jack bit his lip. If this were a quest in New Earth, based on how fast Dad fixed the boiler, he’d get an A. Maybe even an A+. But to get an S rank, you had to go the extra mile.
“But what if it’s messing with the water pressure or heat or... something? Can’t hurt to take a look, right?”
His father stepped in close, placing a firm, callused hand on Jack’s shoulder. There was no teasing in his expression now—just something grounded and steady.
“Good answer, son. Plenty of guys just fix what they’re told. Leave the rest. Some even leave things half-broken so they get called back.”
He looked toward the pipes, thoughtful.
“But that’s not how we do it. We do a good job.” Then, in a quieter tone, more deliberate—almost like he was translating it in his head—he added, “And we trust... good work brings good back.”
Jack exhaled. It looked like he’d passed another test. If New Earth ever modeled an NPC after his dad, he’d make one impressive quest-giver.
Pride stirred in his chest, right alongside unease. Was this going to be the pattern all day? Little trials followed by these lessons?
The dripping turned out to be from two valve joints. His dad crouched down and sealed the first with plumber’s tape, then handed Jack the roll.
“Here. You take the next one.”
Jack crouched beside him and wrapped the joint slowly, carefully, trying to match what he’d just seen. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.
Before long, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the boiler, steady and strong.
“Ah,” his father said, stretching with a small grunt. “The feeling of a job well done. There’s nothing like it, right, son?”
Jack chuckled. “Yes, Dad.”
His father clapped his hands once and turned toward the door. “Come! Let’s take care of the lights now.”
They moved through the hallways, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the tiles. One of the ceiling lights buzzed and flickered in protest.
“Think you can handle a bulb?” his father teased.
“Pretty sure I can,” Jack said.
He grabbed the ladder and opened it up beneath the flickering light. As he placed his foot on the first rung, the ladder wobbled slightly. Jack frowned. “Uh… what’s wrong with this?”
“What do you mean?” his father asked.
“The ladder. It’s... off balance.”
“Stop worrying about little things, son. Go on. We don’t have all day.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. Just give me a moment.”
Jack knelt beside the ladder and flipped it on its side. Each foot had a rubber piece to keep it steady on the tile—except one.
“That’s why it was wobbly. Dad, have you been using this ladder? It’s not safe. See here? This rubber cap is missing.”
“Oh! Right, right!” His father reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out the missing piece. He popped it into place without ceremony. “There. Done.”
Jack stared. “Wait… you had it the whole time?” His eyes narrowed. “You took it off. Were you testing me?”
His father gave a knowing smile and didn’t deny it.
His father clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well done, Jack. You took the time to make sure things were right, even with me breathing down your neck. You figured it out fast. The old you would’ve gone up anyway.”
“I guess I would have,” Jack said, quieter now.
“Always test the ladder—and your colleague,” he said. “If a man doesn’t care about his own safety, how’s he supposed to keep others safe? We work with electricity. Ladders. Sharp tools. Safety first. Always first.”
Jack stood there for a moment, letting the words settle. The lesson didn’t sound like it was just about the ladder. It was something deeper. Something his father lived by.
His father nodded, satisfied. “It looks like your new job is really doing you some good.”
Jack noticed that this time, he didn’t call it a game. He called it a job, without hesitation. “I guess it is.”
“Alright, Jack. Go up. I’ll hold the ladder steady.”
As Jack climbed, the aluminum creaked beneath his weight. The light above him buzzed faintly—impatient, but not dangerous. He reached the top, steadying himself.
The ladder didn’t wobble. Not anymore. His father’s grip below kept it firm.
*
At some point in the morning, his father stopped testing him altogether and focused solely on teaching. They worked side by side—tightening, patching, wiring, lifting. Jack's hands grew sore, and his shirt clung to his back with sweat, but the rhythm of it all made the hours slip past.
They stepped out of yet another Airbnb and headed for the van.
“Well. I think our eight hours of honest work are done,” his father said as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“Already?” Jack gasped, slumping beside him.
His father laughed. “You sound like you’re ready to keep going.”
Jack rubbed his arms. “Actually, I—”
Ring. Ring.
His father reached for the dashboard phone. “Yes? Uh-huh. I see. Hmm… depends on how long it takes, but it'll be at least a hundred credits, plus twenty for urgency, and materials on top… Yes… I’ll be there in twenty… See you soon.”
He hung up and looked over. “Ruptured pipe. Student dormitory. Wants it done now. I can drop you at home if you’re tired.”
Jack considered it. His arms ached, his back was stiff.
“Nah. I’ll go with you.”
His father raised his brows slightly. “You sure?”
“Yeah. You haven’t taught me how to fix a ruptured pipe yet.”
His father let out a hearty laugh—then halfway through, it caught in his throat. He doubled over slightly, coughing harder than before.
“Dad, you okay?”
His father waved him off mid-cough. “Yeah, yeah,” he rasped, straightening up with effort. His voice was rougher now. “Your answer just caught me by surprise, that’s all. Let’s go.”
They arrived at the dormitory not long after. The building was modest and multi-storied, surrounded by a sea of scooters and bikes. His father pulled into a tight spot, popped open the van, and began pulling out supplies.
“Take this pipe,” he said, handing Jack a long section of tubing. “Buildings like this usually use this diameter.”
Jack took it.
“Also, here is a sledgehammer. We might have to break drywall to get to the pipe.”
Jack groaned as he took the heavy tool. “Got it.”
His father grabbed his toolbox and nodded toward the entrance. “Let’s go.”
Jack followed him inside, pipe in hand. The lobby buzzed with student energy—laughter, tablet taps, voices bouncing off the walls. He tried not to feel out of place in his sweat-streaked clothes.
A tall, frazzled student met them at the entrance. “Mr. Sousa?”
“That’s me,” his father replied.
“Thanks for coming so fast.”
“You’ve cut the water?” his father asked.
“Yes. Shut it off from the hallway main.”
“Good. Show us where it ruptured.”
They moved quickly up the first flight of stairs. Just as they were about to reach the second floor, a voice called out behind them.
“Jack?! Is that you?”
He stopped and turned.
Standing near the stairwell, holding a half-finished mug of tea, was a girl with short hair and hazel eyes.
