《Project Elyse: Endless Frontier》 0.1 Prologue [i] Spinning a web of words pale walls between myself and all I see in the dreamer and his dream ¡Á¡Á¡Á Wake up, Enza... A cold touch caressed his face. Hasegawa Satou stirred awake. He tried to go back to sleep, but found himself too parched to do so. Hands blindly flailed at the nightstand, and caught nothing. Something fell. Frustrated now, with a creek of his bed he sat up. He looked around him, and saw nothing. He didn¡¯t know where he was, or who he was even. But slowly, as lucidity returned, he began to remember that he had dreamt. What was it, he asked himself, but succeeded in only recollecting what he had felt, ages ago, it seemed to him¡ªmemories of something very dear and precious to him¡ªintimations of which, he could see, were fleeting away from him right before his very eyes. Then, gone. Truly gone for good. He remembered who he was again: Hasegawa Satou. That was his name. That was who he was. And to remember who he was again this brought him no pleasure. Legs folded under white-linen sheets, he sat up, cold, and ran his hands over his thin and bony arms. A forlorn sense of comfort grew inside of him to do so, and he wryly smiled. How pathetic, he thought; that a touch of his own warmth could evoke in him such a intense sense of closure. Deeply, he yearned for the touch, the intimacy, and the warmth of another human being. But dying alone: he seemed fated for it. His alarm, disembodied, glowing in the dark, told him the time: 3 am. Far too early to be getting up; but what time, day, or year it was had meant nothing to him for years¡ªexcept today. Today, for a change, he had plans. Get up, he told himself; and for once in his life his body did listen. Bare feet landed on cold and unwelcoming marble floor, and he tip-toed faster than he would¡¯ve liked. The lights when he turned them on singed his eyes, and head-splitting headaches followed a cold splash of water. Light-headed, he held himself over the sink, trying to find his breath, and ugly was what he thought when he saw his knobby knees, above feet, that seemed too large, duck-like, under his scrawny legs. He looked up in the mirror, and saw his stoic dead eyes greet him back under long and tousled black hair. His semblance with his once fairer face was still there, but muted. He looked no older than he did in the past, but to him he looked old, too old. He remembered why he hadn¡¯t look at himself in the mirror in so long. Now, to do it again, he regretted it. Was he beautiful, average, ugly? For the life of him he could not tell. Sometimes he found himself to be arousing, fair-skinned, beautiful; but most of the time he thought he was vapid, pale, and anorexic. Even tonight, for the life of him he could not tell; and what he felt when he saw himself again after all these years, was anguish. Freshened, cold, with his phone he left his room. The narrow hallway was cold, dark enough to make him doubt his footing, but at the other end where came light, nothing stood indiscernible. The curtain walls of the living room laid bare the entire berth of the cityscape of Tokyo for him to see, and from there came all the light he needed to know where he had to go. From the 18th floor of a residential high-rise, he saw a tangle of highways drowned under their own dirty yellow lights; and beyond: a city of jewel outshone the gibbous moon high in a starless night sky. As if the moon wasn¡¯t already faint enough, the metropolis below only seem to make it all the more duller than it already was¡ªugly¡ªand somehow smaller. Sirens came from somewhere afar, below, distant, echoing, and soon fading away. It was cold and quiet where he stood, and in his loose oversized shirt that did little to warm him he shuddered. The high-ceiling of the living room, the cold and the darkness that surrounded him here, and only the droning hum of the fridge to break the monotony of such oppressive silence¡ªhe found it unbearably suffocating to stand here. He wanted it to stop. And it was then that all of his past came back to mind: no physical exercise, no friends, no intimacy¡ªnothing. How long has it been, he asked himself. How old was he tonight? How long had he lived this same day over and over and over again? Having made a conscious effort to not keep watch of what time, day, or year it was, he didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t know how old he was tonight. And in his mind, he still saw himself as that same fifteen year old boy who had given up on life, locked himself in his room, and said goodbye to the wider world at large; and not a day older. He lived with his mother; and the fact that she was not in her room was not lost on him. He lit up his phone, and there he found a new message: from his mother, who told him that he was to be home alone for the next few days. Why, she didn¡¯t tell him, or rather she chose not to; but it wasn¡¯t hard for her son to guess. The fact that his mother went on trysts with a secret lover of her¡¯s was no secret to him. He had known about it for some time now. The thought alone did not repulse him. He was indifferent to it; holding, that whatsoever his mother did away from home was none of his business. But the thought that a stranger might enter his life did frighten him. Satou hated her, his mother. He hated her, not because he blamed her for all his woes, but because never once in her life did she understand him. Their relationship was an estranged one, and one never to find it¡¯s closure. Even tonight he thought about it, as he had thought about it countless of times in the past: that he would write ¡®your fault¡¯ on a piece of paper for her to find. But tonight the thought brought him no pleasure. It seemed to him to be such a petty thing to do; that it was better if he disappeared quietly instead; bothering no one, no one at all. Next to the living room partitioned by a marble half-wall, was the kitchen. There, the fridge. Cool air hit him with a brightness that made him squint when he opened it, and inside: he saw food, drinks, half-eaten pastries, and cartons of who knew what, his mother used, being a part-time architect, to renovate the condo. He reached for a box in the far back, checked the label to see if it was the right one, and with a bottle of alcohol laid them all down on the half-wall counter. Blue-pills like caps of screws inside strips fell out in cascades and in a glass he dumped them all in. He made sure to put in more than that was necessary, because too little was not a death sentence; excess on the other hand was what he wanted. The barbiturates would take him, and with a few shots of alcohol in tow, he could be certain that he wouldn¡¯t botch his final rites. A couple more rechecks later, he left it all there, and with a mug of coffee headed back towards his room. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it He closed the door with his backfoot and sunk down on his chair. Legs folded, mouse clawed, he waited for his pc to boot up, because there was one last thing he had planned on doing first before he took his own life. ¡°My final session,¡± he said, as he took a sip of coffee. He winced. ¡°Hot,¡± he muttered, when his lips singed a little. His pc booted up back where he had last left off: an ancient relic of a game forum still barely active greeted him with threads, posts, and announcements of any content related to Project Elyse none of which even vaguely interested him. He closed it, and opened Project Elyse. His screen disappeared; with it so did his room. For a brief moment, there he sat, in the dark. Then a blinding light came, and three whole years of having not seen it since, ¡®Project Elyse¡¯ transitioned in. He tried to remember when he had first stumbled upon Elyse, but failed. He couldn¡¯t remember; only watching the launch trailer. His life at that point in time had been a massive blur, where days seemed unending and go on for eternity. He was still in school then: that much he could still remember; probably middle school, where he had terrible grades was bullied often by being too frail and quick to tears. The virtual world: it was once his second home. He was utterly obsessed with it. For many years, after development and updates ceased, and players left the game en masse, it was to barely move him. Hours spent idling, opening and closing inventory, looking at one¡¯s toil of no value. Tonight, after all these years, to reopen Elyse moved him deeply, but did so with nostalgia, as well as vanity, but also pride at his once exalted virtual fame. A veteran among veterans, with more than 6,000 hours of playtime in the span of four years, it wasn¡¯t an exaggeration to say that the fantasy DD-MMORPG had once served him as his second life. There, he was skilled, respected, relied upon, looked up to¡ªbut so what? It was all digital, at the end of the day. Everytime he was showered with praises from strangers online, it was guilt he felt, and not pride. Others lived better lives. A bright flash from his screen brought him back. Project Elyse had finished loading in all its assets. All he had to do was enter in his credentials. ¡°But first.¡± He clicked on ¡®Hall of Fame¡¯, and browsed through the catalogue of in-game news articles, devlogs, public announcements, until he finally found what he was looking for: a post, four years old. ¡°The remnants of my heydays,¡± Satou murmured. Global Tournament: Guild Wars Category: Regal Volition in 1st Place wins $250,000 The splash art created by Project Elyse¡¯s Visual Arts Team themselves, commissioned for whosoever won, even now filled him with guilty pleasure when he admired it. Having been in-game leader during the festive, his player-character, Me¨CEnza¡­, stood posed center. Statuesque, with a tomboyish mien, and tousled jet-black hair cut-bob, she was photogenic to look at: both as his cynosure and his creation, and to him the most beautiful woman there ever was, and no wonder: Someone whom you¡¯d find more apt to call handsome, dashing, instead of pretty, beautiful, Kiryai Enza was his perfect ideal; he had created her to be so. But to see her again, after all these years, and feel¡ªenvy? It seemed pathetic, even for him¡ª Feeling this way, towards something, fictive¡­ ¡ªbut he could not help it. With all his heart, Satou envied her, his own player-character. He envied her, and wished that he was her, and not him, and had been born and lived there, in the world of Elyse, and not here, in this world, which was so dull, mundane, monotone, and so utterly confining. In contrast to the life fate had ordained him to live out, her¡¯s in his eyes dazzled. He wondered what it would be like to be her, not for the first time, and to his no surprise found himself delighting in the thought. He would be a women then, sure; but he felt no pangs of shame for it. Better if so, was his verdict, because for a long time now he had already known that he had always been a little queer. All his life he had yearned to be someone else. Specifically, someone like her. He still remembered at the age of fourteen how he had snuck into his mother¡¯s bedroom and put on her lipstick. The risqu¨¦ thrill he had felt to see himself in the mirror was incomparable to anything he¡¯d ever felt till then. And he was never slapped harder across the face for it. His mother had caught him; and he still remembered thinking, seeing her appalled face, wide-eyed, grimaced, contorted to see him, that she would disown him. But what surprised him more, even then, was how utterly calm he had felt inside, even though outwardly he was crying, hiding his face away. When she said to him, how pathetic of a son he was¡ªaccentuating that one word¡ªhe still remembered thinking: ¡®Why did you even have me then, you hypocrite?¡¯ Satou hated her, his mother. He hated her so much. Yet here he was, feeling pity for her. Any resentment tonight seemed entirely beyond him; and with his resolve for self-harm set in stone, nothing seemed as though they could any longer matter. If he was not right in the head, then so be it. I am what I am. He took out his Dive Gear from under his desk and held it up so that its visor faced him. Superficial scratches on it stood out to him which they never had in the past. And on its corner, in sharp fonts, read: ¡®DIVE GEAR | DDC VXL7¡¯. Satou felt conflicted, perturbed, and wistful to see it. ¡°Better have no regrets now, Satou.¡± He said to himself. But plenty of regrets he did still have. Those precious moments where we forget who we are, and lose ourselves to become a part of something larger than ourselves: enchantment, endazzlement¡ªwhatever name one chooses to call them¡ªall of us who consume stories do so to find ourselves there: in that evanescent place brimming with meaning and bountiful delight where we can never stay for long¡ªwhere entire worlds populated with distinctive people spring into existence¡ªwe long to find ourselves there. In such fleeting moments, we say, ¡®I was transported!¡¯ to another world, no less, and are wise enough to know that these precious moments are not something we get to choose. We do not get to choose what enraptures us; and for Hasegawa Satou, it was Project Elyse which brought him out of his unbearably suffocating world of familiar conflict and self-angst. Though his obsession for its fictive world had not lasted, waned through the passage of time, it had nevertheless once been strong; especially so, because it had introduced him to what that one word: ¡®isekai¡¯ meant, by having as its premise the transmigration of a modern man, like him, to another world. A second life. And to live that second life in another world unlike one¡¯s dreary former¡ªthe premise of an isekai had struck a powerful cord in him, had moved him terribly like nothing had ever in his entire life, precisely so, because someone like him: who was dissatisfied with his own state of affairs and yearned for a better lease of life, had his wish fulfilled. In such a prospect, he found his expression. Having nothing of value or stake in the world he was ordained to live out, isekai to him had shone as an answer¡ªimplausible as it was, he knew¡ªit had nevertheless touched something deep within him: and for that, he could not let go. In a mere prospect, he found what he had always longed for, but never found. And here it was now, in his hand, that mystical artifact which had purportedly transmigrated countless contemporaries of his, like him, to their elysian dream. Wake up¡­ Not him, though. Void or death, rebirth or a second chance. He should¡¯ve been non-committal, but he wasn¡¯t. Even now you could¡¯ve still seen him, holding onto that foolish hope, futile as it was, he knew, that the impossible was possible. Which is why he is so dear to me; why I am so fond of him. I see a part of my life being played out in the life he has lived, and for that I wish for him to live a life that I myself could not live. I wish to grant him his wish, so he may live for me, and at the end of his journey, changed, look back, and tell me whether he resents me, or if he loves me. I do not know what he will choose. But I wish to see him smile. If there is such a thing as a God in this world, He held it up over his head. Eyes closed, blood spilled from it like veins, profusely soaking him wet in its warmth. A wreath of thorns settled on his head like a crown for a martyr. It began to melt¡ª Then please¡­ Give me a second chance¡­ ¡ªwith it, so did he. Please¡­ 1.1 Welcome Back [i] Pandemonium withdrew. What was disarray grew tangible. A screech of iron came, sharp whistles followed, a heavy horn blared and drowned it all out. Taps, scraping of heels; a clutter of voices, all around him: gossips, yells, shouts, and sometimes from somewhere afar, came a laughter. Someone knocked him on his shoulder. ¡°Ex¡­ Me¡­¡± He staggered. Or maybe not. After the first few seconds passed, he no longer felt sure. He took in air. He felt his chest grow, his clothes go taut on over his body, trepidation arise. The blinding light disappeared, finally, and Hasegawa Satou saw for the first few moments what he could have only failed to comprehend. He was lost in a crowd: but one so peculiar, tangible, that it felt too surreal to outright disbelief. Behemoths of iron¡ªtrains, he could only presume¡ªflanked him on either side and lumbered up to a halt. He saw a crowd part and enter it; and above, beyond an expanse of iron-cast vaulted roof, plein air of an early noon sky come in. Something pulled him on his shoulder. A leather strap, he found¡ªof a satchel he himself had pulled on¡ªresting on it was his hand, black gloved, that¡ªno, not his hands¡­ Not his? Then whose? Where am I, Satou thought; and thought again, out loud: ¡°Where¨C" only to stammer, and eat his own words. Colors left his vision then. One to many questions arose for him to have enough mind to act, or even stand. He must¡¯ve staggered, because someone saw it and came up to him. A well-built man, easily twice his age, in a black overcoat, felt hat, came up to him and caught him by the arm in case he stooped too far and fell. The stranger, or foreigner, or whoever he was¡ªmust¡¯ve said something: his mouth moved; but Satou heard none of it, except, ¡®Miss¡¯. That one word, like a bold of lighting it struck him. ¡°Miss,¡± Satou murmured. Again, he heard his own voice¡ªa woman¡¯s tenor voice¡ªand again he felt his heart skip a beat. He didn¡¯t what to do, but somehow, he forced a nod. The man let go of his arm, and left with the look of doubt still on his face. It was then that he felt something run down his cheeks. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and looked. Water¡ªTears? Was he crying? Swaying like a drunk, he kneaded his hands. The black gloves were a little too thick. He felt the weight of his thumb pressing down on his palm, but he wasn''t sure as to whether he truly felt it. Furtively he pinched his cheeks, and he felt¡­ He wasn¡¯t sure what he felt, or even if he felt it at all! I¡¯m needlessly doubting myself, he thought, and thought so in his own voice: as Hasegawa Satou: that was who he was, right? But that meant little to nothing in practice. His hair stood on their ends, and a shudder ran through him. ¡°A mirror,¡± he said. He brought up his fist and covered his mouth. I need a mirror. And if it was true, he dared not believe it, not without proof. Resigning himself to go wherever the crowd would take him, for the time being he let himself be led. Novelty surrounded him wherever he went; he was immersed in it. On his way he saw faces¡ªall foreigners: caucasian, if he had to make a guess; but he knew he was wrong. As for what they wore, he found that to be a lot harder to pin down. Not quite european¡ªmedieval, victorian, georgian¡ªbut more so was it a pastiche of vogue that in his mind could only find its mark on one word: fantasy, and nothing else. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Satou felt unnaturally light and agile as he took his strides, and somehow taller than he once was. The lethargy from living a sedentary life no longer ailed him. His weight, pressed against his boots; his posture, upright as he walked, his satchel, how it swayed under his arm; and how his hair, longer, somehow, bobbed on his neck, caressed his ears¡ªhe was conscious of it all; except what expression he might¡¯ve had on his face. He tried to ease it. Lord only knew if he did. On the platforms outside the entrance of a sleeper car, a clique of five youths caught his eyes¡ªone of them a girl¡ªwho distinctly stood out to him, at least in his eyes, from the rest of the crowd because of what they wore: Ornate embellishments and plenty of garters hung from their militaristic-looking uniforms; and swords¡ªeach had one¡ªa thin and slender sword hung and sheathed at their waist. Knights, was what Satou thought when he saw them: young aristocratic knights, scions of noble houses vowed by birth to serve their nation¡¯s crown. An outlandish conjecture, he knew, but the fact that he half-believed it¡­ He must¡¯ve been gawking at them too openly, because one of them, a haughty-looking blond haired young man, suddenly looked up towards him. Eyes met, and Satou, caught off-guard, flushed. He tried to look away, but did it too abruptly to be furtive and for a fact he knew he was caught. He passed them by as though what he had done he had done in passing, but when he heard said behind him: ¡°What a beauty,¡± he nearly staggered then and there. ¡°Did you see her? Outside the theaters, you don¡¯t see such a beauty often,¡± Words beyond that were drowned out by the crowd; but every word of it had tensed his body, rusted his stride, and made him conscious of how he took his next steps. He tried to not walk like a puppet, but found it needlessly difficult to do so. Only was it when he knew for certain that he was out of their sight did he regain back some of his bearing. I need to see myself¡­ Now¡­ He could not tell if he was wading through a dream or not; and because he could not, he began to long for pain. Not the drunken sort of stifling pain he was in, but the sort of pain that brought you back to your senses, made you feel alive. Trains arrived and departed east of him, as well as west, under an intricate latticework of stained glass held up by lofty archways seven stories high. The noise was deafening. And how crowded it got when a train stopped did not help. Far off in the distance, beyond the platforms, seven stairways led up to someplace else¡ªhopefully outside. Satou leaned in to a trot towards it. Platform to platform he waded his way through the pandemonium until the voices stifled by thick marble walls grew muter, and muter, and muter. Only once he had set foot onto the landing did he let his eyes wander. He found himself in an atrium, no way inferior to a palace. Loggias for floors upon floors peered down at him, above which, sculptures of angels sat dangerously close to the ledges¡ªtheir life-like features and their loose white robes softly lit by sunlight that cascaded in from outside¡ªstudying him curiously under a beautifully muralled dome of what must¡¯ve been a mythologized atlas of the known world. Vintage signboards hung at every juncture¡ªin english no less¡ªbut were of little to no help. Lost and overwhelmed, he sat down on a nearby bench, but not for long. He felt vulnerable and exposed. Somewhere, peaceful and quiet, where I can be alone¡­ This is too much¡­ What happened to me¡­ He quickly headed up a stairwell that eventually led him to a floor that at first glace seemed scarcely treaded. The corridors west of him overlooked the platforms about ten stories below. Soft echoes of distant clamor came up from down there. Here, there was some tranquility. He wandered on, looking for a restroom to hide inside, when something caught his eyes, at the end of a corridor on his right. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes did not stray from it once he saw it. The light at the other end. With bated breaths, he walked up to it, and beyond it, there he saw it. Satou stood there, frozen, nonplussed; and he stood there lips parted for a very long time. People busy with their own lives passed him by, paying him no heed¡ª "Hah..." ¡ªuntil they saw him fall down to his knees. Hands held onto the marble baluster railings, the closest thing he could grab a hold of, from his lips came something not quite a laughter nor a cry. He felt faint, incredibly faint, and on the verge of his whole world falling apart. Tears soon began to well his eyes. He felt dizzy; blood siphoned out of him entirely; and everywhere he looked, he saw everything go in and out of focus. Barely, he held himself together. Somewhere, far in the misty-distance, announcements came for the next schedule of trains¡ªthe few final words of which that seared deeply into him, Satou knew, that for the rest of his life he would never forget it: ¡°We welcome you to Ednin.¡± 1.2 Regaining Bearing The plaza outside the train station was sparse of any passersby, while the surrounding arcades lined with stores bustled with life; soothing music played in the background and came to him with the distant chatter; and behind his back, faint rumble of cars arose down a short flight of stairs where three boulevards intersected to form a busy thoroughfare. The day was cool, pleasant, and the sky mild and scenic. Everything seemed suffused with an incorporeal aura of a dream; and even now, he still could not believe it, truly believe it, that he was here, and not there, back at home, still asleep. He looked up, and up there, in the sky, proof dangled right before his very eyes. A celestial body of dawn blazing in all its brilliance. At first he thought it was the sun, but the undeniable fact that it was imprisoned inside seven concentric rings of radiant runes brooked none of his askance. Briefly blind from squinting at it again, Satou looked away, and rubbed his teary eyes. ¡°I¡¯m in another world aren¡¯t I?¡± The statue in middle of the plaza did not reply, instead proudly looking past him with his deep-set furrowed eyes. Elbows rest on his thighs, Satou looked down at his still slightly trembling hands, and again felt that jarring dissonance that these lithe fingers were really not his. He felt conflicted, perturbed, just to see it, precisely because for the life of him he could not call these his own; yet nothing felt more real, intimate, corporeal to him than the body he was now in. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. An hour had passed by since he had been sat here, parsing out his thoughts; and an hour more since he had seen himself in front of one of the storefront¡¯s mirror. He recalled that face¡ªthat tousled jet-black hair, hazel eyes, lips parted to see him¡ªand again he felt his heart skip a beat. ¡°What a beauty,¡± he murmured, and blushed when he realized who he had repeated. He laughed, embarrassed; he could not help himself but laugh, embarrassed; and he found that his own gaily laughter did not fail to enchant him. What a beauty indeed¡­ Never in his life had he felt this giddy, yet so utterly confounded at the same time. Vertigo¡ªthat sinking feeling which he so dreaded coursed through his entire body, his heart raced, but he did not shun it. How could he, when the discomfort which had first brought him here now imbued this precious moment of his with a glint of indelible beauty. His wish had been fulfilled. By all appearances, his wish had been fulfilled. He was in another world. Where am I, how am I here, why am I here¡ªsuch metaphysical questions were distant and irrelevant. Sat here under a tall post that fluttered the flag of a nation foreign to him, whatever ploy or machination or act of nature had brought him here, all that mattered was that he was here¡ªhere, in another world¡ªin another world! And he was the happiest soul alive for it. Dry tears stuck to his cheeks flowed again, and he wiped it off with the heel of his palm. A warm breeze brushed him, and all of a sudden he remembered where he was: a public-square, out in the open, with tears glistening in his eyes. He looked around him, startled as well as a little embarrassed, coyly, and sighed in relief when he saw no one stare. His body loosened, go less taut, and he felt a cold dampness underneath his shirtsleeve: sweat, he realized, his own; and also realized only now just how long he had been sat here under the sun for. Somewhere else to sit, with a shade¡ªhe looked around for it, but found none where he would have his privacy at the same time. Then he looked down beside him. The leather satchel leaning next to his thigh¡ªHe had it on his shoulder when he first opened his eyes. Now that he had calmed down somewhat, he reached for it¡­ and pulled out, to his surprise, a letter, stained with blood. 1.3 Inventory Catalogue [i] A blood-stained letter. The first thing Satou pulled out from the panoply of who-knows-what awaited him inside, was a blood-stained letter. His first thoughts had reached for murder; but it very well could¡¯ve happened from a cut finger. Mindful that he did not take it out, he held it up with his fingers clamped on its corners, so that where it was stained he did not touch. A fifth of it, he saw, was covered in crimson: blood, he knew with some surety, that was splattered on it like spilled ink. An elaborate sigil sealed it shut, and flipped over on its back, jutted in ink were words written in short-hand that at a glance he could not tell apart from mere scrawls. It looked jargon, but also not. There was draftsmanship in it. It looked important. But, whatever the case was, he knew, to try to understand what it meant was evidently beyond him, for now. He let it fall, and then scrambled past a white handkerchief, a fountain pen, a hip flask half-filled with hard liquor, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, until finally he took out what looked to be film-camera that was the width of his palm. Bronze-lined (which he thought was gold), black-framed, rigid and firm when he shook it, it had weight to it despite its size, and seemed to be entirely mechanical. He fumbled with it in his hands, when, not sure what he did, the back flung open. Satou jerked, startled at having not expected it, and saw in between the two spools where the lens met the film behind frosted glass ¡ªan image, in heliotype, that albeit pitifully small, was of such fine grains that it looked no less inferior to a black & white polaroid. The glare of the sun made it hard to make it out, but when he brought his hand over it for shade, he saw¡ªa city, from the looks of it: taken from the dark confines of an open attic that stood out like a wet blotch of ink near the borders. Three-quarters up: roofs, chimneys, domes, belfries, and spires jutted out to meet the midday sky. Satou winded the lever back, the spools turned, a click came, and the image shifted to a prior shot: this one, of a marble hearth, in the dark. Barely was he able to make out the outlines something hung above the mantlepiece: probably a portrait; below which were cindered logs nearly lit out, their cores glowing faintly still like veins a couple shades lighter. Then came the canopy of a tree. Dead twisting-branches branched out over a dark and overcast gloomy sky, and it was the last one. The lever turned a dozen or so more times, then it turned no more. He had reached the end of the reel. He wasn¡¯t sure what to make of any of it. Again he reached his hand in for the next, cold to the touch, did he realize what it was. For a brief few moment, all he could do was blankly stare. Then his blood began to boil. He shoved the thing in¡ªstartled eyes wide-open for any witnesses¡ªand saw¡­ No one. No one had seen him. Slowly, he pried the satchel back open. Ornate engravings etched on cold steel; a familiar barrel. His eyes hadn¡¯t deceived him¡ªIt was a gun! A revolver, to be more precise, whose thin and long barrel made it look more sleek than it was burly. He held it on its ivory hilt, mindful that he did not take it out, and felt the weight of it bear down on his hand. Though by no means small, it was heavier than what he had expected it to be¡ªand that to him spoke of power, force. But why was it here? Why did he have it on him? More importantly, was it fine that he had it on him? It wouldn¡¯t get him in trouble, would it? Does it have a safety? A stupid thought. It was a revolver. The hammer of it wasn¡¯t cocked. But just to be sure, and since not making sure to do so was negligence on his part, he turned the satchel away so that the barrel it faced far away from either him or his thighs, or anyone else he could see in the vicinity. But if it does go off, it won¡¯t matter if it hits someone or not¡­ What else¡¯s there? Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Hands burrowed through the satchel once more, and a weighty chuck of iron clanked inside it. He took it out. An iron-cast key, that, given its hefty size, suited best to fit inside a gate. Besides its size, it was roughly-made, and by all means ordinary. House keys? It could be. What else? Just one more. And it was the last one. A nutcracker doll, from the looks of it, which, for some reason, reminded him of a mage. In his hand he held it: eerily cold despite it being made out of wood and him wearing gloves that by no means were thin, and he found it an odd thing that it was so. What else is there in here? Nothing else. He complained under his breath: ¡°Where I am, who am I¡ªnothing?¡± Suddenly, he remembered that he had yet to check himself. He patted himself down, but froze the moment he saw his prominent chest block the view to his lower torso. Like a boy, he flushed, shy. This¡¯ll take some time to get used to¡­ He tried to get back on track, but the swap of his gender was not something he could¡¯ve easily feigned. In the back of his mind it was here to stay, making him feel guiltily elated each time he stole glimpses of his figure in his mind¡¯s eye; yet he pushed on, half-distracted. In his rear-pockets he felt something, and leaning on one side took it out. It was a wallet¡ªinside which he found a folded stack of fresh notes. He counted it. ¡°One thousand riyals,¡± in notes of hundred each. Quite a hefty sum, he thought to himself. Even if I¡¯m in another world, a stack ought to be a hefty sum¡­ Next he patted his upper-garbs, and there he found a ticket¡ªtrain tickets¡ªfolded neatly in half in one of his inner-pockets. He flipped it open¡ªan embellished white card with gilded borders¡ªturned it upright, and read it: ¡°Advanced booked, 1st class. Admission for one: Adult. Boarding time: o-three pm, platform o-seven, at King¡¯s Crossing, for the Aureate Express¡­¡± Satou looked up, beyond the statue, past the plaza, up a long flight of stairs where there it stood, three entrances wide, with lofty pillars on either side: ¡°King¡¯s Crossing,¡± he muttered. An enormous gold-rimmed clock high up on one of its gothic towers told him the time: ¡°Half-past four now,¡± which meant that he had missed the train ¡®she¡¯ was meant to board. And who was this¡ªshe? Ednin, King¡¯s Crossing¡ªwhile he had not recognized these names, he had recognized her, knew who she was!¡ªor so it had seemed to him, at least at first. Now he wasn¡¯t so sure. If he had transmigrated as his player-character from Project Elyse, then it was no stretch to presume that he should have his inventory as well, or at least his equipped-gears. That not being the case, was she then, a look-alike? The belongings he had just finished cataloguing attested to being organic (except for the gun, but even that one could excuse) as the belongings of someone who was proper denizen of this world. ¡°If so, then she probably has a life of her own,¡± a life lived for twenty years, at least; and she most likely had friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, and probably unlike me, even lovers, somewhere in the world who knew who she was, and would grow worried if she went missing for more than a few days. Or did not show up at the platforms¡­ Woe was to befall him if he had to deal with that scenario¡ªdeal with all the people who knew her; but of course none of this was guaranteed. He was guessing here, at the end of the day, that he had, like a ghost, taken over the body of someone else¡ªa look-alike¡ªand thereby transmigrated to another world. If he was to err on the side of caution, here was what he had to work with: transmigrated to another world, in the middle of a train-station, in the body of a young woman who looked exactly like his Elyse player-creation, he had just missed the train she was meant to board. The only lead he had was this satchel beside him, and everything in it, and a train ticket. For the ticket, he could go back still, rebook, wait a few days, then board finally it once it came back; but, where to, was he meant to go? The train ticket he held in his hand made no mention of an arrival: meaning, that he was probably expected to know it beforehand. ¡°Except, in my case, I don¡¯t know where that is. Only she does, whoever she is¡­¡± He could ask around¡ªthe station staff, for a start¡ªand tracing the route the Aureate Express took figure something out. It would be straight-forward if it stopped at one station, which seemed very unlikely. But suppose if it did? What then? Should he board, or should he stay here? He had found himself at crossroad. The whole ordeal was such a muddle. Exasperated, Satou ruffled his hair, and said, looking up: ¡°But half-past four already?¡± He was wasting daylight, he realized. In a couple hours, nightfall would arrive. ¡°What now, Satou-kun.¡± 1.4 Damsel in Distress Satou stands up, takes a few steps, but not knowing what he should do, where he should go, sits back down. Bereft, he takes out his wallet and counts: ¡°One thousand riyals, in notes of hundred each,¡± and recognizes in it that it was all he had to stop himself from sleeping on a bench tonight. ¡°What now, indeed.¡± Of all the things he had to consider and consider well, nightfall troubled him most. What was he to do then? He needed to find a place to stay before that, that much he knew; and perhaps she had a home, somewhere¡ªan apartment she could go back to if she missed her train¡ªbut where? ¡°System,¡± Satou tried. As expected, nothing happened. ¡°Of course. That would be too convenient.¡± Daylight was sinking. Time now was of the essence. He needed a plan, and quick. The day half-sunk, what should he do now? So he tried to think something up¡ªsomething clever, something helpful¡ªbut, nothing. All he found himself capable of doing was to repeat the same question over and over again: What to do now? What to do now? What to do now? It did not help that his inexperience at being independent in life was making his current predicament twice the ordeal it ought to have been, and knowing that someone even a little more worldly would not have stumbled here somewhat put him to down. Ask for help, maybe? He tried. But who? And help him how? ¡°What did an isekai protagonist do, anyways, once they were here?¡± He brooded over it, but the futility of such a line of thought quickly became apparent to him: It didn¡¯t matter what they did. Not only did things play out differently in reality from an author¡¯s frivolous fancies, his circumstances to begin with were quite novel from anything he¡¯d ever watched or read. This was new; this was real. But in some ways less bizarre¡­ The reasonable actions one undertook when they found their belongings stolen during a vacation trip in a foreign country seemed the most apt to his case, but not the answer here. He could not go to the authorities, or to an embassy, and tell them what had happened to him. What would I say to them? Right¡­ He imagined himself walk up to a policeman, stop, and tell him with a straight and serious face: ¡°I lost my memories. Can you help me?¡± He cringed. If all went well, he would learn, of course, even if they would be of little help; but he was more likely to get sent to an asylum instead, or a mental clinic, given that he was unlikely to answer even one of their basic inquiries correctly. This world does have some degree of human rights, right? Probably. But he was in no hurry to test that out. Then, another worrying prospect came up: What if people knew what an otherworlder was? What if they find out who I am? What I am? How would they treat me? God¡ªthere was so much to consider. So much he didn¡¯t know. So much so, that despite being still physically sprightly, his body aching to be put into action, and him having barely moved ever since he came here and sat down, he could feel fatigue set in, envelope him, because he had no idea what he ought to do next. But that¡¯s just how life goes¡­ The thought did little to cheer him up. He did not have all the time in the world. The clock was ticking, he was well-aware of it, and the knowledge that he was wasting his time only made him feel all the more restless and tired. He had all the motivation in the world, the willingness to undertake any and all ordeal, but him having not one concrete task to direct it towards had become his fatal bottleneck. And in a way, it was quite comedic, too, that in all the times he had fantasized about reincarnating to another world, it had never once occurred to him to seriously consider how he would go about it once he was here. So he tried now, by starting small. In his mind, he made a list of the bare-minimum he would need to get done before night fell over him: food, water, shelter: the basic triad; but also information about his new world¡ªall of which, still, were just as vague for him to put into action. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. But it¡¯s a start, if any¡­ He tried to come up with more, expand this list of his¡ªbut, nothing; nothing¡ªexcept that same question playing on repeat over and over again in his head: What to do now? What to do now? What to do now? He wanted to heave a sigh; and maybe he would¡¯ve if a breeze hadn¡¯t brushed past him. His shirtsleeve, still wet underneath, the coolness of it, unexpectedly fortuitous, caressed him deeply. Any respite was welcome, and wanting to relish in it he closed his eyes. In the darkness came to him a panoply of sounds: the low rumble of cars, behind him; talks and tin of crockeries from the arcades; faint footsteps, all around him; and rising out of it all he heard the distant chugging of a train, slowly fading away, like the fog in his mind¡ªthe serenity of it all pulled him out of the tiny confines of head, and for once he saw the bigger picture at play. I¡¯m overthinking this, he told himself. I can plan all I want but at the end of the day, I¡¯ll have to go, get up, and wing it¡ªand this answer to him seemed, despite its na?ve simplicity, just right. Yes, what I need is movement. Not sit here and plan all day. Complicated as it was, this labyrinthine of uncertainties he was currently facing could still be treated as though it were something very simple, and treaded with improv; and in such a light. him stressing over how he would go about it, the dangers he might have to face, seemed quite silly. He was in no danger. He wasn¡¯t in the lawless wildlands, where a dilemma or confrontation lurked at every corner, but in a city, a civilized society, which had laws, citizens who abided by those laws, and respected your rights, even if to an extent you undermined theirs. The greatest threat he faced at best were not on his life, but at his pride. ¡°Yosh~¡± With newfound assurance, Satou stood up, resolute in his poise, and asked himself that same old saw: ¡°What to do now, Satou-kun.¡± But no longer did it carry for him the same gravitas as it had for him back then. Briskly, he made sure all his belongings were accounted for, so that like a fool he did not leave something behind. Once sure, he slung the satchel up on his shoulder and made his way out the plaza. At the summit of a long flight of stairs, he turned back and faced the entrance of the station one last time. ¡°King¡¯s Crossing,¡± he said. This is where I started. This was where his journey began. Whatever this place meant for the denizens of this world, to Satou it meant nothing trivial. King¡¯s Crossing: This was the place where fate had chosen to leave him to his own devices, here, at King¡¯s Crossing, and he would never forget it. ¡°It would¡¯ve been nicer if I had a guide as well,¡± he remarked, good-humoredly, but by no means did he mean it as a complaint. He was content with the roll of his dice, having been bestowed more than he had asked for, and he was grateful that he wasn¡¯t reincarnated somewhere else, more inconvenient: a lush forest for instance, where right about now he should¡¯ve either been thriving, or struggling; having killed his first set of goblins, or bandits, or bleeding to death and starving. Just the thought of it was enough to make him shudder. To him, the prospect did not feel abstract at all, but all too real. He felt twice as more grateful in his current standing, and he began to feel pity too, for all his fellow isekaied brothers and sisters who weren¡¯t so lucky as him. He clasped his hands and bowed slightly. ¡°I wish everyone best of luck¡­¡± All paths lead to their own set of hardships and rewards, and the path he was meant to walk down seemed quite harmless in comparison: holding no prospects for physical struggles, resource scarcity, dysentery, indentures, or saving damsels in distresses. Except in my case, the damsel was I. He chuckled, amused. A silly comparison, he knew, comparing himself with tropes; but it put him in a lighter mood nevertheless. And here he was, standing at the edge of a long-held dream come true. Understandably, he felt more than a little nervous¡ªtrepidation and exultation thumping in his chest¡ªan excitement incomparable to anything he¡¯d ever felt in his entire previous life. He considered himself lacking in so many ways: so many facets of life that were vital prerequisites not only to survive out in the real world, but also to thrive, even in a civilized society; but he felt sure in himself that he would learn, could learn, learn it all, change, and learn it well¡ªstep by step, one by one¡ªuntil he no longer resembled the Hasegawa Satou he was now. Not that I¡¯m much of a Hasegawa Satou, even now¡­ Ah, right. I¡¯ll need a new name too. Satou won¡¯t cut it. And not just a new name. He needed to drill it into himself that he could no longer go on acting in his same old ways. He could no longer be laconic, taciturn, but had to be consciously initiative, sociable, open to undertake any and all challenges that came his way; which included confrontations as well: something he dreaded to think of even as a possibility, because he was alone now, and he needed to stand up for himself. A change of tact was an imperative if he wanted to succeed, thrive, and not squander his second life; and for reasons that he considered himself as not someone with good nerves, easily set on the edge, tense, with a self-confidence down in the dumps who easily got flushed, flustered, and shy, this by no means was a trivial conviction for him to make, but one that was necessary. ¡°Alright,¡± All said and done, it was about time that he finally got something done, before night fell. With that thought, Satou took his first step. 2.1 Wayward Streets [i] An anachronistic fusion of european society and architecture at its various times¡ªthe affluent boulevard beyond King¡¯s Crossing led him down an exotic vista of luxury stores, eateries, coffee houses, gift shops, confectionaries, and other establishments and businesses lined with trees. Vacationing crowds occupied the sidewalk; wearing suits, dresses, blouse, trench coats, ulsters, and other pieces of clothing he could not name; with parasols, walking canes, or suitcases in their hands; and on the tiled cobblestone streets engraved with tram rails and cables suspended overhead: the pioneers of motor traffic drove past him: vintage cars, many of them sleek, motor carriages, cabs, and from time to time there passed by his side the heavy-bulk of a crowded tram. The air was clean, refreshing, free of any scent; but passing by the shaded patios there would always come wafting by a scent that would make him want one badly. A cup of coffee, at least, to quench his thirst, freshen his mind; or a seltzer, with a sandwich, or a pastry, or whatever that waitress there was bringing to a table over there! But he held himself back. Now¡¯s not the time¡­ Above, half-veiled by some misty clouds, what looked awfully similar to the underside of sea-faring vessels¡ªgalleons, or man-of-war¡ªcruised by. ¡°Airships,¡± Satou remarked. A fleet of them at that, that before he could get a better look at them vanished behind a sea of clouds. My eyesight¡¯s gotten better too. A lot better¡­ Ahead, a theater, with a garish marquee; and beyond it he saw a corner. Here, he had a choice. He could take a right, or keep going straight¡ªsee where the boulevard would take him, eventually, and with the King¡¯s Crossing right behind his back be in no danger of getting lost. But on a whim he decided to choose the former, leaving the boulevard he was in for the narrower lane, and whether such a decision was the wise thing to do, only time would tell. And perhaps it was, because across the street behind a row of parked cars, he caught sight of two constables, standing next to a parking meter¡ªJust the people I need, he thought. Here was his chance to get something done. But what to ask? He crossed the road, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to them once he got close¡ªonce, twice, thrice¡ªkeeping his prosody in check, his accent, his phrasing of his words as best as he could so that when he would speak, that his voice would not come out pidgin and fail him. Then, once he was close enough to be heard, he said: ¡°Excuse me,¡± and tried to smile a little, wave also¡ªwhich came out a little weak, feeble; or too awkward, rigid. Being too uptight, he couldn¡¯t tell. ¡°What can we do for you, miss.¡± ¡°I was looking for a hotel.¡± ¡°I believe you just passed one.¡± Just to be sure, Satou took a sidelong glance back at where he had come from. ¡°No, not that hotel,¡± he replied. ¡°Too expensive.¡± And it was. Just the fa?ade of it alone, and all the folks who entered it all lavishly-dressed¡ªit wasn¡¯t hard for him to guess that that hotel was barred from him and his wallet. He was looking for someplace more economic, temporary. ¡°Well, what¡¯s it called?¡± ¡°I-ah, no¡ªI didn¡¯t have a particular hotel in mind. I was looking for one, you see.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± ¡°I wondered if you could help me.¡± A brief pause here. Then, ¡°I believe we can. Tom, fetch the yellow pages will you.¡± The latter walked away without a word towards a black vintage car parked nearby, their police prowler¡ª So far so good, Satou thought. ¡ªand came back with a thick book under his arm. He handed it over. Well-worn round the edges, the yellow pages printed with rows and rows of telephone numbers and addresses were far too small from where he stood to make out; but the occasional advert with fancy font and black & white illustrations about beauty products, restaurants, car mechanics, and whatnot, told him what the gist of it was anyways: A business directory? A brief lull settled, broken only by the intermittent sifting of a page, or a car driving past behind them. The constable, with a baton clasped behind his back, started up small talk. Cordially, Satou answered him. Eventually, the constable asked him ¡®what she did¡¯, and jolted, Satou caressed the lapels of his vest, unsure of what to say. He gave back a wry smile to buy time, but he was lost as to how to answer it. He tried come up with something, an excuse, even if it had to be vague, so long as it was plausible!¡ªbut he didn¡¯t have to. His attention was required elsewhere. ¡°What sort of hotel should I be looking for, miss.¡± ¡°Someplace inexpensive,¡± Satou answered him promptly. ¡°Nearby. Modest. I only plan on staying there for a few days; a week, at most. I¡¯ll only be there overnight, I suspect.¡± The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Overnight accommodations. Short stay. You¡¯re travelling on business, I presume? How inexpensive are we talking here?¡± Satou was hesitant to say, not when he was oblivious to how things in this world were priced. ¡°Not too cheap?¡± The constable skimmed through the pages again¡ªpages that he¡¯d already read, and dismissed, or hadn¡¯t read and skipped over. ¡°Here we are,¡± he said at last, and tilted the book upside-down so Satou would be able to read it too. He placed his finger on a line, and said: ¡°Mariotte Hotel, 4th avenue. How about it?¡± ¡°How much will it cost me, for a night?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll have ask them that, miss. It doesn¡¯t say. It shouldn¡¯t cost you much, I reckon.¡± ¡°I see,¡± ¡°No good?¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s fine,¡± ¡°Look for another one.¡± The first constable suggested. ¡°Give the lady some options here.¡± ¡°Round here? There¡¯s isn¡¯t many¡­ How about Clifford¡¯s? Or Kerpal? There¡¯s also Chase Hotel, over by the 5th.¡± ¡°5th?¡± The latter leaned over, sounding incredulous. ¡°No. Read again.¡± He pointed on a line. ¡°Look. It says Hatton, clearly. Chase¡ªChase Palace Hotel, it used to be called. You might¡¯ve heard of it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s the one by the Imperial Lane.¡± ¡°That one. Keep looking.¡± ¡°No, really, it¡¯s fine,¡± Satou interrupted. ¡°I¡¯ll head there now, to, um¡ªMarionette, was it?¡± ¡°Mariotte (ma-ri-o-ette) Hotel, on 4th avenue. Are you sure, miss?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± ¡°If it¡¯s the price that worries you, we could phone them if you want. It¡¯s no trouble.¡± ¡°No, really, it¡¯s fine. It doesn¡¯t bother me much. I just didn¡¯t want to pay extra for a service I won¡¯t use.¡± ¡°That¡¯s understandable.¡± ¡°¡­¡± ¡°¡­¡± ¡°Will that be all, miss?¡± ¡°O¡¯ no¡ªI mean yes, yes¡ªthank you. I should get going!¡± ¡°Gooday, miss.¡± The conversation abruptly came to an end at that. Satou had other questions, of course¡ªquestions besides the hotel he had planned on asking. But, too late now, though. Having already said his farewells, against his better judgement, he resigned himself and merely smiled, thanked them, and obediently took his leave. The constable pinched his cap, and that was the end of that. Tongue-tied, inarticulate¡ªthis wasn¡¯t how he had expected his first conversation to fare. Even now, he could¡¯ve turned around and posed his questions quite frankly¡ªit would¡¯ve been a trivial thing to do¡ªbut his body for reasons of its own refused to listen to him. It was to stay stubbornly shy. Am I really going to be so reticent? Less than half an hour ago, he had promised to himself to not be so meek; but being assertive had never really been his strong suit. Social interactions made him feel out of place, queasy; and him having to be conscious of how he spoke a language he wasn¡¯t comfortable to speak in (though english was not his mother-tongue, Satou was fluent enough to comprehend and speak the language fairly well) and that, to someone of a nationality twice-fold foreign from him only made it all the more awkward. He needed a break, a breather. Next time, Satou consoled himself. I¡¯ll ask someone else, that, next time¡­ Nevertheless, such seemingly trivial interactions spoke volumes as to what sort of a person he truly was; and it was clear to him now that it was going to take him a lot more effort than what he¡¯d at first suspected to break through this stubborn mold of his. Habits don¡¯t die off easy, do they? Not in a day, they don¡¯t. All things considered, I did alright for someone who¡¯s been a shut-in for¡­ how many years has it been? Lost in his thoughts, he was brought back when the constables beckoned him to come back¡ªhe came back¡ªwhereupon they advised him to take a cab, since, as they said, to get to 4th avenue by foot was going to take him half an hour at least. Satou thanked them, again, and went on his own way, not intent on hailing a cab because though a cab would¡¯ve known the way, got him there faster, it would¡¯ve robbed him of the romance of sight-seeing an novel and exotic city for the first time, which, useless as it was, to Satou who valued this surreal experience deeply, was also priceless. ¡°Half an hour by walk,¡± he thought. It¡¯ll probably be twice that, knowing me. I don¡¯t happen to know the way¡­ Not my brightest idea here, but¡­ besides, if I do get thoroughly lost, I could always hail a cab. So far, I¡¯ve seen them everywhere¡­ Asking passersby for directions¡ªwherever they pointed 4th avenue to be, he went. On his way, even the most insular gossips captivated his ears. Often, he found himself slowing his pace down just so that he could overhear some more of their words. Seldom did they turn out to be anything of substance. Besides their everyday hi-hellos, their talks, though diverse, were obscured from him by the very fact of the lived history he did not share. For some time, he followed the edge of an expansive gated park, walled off by ornate wrought-iron fences, too thin to slip through and too high to scale up and vault over. Finally, when he found an entrance for it, curiosity had him, and he entered. A stark contrast from the city, nature preserved here in all its viridescent glory¡ªhis journey though the park led him down a colonnade of lush-crowned trees¡ªwhere the breeze, refreshingly cooled, funneled here to a gale, lifted his hair and flailed it all over his eyes and dry lips, which he then had to spit out. The paved walkways branched out into lesser trails, littered with dry and damp leaves, each leading to their own places of interests: memorials, monuments, hedges, fountains, iron-cast gazebos, flowerbed gardens, victorian-esk conservatories; and the one he had chosen to walk down revealed at its other end a beautiful vista of a lake. White and weathered parapet fell straight into shimmering water. One hand dusting it, Satou made his lap around the lake as he admired the ducks and swans repose; couples row in small paddleboats; an elderly man feed pigeons and doves his leftover crumbs of bread by the mossy bank; and on the other side, for some time he stood there, watching, an artist patiently take pains to capture the sun stretched-out like an obelisk onto his easel. A tender hush came over his heart as he took it all in. He wanted to stay here longer, if he could help it. But the exit was near in sight. He made a mental note of coming back here and left. It took him two hours, maybe more, but finally he had made it. Mariotte Hotel with its fancy portico up a short flight of gilded black marble stairs past two rotary doors led his eyes down a sparsely crowded reception hall, warmly-lit with crystal chandeliers¡ªless flashy than the last one to be sure; more professional-oriented, modest; but it did not look cheap by any means to stay in, not even for a night. Cost being a concern for him higher than comfort, he was hesitant to even enter. Mariotte Hotel seemed far from his ideal of what he would call modest. But he had to ask himself: did cheap really mean that a place could not look lavish, or extravagant at the same time? He was in another world, after all. That had to be taken into consideration. In the end, he was non-committal. Whatever the case was; he knew¡ªhere he was, on 4th avenue, standing in front of Mariotte Hotel: the only reason why he had come here in the first place. Expensive or not, he was at the obliged to at least check it out; and if the price was right, check in. He entered. 2.2 Unforeseen Hurdle The staff behind the reception desk greeted Satou politely. But when with a smile he told him the cost: ¡°Two-fifty a night?¡± ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right.¡± Satou made no hesitation to excuse himself and leave. Two-fifty a night! Just as he suspected: Mariotte Hotel was not for the likes of him! Not even five minutes in, and he was out. He asked the doorman as he left the hotel what the time was: ¡°Excuse me. Yes¡ªthe time? Thank you.¡± Half-past six, he was told¡ªwhich wasn¡¯t something he wanted to hear. So much of his precious daylight spent on just looking for this one place¡ªMariotte Hotel. Was it always this hard looking for a hotel, he thought. Before gps or the internet? His stomach grumbled. No problem, he thought. It was just a setback. One thing at a time. First things first: he was hungry. He wanted to go get something to eat. And he might as well before he got back to work. Fortunately for him, his eyes didn¡¯t have to wander far from where he stood as 4th Avenue seemed to home plenty of catering services. Storefront to storefront, Satou peered in through the display windows until he soon found one that suited his whims best: a homely-looking bakery whose doors led him in to bathe him in a warm aroma of sweet yeast and freshly baked breads. But even here, the pangs of a miser did not to leave him. He read the prices on the pies, the pastries, the wafers, the biscuits, the cakes, and the baskets¡ªand he frowned. Does everything in this city cost too much, or am I poor? He ordered the cheapest one they had on offer: a plain white sandwich at half its price. He handed a note over the display fridge, worth a hundred. A lady in white, black apron tied round her waist, came over and slid his money away. Satou listless stared at his soon-to-be evening meal with his arms crossed, fully expecting to see it taken out of its tray any minute now. Instead, with a thump his money came back to him. ¡°Ma¡¯am, you¡¯ve given me riyals.¡± ¡°¡­Pardon?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve given me riyals, ma¡¯am. Entis¡¯ currency? You have to pay in ducats.¡± At first he didn¡¯t understand. Then slowly it began to dawn on him: He had a wrong currency. But why? Why did he have riyals and not ducats? This, too, began to set in. He was never meant to be here, was he? No, definitely not. Not today, not tonight, but on board that¡ªtrain. Little wonder, then, why all his notes were so fresh. This was not good news. This was not good at all. Forget the hotel, if he didn¡¯t have ducats, wasn¡¯t he effectively broke? As he slid his riyals back towards him, he saw his journey stretch deep into the night. Vaguely, he saw his outcome, if he failed. But answers? None came. ¡°Do you not have it?¡± Only when the lady behind the counter airily ask him this did Satou look up, and remembered that he wasn¡¯t alone here. She was still waiting for him to pay up. And she also had a direct line of sight as to the content of his wallet. ¡°I-ah, brought my wrong wallet.¡± Satou lied. He felt wrong to do it, but also forced. Yet fortuitously, the lie gave him both an excuse and the courage to ask her frankly: ¡°Would you, happen to know where I could exchange them?¡± ¡°You mean, a bank?¡± A bank, of course! Where else do you exchange currencies! His grateful lampooning wasn¡¯t directed towards her, of course, but at himself. It wasn¡¯t sarcasm, because having had no idea as to what he could do in the spur of the moment¡ª¡®bank¡¯ to him had shone as his saving grace: a genuine insight, he might¡¯ve never figured out on his own! He felt saved. ¡°Yes,¡± Satou nearly exclaimed. A tone louder and glances might¡¯ve fell on him. ¡°Is there one nearby?¡± The lady smiled apologetically. She shook her head. No, she didn¡¯t know. But at least now he knew what he ought to do next. With an empty stomach, empty-handed, Satou left the bakery, and noticed on his skin, on his face, and on the back of his neck just how the world outside had gotten perceptibly colder¡ªor maybe not. No, it was probably just that the bakery was warm inside. But the evening had deepened, surely, and nightfall seemed just round the corner. Let¡¯s hope I make it in time¡­ He waited for his turn to cross the road at an intersection. Streetcars grazed past him a stride ahead. A tram came gonging along, which, distant yet heavy, brought to his groggy state of mind the warm and misty cabin of the Aureate Express. Therein he saw the city outside, in the night; and him, rocking along, like a cradle song. If only he had not wasted so much time sitting and doing nothing, had just checked himself sooner, found the wallet, and the ticket¡­ Alas. Drowsiness hit him. When he closed his eyes, he felt himself swaying. He yawned with a fist covered over his mouth and his ears rang sharply when the constable manning the traffic blew all the air he had in his lungs into his whistle. Satou went on, from 4th avenue to the 5th, looking for the nearest bank. Supposedly there was one nearby¡ªso people told him. But when he got there, he didn¡¯t find it. Did I take a wrong turn? He very well could have. He loitered in 5th avenue for awhile¡ªwandering through barren alleyways, darkly lit bystreets where streetlamps had yet to come on¡ªlonger that he probably should have; and not finding it, asked a lady who happened to be nearby: a florist who had just locked the doors to her shop, where this bank was. ¡°Why, go down that way then take a right, you should see it. But you needn¡¯t bother, dear. it¡¯s closed.¡± It never is simple, is it. Satou brooded over what he should do next, when suddenly what seemed like a brilliant idea hit him. Tentatively, he asked to the florist if she was willing to exchange some of her ducats with him for his riyals, since, as he told her: he had none, he needed some urgently, and that he would owe her great deal for it if she could just spare him some of her change. ¡°I¡¯ll repay you, of course. Maybe even tomorrow?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry dear, but, what do you suppose I do with your riyals? I have no use for it.¡± ¡°I¡ª¡± Satou realized that he had nothing to say to that. Nothing, except her pity as his bargain, and that it was a hopeless cause if she didn¡¯t want to help him. Yet fortuitously, his sudden despondent pause must¡¯ve done something, because the florist¡¯s motherly plump face softened under sympathy, as she reconsidered: ¡°Well, I suppose I could¡­ How much?¡± ¡°A hundred riyals, if it¡¯s alright with you.¡± ¡°A hundred?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± ¡°If you took me well off then I¡¯m sorry to disappoint. Five, girl, is all I have. Take it or leave it.¡± ¡°I¡ªwell¡ªlook¡­¡± Satou pulled out the wallet from his back pocket. ¡°All I have are in hundreds¡ªsee?¡± The florist leaned over, peered in. Her eyes grew in surprise. ¡°Might I ask why you are carrying so much sum?¡± ¡°I,¡± ¡°No, nevermind that! Rude of me prod. But a hundred! I¡¯m sorry, dear. I want to help; really, I do. But even if could,¡± Understandable, Satou thought. Guess it¡¯s still to the banks after all. He wasn¡¯t too dismayed though. It had always been a shot in the dark, but a shot he had to take. And for that, at least he had learned that he wasn¡¯t poor. Just, neutered. ¡°Besides,¡± apparently she wasn¡¯t done. ¡°Even if you could find someone willing. Taking-handing so much sum. It¡¯s no crime, no; but it¡¯s dubious, won¡¯t you say so? There are better ways of going about these thing. Proper ways.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡± ¡°And¡ª¡± ¡°Is there a problem here?¡± Someone interrupted them, It was a man¡¯s voice. ¡°O¡¯ everything¡¯s quite alright, officer,¡± the florist answered. ¡°The young lady here wanted to know her way to the bank.¡± ¡°It¡¯s closed, I¡¯ve been told,¡± Satou added. ¡°If you mean that one over there,¡± the officer vaguely pointed somewhere behind himself. ¡°We had to shut it for the day. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.¡± ¡°Why, something happen officer?¡± The florist asked. The officer gave her a humorous smile. ¡°No, nothing at all, in fact. That¡¯s why it has been a nightmare, for us lot, that is.¡± He turned towards Satou, met eyes with her, and leaning slightly with a genial smile said to him: ¡°You were trying to get to a bank, miss? It¡¯s a bit far, this one. Maybe I could drive you there.¡± Satou did not immediately reply. On first impressions, he felt a little trepid of this man, whose clothes reminded him of the secret police, though the man himself was being quite affable; or at the thought of accepting such hospitality. Hitchhiking with a stranger¡ªhe had never really done it before. Nothing came close to it. But the florist had called him an ¡®officer¡¯. Did he really have a reason to be wary of someone from the law? No, not at all. On the contrary, he would be safer. Thus, he decided: ¡°We can set off right away, officer.¡± ¡°Great!¡± The officer exclaimed. ¡°I should be on my way as well,¡± the florist added. ¡°Time flies, does it not? Take care, you two. Especially you, lass.¡± The three of them parted ways and Satou obediently followed the officer at arms length. The two of them passed by the bank Satou had been looking for, which, indeed, as he saw now, was closed. ¡°Is it far?¡± Satou asked. ¡°Hmm? No, not that far. Ten, fifteen minutes. I could get you there in five, if you¡¯re in a hurry.¡± Satou smiled. ¡°Ten is fine,¡± After the bank, it¡¯s back to looking for a hotel. The officer could give him pointers for that. If all goes well, he could hope to be snugly settled in a room before midnight, or even dinnertime. Here¡¯s to hoping, anyways. Everything was coming together like a puzzle solved, at least in his mind; but whether it would go the same way in reality, he could only cast his hopes ahead. ¡°That¡¯s our car.¡± At the end of the officer¡¯s outstretched arm, Satou found a black car parked at the other side of the road. Shaped like a beetle, it reminded him of the sort of cars you would see driven around in noir films. The windows were slightly thicker than what he expected of them, which gave it for him an air of being armored, or heavier than it probably was. The officer opened the backseat door for him¡ª ¡°Thank you,¡± ¡ªand closed it once Satou got in. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Faint whiffs of tobacco wafted by as soon as Satou settled down. He felt a little queer to be treated so gentlemanly, almost like a lady, and he wasn¡¯t sure how he ought to feel about it. The thought made him self-conscious: Do I sit with my legs folded or no? But what concern was it of his spectator who was to have his eyes set on the road and not him? The officer got in, and the car started up without much of a noise or a hitch, and it ran smoother than what one would¡¯ve expected something so vintage to run. It wouldn¡¯t lose to my mom¡¯s Audi. There was also what looked to be a radio in the car, with analog dials and a meter inbetween, but the officer did not turn it on, much to his passenger¡¯s disappointment. Only now, while the officer had his eyes set on the road, did Satou find it appropriate to get a better look at his host: who looked quite young to be an officer, if he was any judge¡ªprobably in his early-20s¡ªthe same as him then; and without his service cap on, he looked much less intimidating; though a slight militaristic cast was still there from his whole apparel. A brief congestion at a checkpoint slowed them down to a halt; but unlike the other cars, they weren¡¯t stopped for long, if at all. The constable on-duty when he saw just who sat behind the wheels raised his hand to a quick yet firm salute. The uniform had served as their passport, and the officer returned the honors likewise, but did so languidly, without the zeal. ¡°All¡¯s good. Forward!¡± The constable shouted, and they were off. Satou, witness of it all, was left bewildered. His interest was piqued. It was one thing to let them pass, but another entirely to also express respect. The social dynamic intrigued him. He wondered if there had been any sincerity behind it, or if the constable had done so only out of convention¡¯s sake. When the checkpoint vanished behind a curve, Satou asked: ¡°What do you do, officer?¡± and immediately regretted it, or regretted having phrased it that way, because he realized only too late that he very well could be asked the same in turn. ¡®And what do you do?¡¯ The officer gave him a sidelong glance, then began enigmatically: ¡°ISB-C,¡± He said. And flipped his coat flap aside. A silver badge was hooked to his belt there, and above it was a service revolver in its holster. ¡°Crisis Control Bureau. I was a sleuth before that.¡± ¡°Must be nice,¡± Satou remarked, shifting in his seat, leaning imperceptibly closer. ¡°It¡¯s hard work.¡± ¡°What sort?¡± ¡°Cultists. Demons. That sort.¡± Eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Satou returned a non-committal smile, unsure if the officer was telling the truth or just playing with him. Feeling awkward, he leaned his head back and watched nothing in particular outside. A haze of affluent businesses and residential buildings fleeted past him, but with his mind entirely elsewhere, he saw none of it. Ten, fifteen minutes later, the bank finally came into view after a sharp turn. Looks like a parliament building, Satou thought. ¡°Thank you for the lift,¡± he said. ¡°Not yet. I¡¯ll drop you off to the front. What did you want to do here anyways, if I might ask?¡± ¡°Exchange riyals.¡± ¡°I see,¡± the officer nodded. ¡°You aren¡¯t from Ednin.¡± The tone of it: It wasn¡¯t a statement, but a question. Satou wasn¡¯t sure how to answer it. Was he or was he not from Ednin? He didn¡¯t know, of course. ¡®Perhaps, perhaps not.¡¯ was his answer¡ªbut he didn¡¯t want to come off as sly. So he said instead: ¡°What do you think, officer?¡± which to him at first sounded like a more neutral non-answer. But as soon as those words left the tip of his tongue, he realized, only too late, just how much they rang of affirmation. And how, since he was wielding a voice he wasn¡¯t familiar using, that he had also come off as slightly haughty, femme fatale even. He hoped it was just him overthinking things. ¡°I should think you aren¡¯t,¡± the officer said. ¡°Your accent.¡± So people could tell, Satou thought. Or at least a sleuth can. And here he thought he was doing so well. The body had remembered what he did not even know. His pronunciation had so far been impeccable, at least as far as he could tell. Then was it his phrasing that was a bit clunky, in need of work? Was that it¡­ The car grinded to a halt next to the curb. Satou got out and shut the door behind him, when suddenly he remembered: ¡°Er, will you be leaving, or waiting?¡± ¡°Would you like me to wait, miss?¡± ¡°Yes. I¡¯m sorry for the bother.¡± ¡°Not at all, I asked to help. Take as long as you need.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true. I¡¯ll be quick then,¡± The bank when he entered it did not disgrace its outside. Its dome was expansive, not to mention distant, and its halls cold. The lofty place echoed with hushed voices, and Satou briskly made his way up to the counter which had the shortest queue. When his turn came, he told the clerk why he was here. The clerk in turn asked him if he was registered to the bank. He told him no. The clerk then asked him for his papers. ¡°My papers?¡± ¡°Yes, your identification papers.¡± Apparently this was something he needed to show if he wanted to exchange currencies. In hindsight, this should¡¯ve been obvious; but then again, he wasn¡¯t worldly. Such mistakes were bound to happen; but the fact that it had to happen to him here when he could not afford any more setbacks, was more than disheartening. ¡°I don¡¯t, have it on me,¡± he confessed. The bespectacled clerk looked up from his paperwork. There was scrutiny in his eyes under which Satou felt his pride take a hit. ¡°Then I¡¯m sorry miss. But I can¡¯t help you otherwise.¡± In the face of clear-cut regulations, what room was there for words? He didn¡¯t know what else to say. Dejected, he turned on his heels and obediently left. Outside, as he made his descent, the officer hailed him from the other side with a friendly wave. The man was leaning on the side of his car, pulling out a cigarette case from his coat. ¡°You were done quick,¡± the officer greeted, once he got close. ¡°Would you like one?¡± Cigarettes? He could use one right now; except, he had never really smoked before. ¡°No, but thank you.¡± ¡°Where would you like me to take you next, miss?¡± The officer asked him very formally; but in this context, it was mock. Satou did not share his humor though; he couldn¡¯t. He said nothing, awfully quiet. Inwardly, he struggled over whether he should confide or not, since, as far as he could tell, he had run out of options. ¡°Well¡­ about that,¡± So he told him. Once he made sure that they wouldn¡¯t be overheard, he told the officer what had happened to him inside the bank but with a yarn spun: of how he hadn¡¯t been able to exchange his riyals because he had misplaced his identifications papers. That¡ª The officer lit his cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, not with a lighter, but with a flick of his fingertips. Satou almost slurred on his words as he saw it. Right in front of him, as though what he had just done was something trivial, commonplace, nothing to be impressed about or worth even a mention¡ªthe officer had conjured up a flame out of thin air! The office raised his eyes, noticing the sudden silence. Now Satou noticed it too. He tried to go on, but what he had meant to say¡­ What had he meant to say? He had forgotten. ¡°Well, that¡¯s how it is. I thought I had it on me, then,¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± The officer returned his cigarette, still unlit, back in its case, and the case back in his coat-pocket. ¡°You got yourself in some trouble there,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s a serious offense, losing your papers, that is, if you are a foreigner. I assume you are. You could get yourself a temporary one at the consulate, but that would do you no good with the banks. They don¡¯t accept those.¡± ¡°You say¡ªa serious offense?¡± ¡°If you are a foreigner.¡± The officer pointed out the important detail. ¡°Jail time. But it won¡¯t go that far with you, I highly doubt it. It will however cost you one hefty fine: five hundred ducats, which isn¡¯t to include what it would cost you to get a replacement; and, well, the paperwork is¡­ How should I put it. It could take you up to a week, or five minutes.¡± The talk about costs suddenly reminded him of why he was here in the first place. ¡°About the fine¡­ I had this other trouble,¡± ¡°Before that, do you remember when you last had it?¡± ¡°Ah-I¡­ My identification papers?¡± ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right.¡± ¡°¡­¡± There was only one thing he could do here¡ªand that was guess. ¡°King¡¯s Crossing? I¡¯m not so sure at all, officer.¡± ¡°When was this?¡± ¡°Midday, I should think.¡± ¡°Not too late. Not too late at all.¡± The officer seemed to go into some thinking. ¡°¡­So,¡± ¡°I can help you, certainly. I reckon I could have your papers back by¡­ tomorrow noon. Will that be alright?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± ¡°How should I contact you? Are you staying at a hotel?¡± ¡°No, I haven¡¯t decided yet. I still have to look for a place to stay.¡± ¡°Why, this late?¡± ¡°Unfortunately,¡± Satou let out a wry smile, feeling abashed. ¡°It¡¯s been a busy day.¡± The officer smiled, sympathetic. ¡°Well, I shall find you anyhow.¡± How the officer meant to do this, or how he meant to find his papers, Satou didn¡¯t try and ask. Instead, he said: ¡°About my, other trouble, I mentioned earlier.¡± The officer shifting the leg he was leaning on as he waited. ¡°You see¡ªI don¡¯t have any ducats on me.¡± The officer nodded. Then: ¡°You lost your wallet.¡± ¡°No! No! I¡ªIt¡¯s better if I show it to you.¡± As he had done so with the florist, Satou took out his wallet from his back-pocket and laid its contents bare. ¡°Riyals¡ªall. It¡¯s why I came here. To exchange them, I,¡± His stammer was met with an amused smile one gives a child. ¡°Tell me what happened, from the start.¡± So Satou did. He paused first, to catch his breath, then in a fit of volubility recounted the journey he had toiled so far, patiently, still, with a yarn spun: of how he had missed the train he was meant to board, had then gone on to book a hotel, only to realize, as he was about to pay for a room, that earlier that day he had exchanged all his ducats for riyals, sending him back out to look for a bank, only to find it then closed, till here he was, having met him, talking with him. All this Satou recounted to the officer but he kept it as vague as he could so that nothing would come back to bite him¡ª ¡ªBut bite him back it did. ¡°Mariotte Hotel? Do they have qualms with taking riyals now?¡± Hotels, especially established ones, accepting foreign currencies as payment¡ªI could¡¯ve done that this whole time?!¡ªLike a headless chicken, had he been running around the city for hours on end, so distraught, in such a hurry, when he could¡¯ve simply gone back and paid for a room all this time?! ¡°I, might¡¯ve been too hasty to leave. I didn¡¯t get so far as to pay, and,¡± The officer chuckled. ¡°Excuse me, I was being facetious. I didn¡¯t mean anything by it. You wouldn¡¯t know it, I suppose, but Mr. Wilbur, the fifty-one year old magnate who happens to own Mariotte Hotel has been very outspoken about his views in the press, that¡­ Well, to cut the matter short: Mr. Wilbur is someone whom you would call a staunch secessionist. When the government a few months prior decided to adopt the view that Ednin should forego a medley of things that had to do with our sibling to our west¡ªsuch as to cede all domestic use of riyals entirely¡ªMr. Wilbur made himself quite the public figure for a comment of his on the matter. Which is to say he was satirized to no end for it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s,¡± Satou had lost the officer somewhere in the middle; but what he did catch that riyals were banned in Ednin; which is to say¡ªif it was of any solace¡ªthat he hadn¡¯t entirely wasted his time looking for a bank. ¡°Sorry, but¡ªsibling?¡± ¡°Entis. The Holy Entis Empire.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± The land of riyals. Sounds like a theocracy. ¡°We¡¯ve gotten off-track,¡± the officer brought up. ¡°Ah-yes, yes we have.¡± ¡°Anyhow, I¡¯m glad to hear the bank rejected you.¡± ¡°Wh-why?¡± ¡°Because, miss, you would¡¯ve been robbed in broad daylight! It might come as news to you, since the tax levied on the exchange of ducats to riyals isn¡¯t much, if at all; but the other way round is another matter entirely. A hundred riyals¡ªIt would¡¯ve been¡­¡± ¡°Is it, much?¡± ¡°¡­Yes¡­ Yes, it is. You¡¯ll have to ask someone else for the exact rates, it escapes me at the moment, but it was something exorbitant, no matter how kindly you tried to put it. It was meant to be, you see. It¡¯s also nothing new under the sun.¡± He waved his hand in front of her, as if to brush the whole subject aside. ¡°I¡¯m sure everything will go back to how it was.¡± As for what was of import: if the rates were really that high, high enough to be labeled ¡®exorbitant¡¯, then it made sense why the florist had been suspicious of him. Did she think I was trying to avoid the tax cut? ¡±And you, officer? What about you? What do you think about Entis?¡± Satou asked. The officer shone him a knowing smile. ¡°I try to keep my views domestic, miss. In my line of work, the less geopolitics the better.¡± Then, changing the topic: ¡°As for your money issue, I have thought of something. I suggest you keep your riyals with you for the time being. Meanwhile, I¡¯m sure His Majesty¡¯s Government will be more than willing to lend you a hand. If it isn¡¯t much to ask, I¡¯ll have to ask you to come with me to the station to sign some IOUs. Make sure to repay the ducats we¡¯ll lend you once you¡¯re less broke.¡± Suddenly, there it was! Hope! ¡°Thank you,¡± Habit almost overcame him, and Satou almost bowed. But he caught himself just, realizing how far from the norm it would¡¯ve appeared to the officer. ¡°That resolves that. Anything else?¡± ¡°¡­¡± Satou gave it some thought. ¡°I think, that¡¯s all of it. Other than that I¡¯m quite hungry, and also parched. Do you happen to have a bottle of water in the car, officer?¡± The latter smiled, amused. ¡°Might I propose something better?¡± ¡°Please,¡± ¡°It seems we¡¯ll be together for some time.¡± ¡°Seems that way.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have any other plans for tonight do you?¡± ¡°No, I¡ªsightsee, maybe, if there¡¯s still some time left.¡± ¡°Then how about we do this instead? Let¡¯s get this issue of yours sorted out first. Then afterwards, to call it even,¡±¡ªHere, a tactful pause, for dramatic effect¡ª¡°Perhaps you could let me take you out on a dinner as well¡ªjust the two of us?¡± He¡¯ll even treat me, Satou felt grateful; but then, Is he¡­ He felt his body flare up in heat, heat that crawled underneath his skin. ¡°I, dinner? Well, that¡¯s,¡± His voice all of a sudden became strangled and unnaturally deep, as if it were taking him a great effort to think and speak at the same time. ¡°I can¡¯t, be, spending much, as you know, since I¡¯ll be on borrowed money, and all that¡­ Besides,¡± ¡°And why should the lady pay?¡± The officer had meant it to be rhetorical. But when Satou did not answer and only dumbly stared back, a prolonged silence ensued itself for a few seconds. This was also the first time Satou had look at the officer straight in the eyes, and that, for so long. The officer let out a restrained chuckle to hide himself blush. Satou felt his chest tighten with dread and apprehension. ¡°Anyhow,¡± the officer continued. ¡°How would you like if I took you out to Caf¨¦ Angelas? Perhaps you¡¯ve heard of it? I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll¡ªah. All this time, we haven¡¯t even introduced ourselves, I realized.¡± ¡°Enza.¡± Of all the names he could¡¯ve used, why did he utter that? ¡°A lovely name¡­ Alec.¡± The officer let his hand hang. Satou reached for it¡ªtook it¡ªand shook it awkwardly, like someone who had never shaken hands before. Only now did it dawn on him that the officer had been wooing him all this time. Only now did he see what the officer had seen all this time: A young woman, a foreigner, lovely and demure, shaking hands with him, a damsel in distress for whom he was more than willing to play the knight-errant. He had asked her out for dinner. The night was still young. They would have plenty of time still to get well-acquainted with, and him to impress her further. And then what? What next? What came after? Satou felt the ground beneath his feet slipping away. The officer held the door open for him. ¡°Shall we, Enza?¡± To hear that name be uttered made his blood run cold. Satou set his white face on the officer, revealing no warmth, no recognition, as though he were looking at a stranger. He did not move. Instead, he stood there, tongue-tied, petrified, far away, and felt himself sinking deeper and deeper to someplace he would deeply regret to be in. He had to refuse. He knew he had to do¡ªsomething! Draw a border right then and there¡ªBut a part of him seemed already resigned to its fate: to let whatever happen happen and pray that it did not. It was all too much for him. And when he saw the officer about to say something¡ªthat was the final straw. Satou spoke up at the same time and cut him off. ¡°Excuse¨Cme¨C¡± His voice, so faint, trailed off to a whisper halfway. A feeble attempt, perhaps, at a confused apology, an excuse, a plea. Satou did not dare look back as he fled. He felt eyes burrow on the back of his neck, and he shuddered. His heart raced violently. He was afraid, afraid that the officer would call him back, grow bold enough to catch up to him and grab him by the arm. What would he do if the officer caught up to him and grabbed him by the hand? Satou realized that he would do nothing; that he would freeze and stand there like a helpless prey. He braced himself for the worst. Nothing happened. Soon he was alone. But the eyes on the back of his neck did not leave him for a very long time. Farther and farther into the city he wandered on, aimless and soon lost, till night had fallen over him for good, and only then, when the city had begun to grow quiet, that the entire extent of what he had done finally dawn on him. He wished he were dead. 2.3 Hail Mary ¡®I don¡¯t know what came over me¡¯ was an apt way to put it. He knew as he was doing it that he would sorely regret it, yet he did it anyways. He was asked out for dinner, and he had reacted to it immaturely, impulsively, stupidly, as though someone had proposed him for his hand in marriage. And all for what? He had made a complete and utter fool of himself. No money, no identity¡ªnothing. Everything was lost the moment he had fled. He was still Jane Doe. He was still no better off than when he had first started. Worse, in fact, because now he had run out of time. Now, there was nothing to do, was there, but to brace himself to spend a night outside? ¡°What the hell am I doing, God¡­¡± The sheer embarrassment he had put himself through paled much of the jubilance of the afternoon for him. Still, it was a jarring thing to know just how quickly he had fallen into the throes of destitution. All it took was for him to have the wrong sort of currency. Then, situational poverty had followed suit. Having lived his life so far in the relative comfort of a lower-upper-class household where he seldom had to worry too deeply about his own well-being¡ªfood, water, shelter were just one of those things he had, like everyone else he knew in his life, taken for granted. Now, to be deprived of these basic essentials he had always considered his inviolable human rights¡ªand for such a stupid reason¡ªhe was too confounded to know even how to respond. There was a lesson to be learned here, to be sure. While most people lived their lives intricately secured to the world by friends, family, lovers, pets, debts, inheritance, job, aspirations¡ªSatou, as things stood, had no one but himself. Untethered, worlds apart, he had no one to fall back to; and if he messed up, like he had messed up, he was falling straight down to the bottom with little to no means to pull himself back up. He knew that. Even as he walked out of the bakery he had known that. And yet, Somehow, everything could¡¯ve all worked out in the end. Yes. Somehow, everything could¡¯ve all worked out if he hadn¡¯t done anything, anything at all, but that, he would¡¯ve been fine. If the officer had later on down the line made some daring advances, he could¡¯ve just flatly refused. It would¡¯ve been a trivial thing to do. After all, women rejected men all the time, no? No reason or excuses needed, just a flat-out ¡®no¡¯; the officer would¡¯ve left him alone; politely, too. His first day could¡¯ve ended right then and there; and right about now he would¡¯ve been a hotel room, looking forward for what tomorrow had waiting for him. Instead, I go ahead and do that¡­ Just what the hell were you thinking. Idiot¡­ Vague images and intrusive thoughts came by and went. The officer and what he had done kept coming back to his mind. Time passed. He tried to lie down. As expected, his clothes did nothing to dampen the cold and hard wooden splats of the bench. The edges poked him right where it hurted him: on his pelvis and on his ribs; and he had to curl up to properly lie down in the first place. But, even then, his legs had to dangle out the handrail for him to fit. ¡°I can¡¯t sleep like this¡­¡± He couldn¡¯t sleep here even if he wanted to. Someone was bound to come and kick him out. He remembered the park. ¡°Maybe I could go back there.¡± He could sky gaze. With a satchel for a pillow, he could lie down on the grass and sleep there. But, then, it would be prickly, and uncomfortably cold and wet with dew when morning would roll around? No, let¡¯s not. He wasn¡¯t even sure if the park was still open at such late hours. Probably not¡­ What¡¯s the time? No, wait¡ªWhat kind of line of thought was he pursuing here? Why was he thinking about where he could go to sleep at? I still have money. It¡¯s not like I¡¯m broke here. He could not give up, not like this. If only for the sake of his pride, his self-esteem or what was left of it if nothing else, he could not resign himself to be homeless, even for a night. ¡°But what the hell do I do¡­¡± The frustration was enough to make him want to cry. He felt helpless. Was there nothing he could do? The florist all of a sudden came to mind; and an idea he had discarded earlier suddenly sounded feasible again. If he had failed with her¡ªso what? There were plenty others still, more willing. If he was frank with them¡ªand why should he be not frank with them¡ªwould they not help him out? If he made his circumstances clear, made them understand, that, without their help, that he would be helpless, homeless, have no means to support himself, that he had no money to check-in to a place to stay or buy himself food¡ªwould they not take pity? They wouldn¡¯t suspect his pleas for foul-play, would they? He was well-dressed enough; civilized-looking. He did not look like a tramp, did he? No, far from it. He resembled a tourist, an exchange student travelling alone from a well-off family. He looked like a traveler¡ªyes, a traveler! He should go with that! A traveler from faraway. It wouldn¡¯t even be a lie! Alright. He had the idea down. ¡°Ask.¡± Go flat to flat, knock on doors, and ask strangers in their homes if they would be kind enough to exchange their ducats with him for his riyals. Beg, in other words; though he wouldn¡¯t use that word. The possibility that he would be met with frowns and winces was always a possibility, even if they would reluctantly relent out of politeness¡¯ sake in the end, which did perturb Satou, who was reticent to face any more awkward scenes. The possibility did make him waver a little; but here, there was no dilemma. If he noticed them shrink, wince, curt their tone, show reluctance or timidity, or if they outright refused to give him money, then he would ask them for their spare change; but only then. That should seal the deal. Making them see that he had lowered his bargain was a sure-fire way to make them diffident to refuse a second time. ¡°A classic salesmen tactic, if a bit scummy.¡± And what better place to start than where he had holed himself up currently? Somehow, someway¡ªaimlessly wandering through the urban maze with no direction in mind but ¡®to get away¡¯, had led him farther and farther from Ednin¡¯s King¡¯s Crossing, to one of its many affluent suburbs. Craning his head back, Satou stared at the night sky, and listened. A deep and hearty laughter seemed to grow out of it. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Now that he was paying attention, he began to hear more. Listen¡­ The silence was not so quiet after all. Clinks of cocktails, ice tumbling in glasses of gin, something about a ¡®ten-day vacation to Oben Fal¡¯, a poodle barking in an adjacent room, a piano being practiced¡ªslightly amateurish, discordant at times, but no less worse off for it¡ªlife went on beyond the confines of these four limestone walls, completely oblivious to his deceptively unremarkable plight. Satou had taken refuge in an enclosed courtyard¡ªfor all intent and purposes, a second vestibule¡ªand he had been idling here for more than a few hours. The residential apartment freckled with iron-laced balconies peered down at him¡ªor not at him¡ªbut at the courtyard¡¯s center-piece: a life-sized sculpture of an angel that stood on a white marble fountain. Beyond it, were double-doors that would lead him in. And behind him, was the way out¡ªthrough an arched-passageway and onto the main street, where the relative absence of parked cars had been a sight for him to behold, who had only ever seen streets, wide or narrow, more or less cramped full of cars. Here, in Ednin, it was a rare sight to see more than three motorcars parked across an entire block, and here in this neighborhood, there were around five. Other than a woman, no longer young, smoking on the ninth-floor balcony too lost with her own life to bother to look down, there was no one else. Rich and wealthy folks lived here, in these ten-storey baroque apartments. Besides the staff it must take to man and upkeep such an impressive building, the tenants here, mostly the ones with larger families, had also employed under them their own personal stay-in cooks, servants, and maids, who lived inside their own quarters; no doubt the people who lived here spent their wealth and riches not too infrequently on leisure, wisdom, relation, and the infrequent charity who sought out their empathy. Would a hundred riyals really be considered a huge sum by a gentry with such deep pockets? Now that he had put his thoughts into words, he began to feel a little more optimistic. His chances of success looked bright. Then why the wait? He didn¡¯t know the time, but he knew it was getting late; too late. He needed to hurry, before only night owls would bother to open their doors, and even they won¡¯t be too friendly to welcome late and unexpected visitors. Yosh! All fired up, Satou sprung up, pushing his knees. It was now or never. Before he left, he quenched his thirst from an ornate stone basin that jutted out from a nearby wall. He found it awkward at first, to try and catch the sprout as it shot up right at your face, but quickly he got the hang of it. Then, wiping his face half-drenched with the back of his hand, he admired the angel as he passed it. It seemed to be a recurring motif throughout this city, these angels. This one, the eighth one he had come across today, had only one wing, not because the other had been broken off and never repaired; but because it was done so by design. Whether the angel was a man or a woman was hard to tell, but he was beautiful. An exotic beauty¡­ With one wing without its pair coyly wrapped round his his bare shoulder, his loose-fitted robe teasingly fell, revealing the outlines of his pale and anorexic figure. The flat-chested androgynous, white as porcelain, must¡¯ve no doubt been white as porcelain if he did exist or had in the ancient past, which, given his fantastical circumstances¡ªwho knew? He was in another world, after all. With half-lidded eyes, and a sly coquettish smile, the beautiful one-winged Hermes admired the undulating ripples forming beneath his bare feet. Or¡ªNo. Was he admiring himself¡ªhis own reflection? ¡°A vain angel, you are?¡± The angel continued to smile. Beauty enamored him. Wherever Satou saw it: in people¡¯s faces, figures, gestures, places urbane or sublime, or in pieces of music or works of art¡ªbeauty enamored him wherever he found it. Beauty was his bane, and it was his bane tonight, when, despite knowing that he had to hurry, he stood there longer than he should¡¯ve. He let his hand float under the undulating pool. Crystal clear as it looked, the water was just as freezing cold. Then, shaking his hands dry, putting his gloves back on, he finally headed through the double-doors. Instantly, warmth enveloped him. Light-fixtures ran the entire length of the corridor on either side; and a couple must¡¯ve entered at the same time as him from the main entrance, because an elevator muffled in an argument rumbled up to the fifth floor; not that that mattered. The living quarters began from the 1st floor, and for that he could simply take the stairs. The stairwell, right by the superintendent¡¯s office, was suffocatingly narrow, probably because it was meant for the staff to use. The steps ran both ways¡ªup and down; and downstairs when he peered over he saw the basement, the boiler room, the maintenance room, the breaker room, and the storage room buried under all the treasures extricated from the wastebaskets upstairs: broken lamps, broken vases, broken chairs, broken perambulators, and so on, all in one monstrous heap. There was bound to be one person downstairs, but only the hum of a noisy fan drafted up from the dim-lit abyss. Mindful of how he cushioned his footsteps, Satou furtively made his way up. He craned his neck over the drop to see how far this penrose went; and then, if his foot hadn¡¯t grazed past it by mistake, then he would¡¯ve never seen it. ¡°¡­¡± Right by his foot, there it was, unassuming, worn and left behind: a black billfold. Heat rose to his chest when he saw it. He hadn¡¯t done anything yet. He hadn¡¯t even thought about doing anything. Nothing concrete had yet formed in his mind. But already, he felt like a common thief. He knew what his body was thinking; and anyone who would¡¯ve seen him then would¡¯ve thought the same: that this young woman was thinking of stealing it. It was just his luck that he was in the back halls, where no one came or went, not at such late hours. Satou hesitated, this time, not out of indecision, but out of his cowardice. He walked up and down the stairwell, making sure there no one was nearby (of course, there was no one; he knew that, and yet he still checked), and¡ªno, what the hell was he doing? If he was going to do it then do it already. With a deft swipe of his arm, as though he had bent down to tighten his laces, he whisked the billfold as he made his way down the stairs. There, he thought. The deed was done. The billfold lay deep within the satchel, and no one had seen him do it. No one, as far he knew. He had done it as naturally as he could¡¯ve made it, though, this sleight of hand would¡¯ve only looked natural had he done it while making his way up the stairs, not down; but no matter. No one had seen him do it. No one at all. He left through the same doors he had walked in from, and quickly he strode across the courtyard with his head kept down. Furtively, and with a heavy heart, he bowed to the angel as he passed by him; apologized to him for ¡®doing this¡¯ but ¡®I am desperate¡¯, and ¡°I didn¡¯t have much of a choice, so please, don¡¯t curse me, if that¡¯s something you can do¡­¡± From the courtyard into an arched-passageway. Right before the gates was a watchman¡¯s booth encased in the side of the wall. The watchman, who hadn¡¯t been there when he entered, was now manning his post. If Satou was noticed walking past then the watchman gave no sign of it. A swish of the newspaper being flipped, which almost gave Satou a heart attack. He didn¡¯t see me, Satou reassured himself. No one saw me. The watchman at best could¡¯ve seen his side-profile. He was clumsy on his way out courtyard. He had almost tripped. No, he had tripped; just saved himself before his knees could hit the ground. The solitary smoker on the ninth-floor could¡¯ve then glanced down and seen him; but even then, she could¡¯ve only made out a vague figure. She could not have seen his face, and even if she did, Satou consoled himself: No one had seen him do it. No one had caught him red-handed, in the act, and he was safe, safe except from himself and his stupidity he could never completely account for. Like Raskolnikov, Satou thought, his crime had been a perfect one. Nothing but his only his own folly could bring him down. 3.1 Grasping Blind Shady Heights, as he soon found out where he was called, was a gated-community. Watchmen made rounds every few blocks or so; and patrol cars cruised down the lane, sometimes towards him; and each time Satou when he would see them he would flinch, take detours and knowing why he acted in such furtive ways made him feel like a common crook. Still, he could not evade them all, not always, not without making himself look guilty, and once a patrolman drew his cruiser up next to him, and asked him why a woman like her was doing out so late at night all by herself. Satou could only eke out a vague excuse, but ¡®I was just on my way back, officer¡¯ was good enough. He was told to be careful, and let go. Once he was out the great gates, his shoulders sagged in ease. He let out a sigh. Uptown, the watchful eyes lessened. Pedestrians began to reappear, but were still few and far between, and always on the other side of the road from him. Swift glances at each other¡¯s passing figures were mutually exchanged, but beckoning them from so far to ask them for directions was too awkward to even attempt. Still, he tried, once, and when he was duly ignored, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to try it again. In a dark and inconspicuous corner, far from any overhanging windows, Satou fished out what amounted to a little over five-thousand ducats from the billfold he had stolen. Converted to riyals, he wasn¡¯t sure how much it amounted to; but given the prices he had seen at the bakery, five-thousand was neither a sum large nor small. A part of him had hoped for a better haul, and here he had not struck gold; but he wasn¡¯t surprised. The billfold was worn, rugged, made out of cheap-leather or perhaps fake. It did not look like something someone wealthy would carry; and the fact that he had found it in a dark stairwell meant only for the staff to use further convinced him of this, and, at the same time, all this in truth, damned him of a graver crime. Five thousand ducats was not a sum someone who earned his living on a day-to-day basis could afford to lose. It could¡¯ve been all someone had, given, that not everyone in a post-industrial society likely had a bank account, insurance, savings, or a safe place to hide all their money. Locked drawers were easy to get into, and inbetween piles of clothes in cabinets an obvious place to stash your safekeeping. Sometimes, the safest place was yourself. So had he pilfered the rich, or robbed from the poor? What an irrelevant question to ask. Irrespective of how much harm he had caused, it was him taking the easy way out that made him feel¡ªregret? For why had he stolen when he had no need to? When he could¡¯ve done what he had planned on doing, which had a promising chance to succeed? He regretted stealing the billfold. But it wasn¡¯t too late to set things right either. He could still go back, return the billfold where he had found it, and¡ªNo. Just the thought of it was enough to utterly demoralize him. ¡°I¡¯ll pay it back, I¡­¡± What was he muttering about? What a bold-faced lie. He knew he wasn¡¯t going to pay it back. He just didn¡¯t want to go back there. Anything but to do it all over again, especially when he had made some ground. And since he was already far from the scene of his crime, his answer wasn¡¯t one too hard to give into. He would not go. The five-thousand ducats straight went into his wallet, neatly partitioned and now bulging his back-pocket; and the billfold he rubbed against his coat to remove any evidence of fingerprints, because even though he wore gloves, he wasn¡¯t taking any chances. Then he threw it deep in an ashcan and stepped back into the light, and that, not for too long. All the lights in the street went out right as he crossed the road. A city-wide blackout, from the looks of it, but all for the better. In the dark was security, and once the moonlight settled, he saw just fine. A familiar rhythm grew far-off in the distance. When he turned around, a tramcar was making a gradual bend at a T-point. Soon it passed him¡ªthree people inside getting ready to leave¡ªheading towards a streetside stop where two women readied their belongings up on their shoulders to enter. Once the tram reached its stop, the tram conductor told them it was the ¡®last one for the day¡¯. Three climbed in. Three climbed out. The two women took the nearest vacant seats: the front. Satou sat all the way at the back, far from the few commuters who were there so late right by the window where he felt most at home. He carried no expectations as to where he might end up, nor did he care. He knew trams ran on a circuit; and secured in the knowledge that he could not get any more lost than he already was, rather than aimlessly wandering, this way, at least he could find a hotel if it chanced past him. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Once the tram got moving again, the toll-collector got up to start taking fares, who wore a deep-blue livery, and clanking against his belt was a ticket-punch machine, which, to Satou, with its telephone dials, toggle switches, and a tiny valve on its side, looked out of place to be in a tram. Once the toll-collector neared, ¡°How much does a ticket cost?¡± Satou asked. ¡°Late tickets are a hundred, miss.¡± ¡°And, day tickets?¡± ¡°Seventy, miss.¡± Satou handed a hundred for the fare, and here something happened that could¡¯ve been easily avoided. Because he wore gloves, he had no sense of texture, and did not realize until he had handed it over just how sharp, fresh, and not worn and crumbled his note had been. Neither did the toll-collector it seemed, who too wore gloves, but more so was so used to his daily routine that, when he saw a hundred, he assumed ducats. Still, Satou had caught it. It wasn¡¯t too late to call out on it. The words hung on the tip of his tongue: ¡®I gave you the wrong¨C¡¯ but, once he waited for an opening, he never got to say it. The toll-collector operated his machine, produce a one-time ticket¡ªa slip of paper quarter the size of his riyals¡ªhanded it to him, politely thanked him, and headed back to his seat. ¡°Excuse me,¡± He didn¡¯t hear him. The tram went on as though nothing had happened. Satou stared at the toll-collector¡¯s back. He stared at his navy-blue hat poking out of the front-seat, restless and indecisive, and for the hundred and fiftieth time thought about how he would go up to him and tell him what had happened. But the more he waited, the less temerity he seem to have summon. Only later, once the tram neared its first stop, did it occur to Satou that perhaps this was karma, self-inflicted or not, that he deserved it for stealing that billfold. The thought afforded him some comfort, masochistic or otherwise, that¡ª ¡°What the hell am I doing¡­¡± Departing King¡¯s Crossing, he had promised to himself that he would change. Then he had gone ahead and broken it in less than an hour, not once, not twice, but countless of times already. It was still his first day! What the hell was he doing?! No more. He had overestimated himself, but this idiocy could no longer go on. His sour mood made him recall all the things he had suffered through, because of his¡ªidiocy. He remembered especially the moment when the officer asked him out for a night out, and that image afforded him the heat he needed to finally get the hell up. Before he knew it himself, he was standing right beside the toll-collector. The tram slowed down at a stop. No one entered, no one left, no one said anything, and everyone patiently waited in an empty barren street for a young woman to get out and leave. Things could¡¯ve gotten awkward if Satou had stayed quiet for a second longer, but: ¡°I gave you my riyals, sir.¡± ¡°Pardon, ma¡¯am?¡± ¡°I might¡¯ve given you my riyals, sir. On accident. I gave you a hundred riyals, for the fare. I found out just now. I thought I gave you a hundred ducats, but¡ªI must¡¯ve given you a hundred riyals, since I¡¯m missing one, you see.¡± ¡°Ah! Right! I beg your pardon¡­ Here you are¡ªma¡¯am.¡± ¡°Thank you¡­¡± Just like that, he had got it. Was that so hard? Mishaps notwithstanding, the journey to who knew where turned out to be a peaceful one. No one talked, because nighttime had made everyone tired and unhumorous to do anything but doze off or try not to. The tramcar was spacious, with plenty of leg room, and it did not smell of paint or anything but the fresh air outside, except, oddly enough, like a bomb-shelter. When the fourth, fifth, or sixth, or who knew which stop came, the two women got up in unison. Satou watched them leave with mild interest. Head propped up against his arm, he watched the two women talk on the sidewalk¡ªsomething about a flooding somewhere¡ªwith a weary face, half-lidden eyes, when, just as the tram began to move again he realized, not too late, that if he didn¡¯t get out as well, then he would be the only one left. Here, he didn¡¯t think. He ran for it. He sprung up from his seat, and jumped out of a moving tram just as it began to pick up speed. Thud¡ª The toll-collector leaned his head out the front-door. When he saw Satou, with his satchel hanging halfway down his arm, legs spread apart to retain balance, looking back at him, the toll-collector laughed. He laughed, good-humoredly, but mutely, and waved his hat over his head. Farewell, it meant. His amusement was contagious, and Satou, embarrassed, unable to hide his own, awkwardly waved back as the tram, now empty, headed back for its terminus to conclude its day. The two women meanwhile had disappeared before he could ask them for directions; but he no longer cared. That fleeting thought disappeared the moment he saw everywhere he looked, even himself, bathed in a luminous white-glow. ¡°¡­¡± As the night had deepened, the city had at some point stopped growing darker. The culprit was glaringly obvious, and it was a feat in itself that he hadn¡¯t noticed it until now¡ªthat white disc far off yet so near, ten times larger than the sun, halfway out the horizon¡ªthere she was, ancient and solemn: The moon of this world. 3.2 Capital Limits Standing at the edge of darkness, filled with disquiet, restless and cold, how dull and insignificantly small the moon had looked in his eyes that night. His heart ached terribly. No friends, no intimacy¡ªnothing. All of his past came back to mind. All the shame. Had anything good ever happened to him in his entire life? When was the last time he had genuinely smiled? The repressive silence only grew louder, and louder, and louder, until he could bear it no longer. He had to look away. Seven concentric rings of radiant runes encircled the sun of this world. The moon had no sisters, no siblings, no satellites, but was a solitary monolith unrivalled in a starless night sky. Ten times larger, what light there came was all from her own, and was not borrowed, like the moon he once knew, from a celestial body of dawn she could effortlessly dwarf. Misshapen clouds, not misty, but distinct in their borders, did their best to obscure her sight, but her visage, not one to be overshadowed, nevertheless bled through them albeit diffused. God-rays pierced through the clouds which must¡¯ve been miles thick, and it were as if a myriad of silvery glinting eyes were staring back at you from the countless cliffs of fog. Then there were the airships; the same ones he had fleetingly seen in the afternoon¡¯s light-blue sky. Now, silhouetted by the moon¡ªthe mast of these flying frigates had nowhere to hide. Even in the clouds, their looming shadows betrayed where they were. Their floodlights, harsh and heavy, trained at the lower-city, swerved down in set patterns¡ªmiles-spanning arcs and slow gyrations¡ªgiving the cityscape an uneasy tension, an atmosphere, of a dystopian police-state, or a nation at a cold war, where the state had to keep a close eye on its citizens for spies, traitors, informants, border-crossers. He took a step back from the guardrails and looked down at the pavement. His body could not stop swaying from vertigo. Intoxicated, once his sense of balance returned, he craned his neck out again; this time: his eyes trained at the city below. A few hundred meters below him, maybe more, burgeoned a city thereon which bore no semblance to the one he had so far forayed. Roof-shingles gleamed white in the moonlit night sky; havens of light twinkled like stars in a sea of abyss; only campaniles and belfries of cathedral rose above the jagged-rim; fly-overs, viaducts, and industrial pipelines grew out like veins of the dark and lifeless wen; and farther north, was everything industrial. No signs of smog, no pillars of smoke, but from its dark and foreboding outline, it was irrefutably industrial: stripped bare of any embellishments, gutted out of walls or even floors¡ªa failed district of half-built ruins and unfulfilled dreams, casinos and foundries¡ªthe slums of Ednin. Silence, all, was all he could hear here, other than the distant drone of airships and the wind wrapped round his clothes. Westwards, the sheer cliff of battlement walls run on till it met the horizon, where it gently levelled off with the city below. Satou mutely followed the guardrails until soon it led him to one of the many bulwark that jutted out over the lower-city. There, parked by the side of the road, he saw a car. ¡°Is this a cab?¡± Satou asked him, knowing the answer beforehand. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am. But I¡¯m off-duty.¡± ¡°Oh. Is there a hotel, around here, not too costly?¡± The cabdriver pointed him onward, to the only hotel he knew in a mile, but no soon after that did he get lost again. He had to backtrack, but, wasn¡¯t there a turn here, before? He realized he was thoroughly lost. The moon could not reach him, wherever he was. It was dark where he stood, and awfully quiet. He came across a sign that read, ¡®CITY LIFT No. 057¡¯, which at first confused him. Warm and humid air blew up to his face as he stood there, on the threshold, peering in. Indeed, it was what it said it was. ¡°A lift. Here?¡± Just standing near it made him feel isolated from the world, cut-off. He had no intention of getting on, just check it out; but in the end he didn¡¯t get to choose. The city-wide blackout ended right as he took a step inside. Something hard and heavy fall into place, far below him; like the sound of cogs grinding. The ground shook, or maybe it was the lift. The lights then began to flicker. And before he could even get a chance to understand what was going on, his fate was sealed. The lift was descending, taking him along with it! A light pang of fear did begin to build up in his chest, but nothing he couldn¡¯t repress. He tried not to panic, and keep calm. Quickly, he reached for the lever and tried to turn it the other way¡ªup¡ªbut it did not budge, no matter how hard he pulled, pushed, on leaned against it. Maybe there was safety mechanism, somewhere, that he wasn¡¯t holding down first. If there was, then he didn¡¯t find it until the meter above the doorway had reached G5. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. When he got to G5, somewhere deep underground, a collapsible gate barred his way out. Outside, nothing stirred. Air stood still. Dust hung in the amber light from the lift; and beyond, was everything pitch-black. ¡°Halloa!¡± Satou tried to call for help. ¡°Halloa!¡± But¡ªnothing. There was a telephone handset, right next to him, with rotary dials and it might¡¯ve been his only hope. He picked it up and dialed in all the numbers he could think of: 110, 100, 911, 988, but, again¡ªnothing. He only received static. What the hell¡­ What had he gotten himself into. He realized he was stuck here. And for how long? Till morning, until somebody came and rescued him? The thought that he would have to spend an entire night caged here of all places made him all the more desperate to get out. Again, he tried to turn the lever to other way¡ªup¡ªto no avail. He tried to pry the gate with his bare hands. He knew it was vain, yet to his surprise he found that he might just be able to push it wide enough to shimmy through. He tried it, first, by shoving his shoulder under the heavy iron-link chains that held the gate fastened and barred his way out, and found, that¡­ He did it! Painfully, he managed to get out! Rubbing his shoulder, he reached back for his satchel. Then he looked both ways, passageways with walls reminiscent of a bunker that seemed to go on and on and on, branching out here and there into lesser passageways, he decided to go right. He couldn¡¯t see where he was going, or even his hands when he brought it up to his face; but he must¡¯ve surfaced at some point. The night sky emerged above him, partly obscured by the eaves of a dark and looming building; and behind him, towered the wall he had stood on earlier, half an hour ago, bathed white in the moonlight. Only now did it truly sink in just how far he had strayed. He had vaguely known that the lift had brought him to the lower-city. But this¡­ The district, or ward, or whatever he was in, were not the fashionable streets he had wandered lost in throughout the day. An urbane air pervaded the gloomy wen. Even the air he breathed in somehow stifled his lungs. The lack of monumentalism was the first thing he caught onto: something, which Upper Ednin had been fortunate to inherit; but ¡®slums¡¯ for this place was not the right word for either. Lower Ednin was not dirty, squalid; clothesline did not hang overhead; sewage did not openly flow; nor was there a smell, or flies, or discarded newspapers littering the streets like tumbleweeds. But a wear and use was there, present in the air, that unmistakably separated it from the city above, as being ¡®lived in¡¯. The streets moreover winded, swerved, curved, and never led you to a dead end¡ªwhich would¡¯ve been the ideal, since that way you could at least backtrack instead of laying your hopes ahead; but they never did. They went on and on instead, and never led you anywhere but deeper in. The widest alleyways were often indistinguishable from the narrowest street. Not a front-garden or a flowerbed did he come across; or a yard, backyard, or even a park. Most byways served as porches for homes and entranceways into tenements. And while a car could¡¯ve passed through, two were bound to start a jam. As for the buildings: he wasn¡¯t sure what to make of them. Is this what people called Art Deco? They had a flair to them despite looking awfully mundane, and it was impossible to point out what made them feel so. Six to seven storeys tall, emergency staircase scaffolded down their side, coated in black, which were almost all somewhere or the other oxidized by rain and neglect to a copper red. On the rooftops propped on iron-stilts or hanging by the side of the buildings, lit garish signs and billboards displayed advertisements that promised much that sounded too good to be true. ¡°Marybell,¡± Satou read, on one of the billboards. Selling the dream, he thought. Even a fantasy world, it seemed, was not entirely immune from the allure of kitsch and glamor. Gasjet streetlamps shone him the way forth, but struggled to reach very far. Their mellow red glow gave the already maze-like borough an eerie gothic ambience, under which the infrequent manholes and cracked cobblestone street haphazardly patched with broken blocks took on a new appearance: that of mystery. Some of them flickered, dying. Others outright did not work. And in such places, only the moon, if she could reach you, shone you the way forth. That, and the few lights that came down from homes: lights by which children were being bathed, late meals cooked, books read. To the shadowy figures who still prowled the night out so late, Satou asked them, ¡°Is there a hotel nearby?¡± he himself half-hidden in the dark so that no one would see his face. Mutely, these strangers would point him to keep going onward, towards his journey¡¯s end. ¡°At the Old Crossroads,¡± they answered, that it was not hard to miss; yet miss he almost did. Dead in the middle of a three-way juncture shaped like a ¡®Y¡¯, there it stood: an unassuming weathered brick-faced corner-building, six storeys tall; its double doors were held half-open by a foldable-ladder; and the signage bearing its name ¡®Edson Hotel¡¯, lay slanted on its side, left there by the entrance for the paint to dry. This was where he would stay for the night. 3.3 Edson Hotel ¡°Let¡¯s see what we have here,¡± She reached for her satchel and set it by her legs. Like yesterday, she decided to start with the letter. The blood-stained letter¡­ She brought it up to her face and smelled it. Nothing. Her first impulse had reached for blood, but now it seemed childish of her to jump to such conclusions. It could just be red ink. Really, there was no way to tell. Except, maybe, forensic tests¡­ A wax seal held it closed; the sender¡¯s emblem. She would have to take it off if she wanted to read the content inside; but, would I not void it, if I break the seal? She needed a knife, moreover, to tamper with it in any way. For that she remembered she had a razor; but, where did she keep it again? She remembered taking it out her cuffs. And then what? Thankfully, she did not have to look far. Once she found the paperclip under the table, the razorblade wasn¡¯t far off. Seriously, I¡¯m not a kid anymore. I can¡¯t be losing stuff like this. Carefully, she tried to lift the seal without making a tear. ¡°Oh?¡± Smoke¡ªThe letter began to singe where the seal had come loose. This surprised her, as well as piqued her curiosity. ¡°Best not to tamper with an alchemical seal¡­¡± It seemed there was no way for her to read the contents without it going up into flames first. So, what¡¯s next? She took out the camera and reeled through the film, until something clicked, when she returned to the first. The wide-shot of the cityscape¡­ She leaned in closer to get a better look at it. Where was it taken from? It did not look like upper-Ednin. So, down here? It was hard to say. But if she could find it, find the address¡ªwould it not be an invaluable lead as to uncovering her past? ¡°A lot easier said than done, that said.¡± The rest of the shots were impenetrable, revealing nothing whatsoever. She took out the nutcracker doll and held it in front of her, at arms length. The little mage accoutered in an aristocratic-looking robe did not look like the sagely wizards she knew from old western fantasies, but more so resembled the mages she often saw depicted in serialized webtoons. It wasn¡¯t a toy; or at least she did not think it was one. It was too frail, too artisan, to be one. ¡°A showpiece, perhaps?¡± A gift she had been given by someone or had planned to give someone? She placed it on the letter as a decorative paperweight, and thought nothing else of it. ¡°Now, time for the oddball.¡± She had purposely left the more interesting one for last. The revolver. In her hand she held it¡ª¡°What a work of art,¡± she thought out loud. The ornate engravings painstakingly etched on cold steel looked even more beautiful in the dim morning light. Somehow, she managed to open the chamber without firing it; and inside, she saw two empty casings, four live; who knew where or at what it had been fired at. She gently set it down on the table, the barrel of it facing the wall, and with her arms-crossed began to brood. Unless she turned out to be a fugitive, the only reason she should have a gun on her was because she had a special permit for it, or that gun-laws in this world were lax enough for a civilian to at least conceal-carry. She would have nothing to worry, if it was the latter. But for the former¡ªwithout a license, a passport, or an id, she had no way to prove her right to bear arms. ¡°I should probably not have it on me, for the time being¡­¡± She thought about leaving it in the nightstand drawer, but the looming possibility of theft made her reconsider. ¡°Never mind. Maybe not. What¡¯re the chances I¡¯ll get frisked by a policeman anyways?¡± Slim to none, unless she went places where she would get searched. Like a museum, a bank, a prison, or a train station. Suddenly, she remembered about the train ticket. But not where she had kept it. She almost had a heart-attack looking for it, but thankfully she found it, safe and sound in her wallet. With a sigh of relief she took it out, held it flush in front of her, and read it: ¡°Advanced booked, 1st class. Admission for one: Adult. Boarding time: o-three pm, platform o-seven, at King¡¯s Crossing, for the Aureate Express¡­¡± A fancy name for a train¡ªthe Aureate Express; and first-class at that¡ªwhoever the young lady was was well-off, or at least her parents were. She regretted not inquiring about the train ticket when she had her chance. Now, King¡¯s Crossing would have to wait. The Great Wall was conspicuous enough. But something told her that she would not get back up there by today, even if she tried. ¡°Still, getting back should be priority. They might not help if I¡¯m a week late.¡± And she had to find her identification papers as well, which she might need when the time came. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°I should probably write this all down, so I don¡¯t forget.¡± As well as all her other plans and her goals, long-term and short-term. But where? She had a fountain-pen; but no paper to write on. The newspaper won¡¯t do. It was cramped full of words and the occasional photographs. There was the handkerchief also¡ªa soft and delicate piece of lawn and lace¡ªbut nothing would make her deface it. ¡°The receptionist might have something for me. Let¡¯s go ask him.¡± There was no need to put on her coat or her vest; she would only be going downstairs. Her fantasy-esk boots almost reached her knees, yet they effortlessly slipped in when she put them on. The heel of it was slightly raised, but nothing that would hinder her if she wanted to skip, sprint, jump, or vault over a wall. ¡°Not that I plan on doing any acrobatics¡­¡± She did not forget to lock the doors. Pocketing the key, she made her way down the stairs. Only her footsteps echoed. Tap, tap, tap. The corridor, like last night, was empty, and still. Music no longer played from the phonograph in the foyer. When she got to the front-desk, the receptionist, to his surprise, was still there, wakeful and impassive as ever. ¡°Excuse me,¡± Satou asked. ¡°Would you have something to write on, like, paper?¡± Nothing, but the hotel log-book on the table¡ªthe receptionist tore a page from the back of it. ¡°Ah, you didn¡¯t¡­ Thank you. And, what day is today?¡± She was told Tuesday. Not long after that, she was back up to the fifth floor, back in her room, with a fountain-pen in hand. At first, she tried to write in kanji, but stopped immediately after she made a few strokes. No, kanji looks too conspicuous. She decided to write in romaji instead. That way, if someone asks, she could say that it was just babble, something she did to practice her handwriting, pass the time by. She thought herself a genius for that. ¡°Short-term.¡± Then, flipping the page over: ¡°Long-term.¡± - Inquire about Train Ticket. Get to King¡¯s Crossing. Time-Sensitive. Asap. - Find Identification Papers / Passport: Ask around. Look up Missing Person Reports, Newspapers, Agony Columns, etc. There were probably people who knew her out there; that is, people who knew the previous owner of this body. Sooner or later she was bound to meet them: if not in the coming weeks, then in a few months, or even years, but meet them she would in time. The prospect of a confrontation with as stranger was daunting, but she could not run away from this or hide. Someone was bound to grow worried and inform the authorities. Then she would get found. ¡°No other way, but to go forward.¡± The only thing she could do, then, was to educate herself, about herself, before she was caught off-guard. This, of course, required time. Thankfully, a blessing in disguise, it turned out to be, falling down here. The chances of getting found in lower-Ednin was slim, unless she happened to be someone famous and didn¡¯t know it. ¡°And what should I do, if I do get recognized?¡± Play Dumb, she wrote. Feign Dissociative Fugue. Do not put up an act, even if you meet your mother. She would only dig herself into a deeper hole. It should not be too hard to act like she did not know them. She literally didn¡¯t. In time, she did plan to meet them. But when that happens, ¡°It¡¯ll be on her own terms.¡± She was hunkering here, for the time being. With the funds she had in ducats, she could live here without worrying about a place to stay for the next few months. But that would leave her with little surplus to enjoy herself unless she could get her riyals exchanged. If she was to live as Jane Doe for some time, then it was not a bad idea to try and take a few jobs. Receptionist, was what first came to mind. But she did not know the first thing about book-keeping. ¡°How about a maid? A governess?¡± She¡¯d rather not. She was not good with kids and she didn¡¯t know how to do laundry. That foreign concept ended at throwing clothes into the washing machine. Dishes she could do, but that would roughen her beautiful fingers. As for cooking: ¡°Heh. No one¡¯s hiring me for a cook.¡± She only knew how to make insta, and bread and omelet. ¡°I could do modelling, actually.¡± She blushed. Just the thought of it alone was enough to make her blush. Still, it was one area of expertise she could ace. The gig was easy money, but a low footprint job was strongly advisable. ¡°How about a waitress?¡± She could do that. But would that even pay enough to be worth spending hours stuck at work? ¡°Ahh, what a pain in the ass¡­¡± How was menial labor out of her reach? Her CV was honestly depressing. If only she had an understanding of modern miracles¡ªjust one¡ªher socio-financial status could¡¯ve been good as guaranteed. Hailed as an inventor, she could¡¯ve lived her life out in retirement, selling her patents. She could¡¯ve done that, if the world still stuck in the dark ages; saved lives, gained the favors of Kings and Queens, or become a ruler herself were she shrewd. But in an industrialized society, she was no different from the common-stock. Source of Income, she wrote down; and moved on. - Test your Supernatural Abilities. Magic Competency. Am I special? Can I cast fireballs out of my hands? She did not expect much in this regard. - Research about History. Geography. Religions. Churches. Gods & Goddesses. One of the deities could¡¯ve very well been the culprit behind her transmigration. If so, then she had to pray to Him, or Her, for some answers. ¡°Transmigration came at a price.¡± Such was a common trope in isekai stories. She was no stranger to it. - Look for Evidence of fellow Otherworlders: Transmigrators, Reincarnator, Summoned, etc. Given the fact that Ednin conversed in english and so much of the world had so far bore semblance to a bygone era, it seemed unlikely that she was the first one here. Were she to look in history books, she was bound to find a senior, hidden in plain sight. ¡°Now, for my resolutions.¡± There were behaviors about herself that she wanted to forego, improve upon. - Take Care of Yourself: Brush, Diet, Exercise, etc. And, an Absolute Ban on Onanism. If she had erotic desires, then she would relieve herself by the means of a significant other; not through prostitution, not one night stands, and definitely not by herself. ¡°I¡¯ve masturbated enough for one lifetime.¡± There was no excuse to continue such behavior when she had such looks. ¡°Get laid,¡± she thought out loud, but only meant it in humor. She wasn¡¯t going to write that down. Instead, with a smile she wrote under a new heading: Bucket List: ¡°Fall in love.¡± ¡°What else¡­ Nothing else¡­ For now¡­¡± It was good enough. The day had just started, and yet she felt as though she had gotten so much done. Inspiration had flowed in rapids, and in a stream of consciousness she had filled an entire page. Work her invigorated. She did not stumble over ¡®what to do¡¯, like yesterday, and hours had passed by in mere seconds. By the end of the chapter, she was left with a page cleanly-torn in half filled with jargon only she could understand, and the time on the clock at a quarter past six. ¡°Time to go outside.¡± 3.4 Dream of Me, Myself Satou did not have high expectations for Edson Hotel. Its outward fa?ade and where it was situated had tempered his hopes for a cheap stay at best. A tidy room, a decent bed, a shower and some privacy was all he had hoped for; but even that, had at first seemed too much to ask. In a way, then, it was to his fortune that he had gotten at least that much. Room 205, though not attractive, was not displeasing either; and it was his, for seven nights. A single bed, and a nightstand right next to it. A desk, a chair, and a wastebasket. That was all as far as furniture went, at least in this room. A door to his right opened into the bathroom, with all the fixtures you¡¯d expect to find inside: a ceramic western toilet, a shower head, and a sink with two valves on either side, above which, straight ahead, was a mirror cabinet. Satou blushed, when he saw her hazel eyes, stare back into his. ¡°Hahahh¡­¡± Like narcissus, he was charmed. If being called ''miss'' hadn''t induced in him a sense of disembodiment, this had certainly done it. He ran his hand through his tousled jet-black hair, and failed to hide her smile; a beautiful charming smile. ¡°What a beauty indeed¡­¡± He hung his satchel aside and took of his coat, and found parts of it were slick with grease. Since when? Ah, right¡­ He remembered. From the lift, when I had to crawl through it. He unbuttoned his black vest, but froze when he heard the wheels of a trolley near outside his door. He heard muffled-talking; then someone walking away. Crockeries clanked, followed by a knock. Satou answered the door, and there stood in front of him a maid with a serving cart parked behind her. Without a word, she handed him his meal on a long tray, and only then did Satou remember that he had ordered dinner. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said, and carried the tray over to his desk. There, he examined it. A mug of hot coffee, and a bowl of soup (or broth) with pulpy mushes floating inside it. This was his dinner. He tried a sip (it was hot, and a little tasteless) and for the time being left it all there. He continued to undress, and a palpable sense of relief washed over him once he took off his black vest. Though he did not find his clothes particularly cumbersome, stiff, or even bulky; having seldom worn tight-fit clothes except on formal occasions, which were rare in his life, to find himself suddenly wearing four garments at once was a change too drastic for him to miss. I¡¯ll have to go buy looser clothes, one of these days. He could not keep wearing the same ones, after all. I¡¯ll have to keep these clean, for the time being. I don¡¯t have spares clothes¡­ They do look really good on me though¡­ That they did. And neither did they look cheap. His shirtsleeve was pricy-cotton, that much he could tell by touch. Likewise, so was his coat, his vest, his wallet, and everything else he had in his satchel. It was of some solace, perhaps, to know that he was decently well-off as far as his station and his capital was concerned; but all this also brought to mind just how far he had strayed: that he shouldn¡¯t be here, but up there, four hundred meters beyond that wall, somewhere else. Again he saw himself take that fatal step; how the lift had then fallen an inch; then his fall from grace. It was disheartening to relive. Exhausted, sore all over, he threw himself onto bed, and his head spun terribly. Soon it abated. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. On the nightstand, under a black rotary telephone, he saw an issue of the Daily Gazette. He reached for it, and held it up towards the ceiling. ¡®8th Jan 7-687¡¯ it was labeled, which threw him off. He had no way to know if the newspaper was the latest edition, but to see Jan next to such a ridiculous number did not sound right to his ears. The date brought to mind images of a far distant future, and not a modernized fantasy world set in a bygone era, during an economic boom before the great depression, which, at least Ednin had so far resembled. The front-page was taken up by a monochrome photograph of a flooded street. The title read, ¡®Dreary Day. X Street Station Severely Damaged By¡ª¡¯ but that was all he could manage. The rest of the words blurred in his eyes, incoherent. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. I¡¯m too tired to grok this¡­ He had yet to take off most of his clothes, eat his meal, fall asleep, and he might as well take a shower while he was at it¡ªwash away the dirt, the grime, his exhaustion¡ªwhich entailed that he first undress. He took off his gloves. Then he began unbuttoning his shirtsleeve, one after the other, only to blush and look away, smiling, when he saw his ample breasts peek through the gap. What was this intoxicating feeling? Pride? Delight? He unbuttoned his cuffs, but froze the moment he felt something sharp get dampen by cloth. He almost cut himself trying to take it out, but there it was, inbetween his fingers, a razorblade, held in place with a paperclip under one of his cuffs. Who knew why he had it. It seemed dangerous to carry such a thing on your person. What is she, a spy? The stray thought made him smile. A silly idea. But what if it¡¯s true? That would certainly explain the gun, make things much more exciting¡­ He tried to take off his trousers, but failed. Ah, right. He had yet to take off his fantasy-esk boots. The long-laces ran on till his knees; but thankfully, he did not have to untie it all to get it off. With a bit of effort, both came right off. In the bathroom, the faucet¡¯s valves¡ªred and blue¡ªwere both cold. To his misfortune, so was the shower. He opened the mirror cabinet, and found there the basic essentials for his personal hygiene inside it, sealed and bulk-made: a toothbrush and a toothpaste, as well as a bar of soap and a few packs of shampoo, which had a nice if a bit strong fragrance to it. He brushed his teeth, and almost did not notice his abnormally sharp canines. He could seriously hurt someone if he bit down with those. Like me, biting my own tongue¡­ He readied himself to take a shower, and standing underneath it, bracing himself, he turned the nob as far as it would go. The jet of frigid-cold water jolted him back to life. He bit down on his lips and tried not to yelp¡ªbut failed. A feminine voice that came with the sound of rain was louder than he had expected it to be; anyone next door could¡¯ve very well heard him. He ran his hands over his skin, and admired how rivers and rivulets flowed down his hips and his bare legs. He closed his eyes, and under the deluge saw himself just as well with his hands. His figure, lean, not frail but firm, excited him; but not in the same way others might¡¯ve found themselves excited, he imagined, were they to see his body. Such a feeling was strange. Even for himself, he could not put into words; yet he was charmed nevertheless. A part of him found it vain that he should be so fixated on his body; but he felt no pangs of shame for it but a pride he had never known. Shivering, naked, he dried himself with a towel, but failed miserably when it came to his hair. He dabbed it as much as he could with a towel, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he had a vague idea that he wasn¡¯t to be too rough; so he stopped, in case he ruined his hair. The hassles of a woman was certainly new¡ªsomething he had to come to terms with¡ªbut a welcoming hassle that nonetheless filled him with joy and delight. He looked down at his long and slender legs, perfectly hairless and unblemished, at his fair-skin white and soft, and thought for a moment that they looked fat and stocky; but¡ªno. When he looked at them in the mirror, he saw that they were perfect. ¡°My anorexia,¡± Satou concluded. Being so used to his thin legs, his eyes had yet to adjust to his new body. He picked up his clothes from the floor and dressed lightly¡ªputting on his undergarments first, then his shirtsleeve¡ªbut also his trousers, because he found it too awkward to sleep with his bare legs. Still wet, his clothes stuck to his skin. When he turned the lights off, his room did not vanish immediately. Everything in his eyes dimmed¡ªthen gradually faded away. As the moonlight settled in, a long column of light took its shape on the wall right beside him: lights from the street below. He pulled the sheets over himself as he laid his head down, and found it to be heavier, rougher, than the ones he was used to at home. Thankfully the mattress was alright. He did not mind the stiffness much. As he waited for sleep to take him, excitement ruled out any thoughts for it. His mind wandered, and soon he found himself back at King¡¯s Crossing, frightened, confused, but also intoxicated. How did he get there? How did it happen? He tried to remember his final moments, before he had opened his eyes, but only succeeded in summoning up disjointed fragments: How his stomach had churned; how his head had throbbed. He remembered his vision fading in and out; the queasy drunken stupor he was in; a pain you could not quite call pain. He remembered shivering like a leaf while his fingers had struggled to hold onto the desk. All this may have just been his fancy, but the silence afterwards had been deafening. Most likely, he had died shortly thereafter. Then he had seen void, for an eternity that to him had lasted an instant. The next thing he knew, he was here, in the body of a young woman, in the middle of a train station, ¡°In another world¡­¡± The fan on the ceiling was frozen, like a picture¡ªas if time itself had come to a standstill. The ticking of the clock; the rumbling of the central heating pipes behind walls; and the humming that came down from the airshafts¡ªall of it heightened the silence of the night, and all for the better. He wanted this precious moment to last a little longer, ¡°Forever¡­¡± How many times had he dreamt of this day to happen to him? How many times had he dreamt of being right where he was, right now? His first day had been stressful, but everything had worked out in the end, thank God. He still wasn''t sure how he had made it, here, all the way from King¡¯s Crossing, or even to this world¡ªbut it didn''t matter. None of that mattered. What mattered was that he was here, ¡°In another world¡­¡± Exultation and restlessness thumped in his chest. His emotions ran tumult. The thought that he had escaped his past brought tears to his eyes. Every single day, he had lived only out of compulsion¡¯s sake. He was unhappy, miserable, and unloved, and he saw himself unhappy and unloved in his late 20s, 30s, and in his 40s. Years stretched out in front of him with no end in sight. He had hated his life so much. Living had been so painful. Tears would not stop flowing now. He was crying, crying with a smile on her face, shedding tears of sadness and joy. 4.1 Runaway His legs were sore. He was weary and tired from walking for so long. He didn¡¯t know where he was. Lost in a crowd, he had not gone off far from the Tokyo Metro when he heard a car park behind him. He turned around, and saw his mother in the driver¡¯s seat, looking right back at him. Get in, Satou.¡± She said. A deep-pit opened up in his stomach when he saw her. What were the chances she would find him on her way back home from work? He wanted to run away, but that moment had long passed when she saw him in the crowd. Resigned to his fate, he obeyed, and got in the back-seat. No one spoke throughout the ride back home. Streaks of light flashed across his eyes as they drove down a long tunnel. Soon it was night outside. He was looking out at the city passing by him, when he heard, ¡°Why did you run away?¡± His heart sink. He looked up, growing afraid, and in the rear-view mirror saw his mother¡¯s eyes, staring right back into his. With a sudden sense of falling, Satou opened his eyes, and found himself lying on his side, in the dark. He tasted strands of hair, his own, in his mouth as he pushed himself upright, not with a start, but with worry and a beating heart, almost afraid to see what he would find, and saw¡ªno desk, no chair, no computer. His heart began to beat faster. He got out of bed, and the coldness of the floor on his bare feet heightened his five senses. He walked over to the dimness he saw beyond the dark, and made a slit through the window-blinds. A mild-blue hue bled onto his face as he peered outside. In the first grey of dawn, he saw a bicycle trinkle down unfamiliar streets. Soon it was gone. He stepped back, unseen from outside, and began to make his way to the bathroom. Standing on the threshold, he hesitated. In front of him, was the cabinet-mirror, reflecting a vague silhouette. The moment of truth¡­ He pulled the string that turned on the bulb. The harsh light that came blinded him, yet he forced his eyes to stay open. ¡°¡­Haahahh~¡± Statuesque, with a tomboyish mien, and tousled jet-black hair cut-bob¡ªhe saw was her reflection; her own reflection. A smile bloomed on her face; a beautiful charming smile on her handsome face. ¡°It¡¯s real! It¡¯s¡ªah¡ªI-I have no words!¡± Morning had not yet dawned. Outside, it was still dark. Mindful not to raise her voice, she leapt all over her room¡ªaround her bed, on top of it. It was an accident waiting to happen, and soon she had slammed her foot hard on the edge of the bed. ¡°Akh¨C¡± She crumbled in pain, groaning; but soon she was laughing, laughing at herself while being out of breath. ¡°Hahahaahh~¡± With tears in her eyes from both happiness and from pain, so began her first day; her first proper day in another world. Once her foot had numbed enough, she limped to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She cupped her hands under the stream of water and splashed it against her neck and her face. The coldness of it sent blood coursing through her veins. Freshened, awake, she switched the lights on as she came outside, dabbing her face with a towel. On the table, she saw food. Yesterday¡¯s dinner, she remembered. She had completely forgotten about it. She carried her pile of clothes from the chair over to her bed. Then she sat down and ate. The coffee had gone cold, and the food grown stale. She ate without much of an appetite. Suddenly, she remembered the hip-flask. It helped. Her throat stung from the alcohol, but the added flavor helped wash it all down. Is it even okay to drink caffeine and alcohol together? She would find that out soon enough. Her eyes were focused nowhere as she sat in silence and in solitude, listlessly trying to finish her meal. It didn¡¯t take long before she out of the blue remembered the dream she had had, or nightmare, and it brought back some painful memories. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The day she caught me¡­ The day I ran away¡­ Ruined lipstick and mascara ran down his face that still throbbed from the pain. He looked up in the mirror, and saw his pathetic sight. He remembered thinking, that he looked like sad clown. Whatever happens, nothing matters anymore. That¡¯s what I thought¡­ Suddenly, something came over him then, and he felt as though nothing mattered anymore. Then and there, he decided that he would run away from home. He boarded a train and rode it all afternoon, with no money in his pocket and no destination in his mind. A stupid thing to do, in hindsight: If he wanted to run away, he should¡¯ve planned it out first; but he wasn¡¯t conscious, of anything at all. All he saw were the few images of his life playing itself over and over again. Nothing else. There was no escape. Much of the day passed by him like a dream, but he vividly remembered two incidents while he was on the train. A group of high-schoolers entered the train and remarked as they passed by him that he looked drugged. One of them laughed. That brought him out. He was not disconcerted by their callous remarks, but he was provoked. Later on, a young couple entered the train, and seeing them act so lovey-dovey caused him such suffocating sadness that he had to get away. He got out on the next station. Eventually, hunger came, and time reared its ugly head. What would he do once night fell over him? Nowhere to go. He fantasized about meeting a stranger, whose life would be just as miserable as his, who would bring him back to their home, give him something to eat, that they would fall in love, start a new life together. But he knew his chances. He had run away from home, yes, but he realized that this could only end in two ways: either he could go back, or suicide. This was the first time he had contemplated such a thing. Suicide. I sincerely considered doing it. I might¡¯ve done it. Dying under the weight of a train seemed instantaneous, but he lacked the courage to throw himself over the rails. Would someone give him something to eat if he pleaded for it? With that thought in mind he walked out of the metro. He had not gone far, when he came across his mother, just as surprised to see him there. ¡°Get in, Satou.¡± She said, once they were in the parking lot. And, once he got in, ¡°Don¡¯t you have something to tell me? Or will you have to make me say it?¡± Not a hint of guilt or agency in those eyes. When he realized she had no idea he had even run away from home, he was devastated. Even till the end, you were oblivious that I wanted to kill myself that day, because of you¡­ The cold and stale food was growing staler. He continued to stare into the wall; beyond it. Things happened a little differently in his dream, but they were similar enough to bring back the old scars. The knowledge that he would no longer have to see his mother again brought him relief; but the relief for some reason was hollow, not one of victory. He felt as though a part of him was missing, no longer there; but why? His own sentiment caught him off-guard. Did he not hate her as much as he had thought? Had he not always longed to leave from her behind, start a new life, free from his past? ¡°It¡¯s getting ridiculous.¡± A train rumbled above them. They were driving under an overpass. ¡°I know you snuck out last night. Where do you go to, really? Tell me. I¡¯m curious.¡± Far off in the distance, he could see home. He longed to get back there: back to his room; back to Elyse. ¡°It¡¯s doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s high time you finally faced reality.¡± She slid him his report card. They sat facing each other. He was still wearing his school uniform. ¡°Last trimester your grades were barely passable. Now they¡¯re in the red. What do you plan I do with you?¡± Hearing her voice again renewed the old fear and animosity he had once felt under her presence. No, he still hated her. The resentment was still there, in him. It had not died. And he would never forgive her for how miserable and worthless she had made him feel, all his life. Suddenly, he began to regret not writing ¡®your fault¡¯ on a piece of paper. Even till the end, I couldn¡¯t disobey you¡ªlash out at you, tell you what I truly felt. I killed myself. Think about that. Just think about how much you could¡¯ve done differently¡­ His inexplicable sense of hollowness, then, must¡¯ve stemmed from the fact that he had grown so dependent upon her, for everything, that to not have her by his side for once in his life was making him feel, somehow, deprived. That must be it. She was all I had¡­ after all¡­ No friends, no long-distant lovers¡ªnothing. Maybe he had a father when he grew up, but if so, he had no recollection of him. As if to deny the past, his mother kept no photos; only one. And growing up, he didn¡¯t have grandparents either, or even relatives. His mother did not like talking about her past, but from what little he had gathered, he knew that she had cut ties with her own family, a long time ago. ¡°Misaki¡­¡± Satou murmured. That was his mother¡¯s name. Misaki Hasegawa. ¡°Misaki¡­ Misaki¡­ Misaki¡­¡± How unnatural was it to say her name out loud, as though he were invoking the name of a stranger, and not his mother. Was this the first time he was saying her name out loud? He had never thought of her that way, by her own name¡­ But the realization was true in more ways than one. She¡¯s not my mother. Not anymore¡­ The cold exterior of the hip-flask touched her lips. Nothing touched her tongue. ¡°I¡¯ve never been so truthful to myself before.¡± She shook the hip-flask in her hand idly. She could hear some sloshing still inside. How liberating was it to put her repressed feelings into words. ¡°Did the alcohol make me somehow bolder?¡± Out of nowhere, she heard a voice. ¡®Why did you run away?¡¯ Again, those same words. She looked up at the rear-view mirror, and this time did not see his mother¡¯s eyes, but someone else¡¯s. Something clicked. Did her debacle with the officer somehow bother him enough to give him a nightmare? By all means, that seems to have been the case. The metro, the weariness of travelling on foot, getting found on the side of the road, and the awkward ride back home¡ªwhat a way to start your day. ¡°Let¡¯s just hope dreams aren¡¯t prophetic.¡± She craned her neck at the clock. The time was 5:30 AM. A hairline-crack on its glass shone like a twig of light. Sun had crested. 4.2 Bucket List ¡°Let¡¯s see what we have here,¡± She reached for her satchel and set it down next to her legs. Like yesterday, she decided to start with the letter. The blood-stained letter¡­ She brought it up to her face and smelled it. Nothing. Her first impulse had reached for blood, but now it seemed childish of her to jump to such conclusions. It could just be red ink. Really, there was no way to tell. Except, maybe, forensic tests¡­ A wax seal held it closed; the sender¡¯s emblem. She would have to take it off if she wanted to read the contents inside; but, would I not void it, if I break the seal? She needed a knife, moreover, to tamper with it in any way. For that she had a razor, but, where did I keep it again? She remembered taking it out her cuffs. And then what? Where did I keep it? Thankfully, she did not have to look far. Once she found the paperclip under the table, the razorblade wasn¡¯t far off. Seriously, I¡¯m not a kid anymore. I can¡¯t be losing stuff like this. Carefully, she tried to lift the seal without making a tear. ¡°Oh?¡± Smoke¡ªThe letter began to singe where the seal had come loose. This surprised her, as well as piqued her curiosity. ¡°Best not to tamper with an alchemical seal¡­¡± It seemed there was no way for her to read the contents without it going up into flames first. So, what¡¯s next? The film-camera. She reeled through it back and forth, expecting nothing, until something clicked, when she returned to the first. The wide-shot of the cityscape. She leaned in closer to get a better look at it. Where was it taken from? It did not look like upper-Ednin. Too gothic. So, down here? It was hard to say. But if she could find it, find the address of the exact building, and the floor¡ªwould it not be an invaluable lead as to uncovering her past? ¡°A lot easier said than done, that said.¡± The rest of the shots were impenetrable, revealing nothing whatsoever. She took out the nutcracker doll and held it in front of her, at arms length. The little mage accoutered in an aristocratic-looking robe did not look like the sagely wizards she had known from old western fantasies, but more so resembled the mages she often saw depicted in serialized webtoons: which is to say that it looked modern. And it wasn¡¯t a toy; or at least she did not think it was. It was too frail, too artisan, to be one. ¡°A showpiece, perhaps?¡± A gift she had been given by someone or had planned to give someone? She placed it on the letter as a decorative paperweight, and thought nothing else of it. ¡°Now, time for the oddball.¡± She had purposely left the more interesting one for last. The revolver. The ornate engravings painstakingly etched on cold steel looked even more beautiful in the dim morning light. She was right in it being a work of art, even though she hadn¡¯t gotten a good look at it yesterday. Somehow, she managed to open the chamber without firing it; and inside, she saw two empty casings, four live; who knew where or at what it had been fired on. She set it down on the table, gently, the barrel of it facing the wall, and with her arms-crossed she began to brood. Unless she happened to be a fugitive, the only reason she should carry a gun was because she had a special permit for it, or that gun-laws in this world were lax enough for a civilian to at least conceal-carry. She would be fine, if it was the latter. But if it was the former¡ªthen without a license, a passport, or even an id, she had no way to prove her right to bear arms. ¡°I should probably not have it on me, then, for the time being¡­¡± She thought about leaving it in one of the nightstand drawers, but the looming possibility of theft made her reconsider. ¡°Never mind. Maybe not. What¡¯re the chances I¡¯ll get frisked by a policeman anyways?¡± Slim to none, unless she went places where she would get searched. Like a museum, a bank, a prison, or a train station. Suddenly, she remembered about the train ticket, but failed when she tried to recall where she had kept it. She almost had a heart-attack, but thankfully she found it, safe and sound in her wallet. With a sigh of relief she took it out, held it flush, and read it: ¡°Advanced booked, 1st class. Admission for one: Adult. Boarding time: o-three pm, platform o-seven, at King¡¯s Crossing, for the Aureate Express¡­¡± A fancy name for a train¡ªthe Aureate Express; and first-class at that¡ªwhoever the young lady was was well-off, or at least her parents were. It was regretful that she hadn¡¯t inquired about the train ticket when she had the chance. Now, King¡¯s Crossing would have to wait. The Great Wall was conspicuous enough to find. But something told her that she would not get back up there by today, even if she tried. ¡°Still, it should be my top priority. They might not help if I¡¯m a week late.¡± And she had to find her identification papers as well during that time, ideally, as she might need it when the time came. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°I should probably write this all down, so I don¡¯t forget.¡± As well as all her other plans and her goals. But where? She had a fountain-pen; but no paper. The newspaper won¡¯t do. It was cramped full of words and the occasional photograph. There was the handkerchief also¡ªa soft and delicate piece of lawn and lace¡ªbut nothing would make her deface it. ¡°The receptionist might have something for me. Let¡¯s go ask him.¡± There was no need to put on her coat or her vest; she would only be going downstairs, not outside. Her fantasy-esk boots almost reached her knees, yet they effortlessly slipped in when she put them on. The heel was slightly raised, but nothing that would hinder her if she wanted to skip, sprint, jump, or vault over a wall. ¡°Not that I plan on doing any acrobatics¡­¡± She did not forget to lock the doors. Pocketing the key, she made her way down the corridor, and down the stairs. Only her footsteps echoed throughout. Tap, tap, tap. The corridor, like last night, was empty, and still. Music no longer played from the phonograph in the foyer. When she got to the front-desk, the receptionist, to his surprise, was still there, wakeful and impassive as ever. ¡°Excuse me,¡± Satou asked. ¡°Would you have something to write on, like, paper?¡± Nothing, but the hotel log-book in front of him¡ªthe receptionist tore a page from the back of it. ¡°Ah, you didn¡¯t¡­ Thank you. And, what day is today?¡± She was told Tuesday. Not long after that, she was back up to the fifth floor, in her room, with a fountain-pen in hand, at the desk. At first she tried to write in kanji, but stopped after a few strokes. No, kanji looks too conspicuous¡­ She decided to switch to romaji instead. That way, if someone asks, she could say that it was just babble, something she did to practice her handwriting, pass the time by. She thought herself a genius for that. ¡°Short-term.¡± Then, on the other side of the page: ¡°Long-term.¡± - Inquire about Train Ticket. Get to King¡¯s Crossing. Time-Sensitive. Asap. - Find Identification Papers / Passport: Ask around. Look up Missing Person Reports, Newspapers, Agony Columns, etc. Out there in the world, there were bound to be people who knew her; that is, people who knew the previous owner of this body. Sooner or later she would meet them: if not in the coming weeks, then in a few months, or even years¡ªbut meet them she would in time. The prospect of a confrontation was daunting, but she could not run away from this or hide. Someone was bound to grow worried and start looking, inform the authorities. Then she would get found. ¡°No other way, but to go forward.¡± The only thing she could do, then, was to educate herself, about herself, before she was caught off-guard. This, of course, required time. Thankfully, lower-Ednin would provide her respite. A blessing in disguise, it turned out to be, falling down here. The chances of getting found here were low, unless she happened to be someone very famous and didn¡¯t know it. ¡°And what should I do, if I do get recognized?¡± Play Dumb, she wrote. Feign Dissociative Fugue. Do not put up an act, even if you meet your biological mother. She would only dig herself into a deeper hole. It should not be too hard to act like she did not know them. She literally didn¡¯t. In time, she would go and meet them. But when that happens, ¡°It¡¯ll be on her own terms.¡± She was hunkering here, for the time being. With the funds she had, she could live here at Edson Hotel for the next few months. But that would leave her with little surplus to enjoy herself, unless she finds a way to get the riyals exchanged. If she was to live as Jane Doe for some time, then it was not a bad idea, to try and take up a few jobs. Receptionist, was what first came to mind. But she did not know the first thing about book-keeping. ¡°How about a maid? Or a governess?¡± No. She¡¯d rather not. She was not good with kids, and she did not know how to do laundry. That foreign concept ended at throwing clothes into the washing machine. Dishes she could do, but that would roughen up her beautiful fingers. As for cooking: ¡°Hah. No one¡¯s hiring me for a cook.¡± She only knew how to make insta, and bread and omelet. ¡°I could do modelling, actually.¡± She blushed. Just the thought of it alone had made her blush. Still, it was one area of expertise she could ace. The gig was easy money, but a low footprint job was strongly advisable. ¡°How about a waitress?¡± She could do that. But would that even pay enough to be worth spending hours stuck at work? ¡°Ahh, what a pain in the ass¡­¡± How was menial labor out of her reach? In times like these, one could not help but wish they had an understanding of modern miracles; her socio-financial status could¡¯ve been as good as guaranteed. Hailed as an era-defining inventor, she could¡¯ve lived her life out in retirement, selling patents. She could¡¯ve done that, if the world were still stuck in the dark ages; saved lives, gained favors of Kings and Queens, or become a ruler herself were she shrewd enough. But in an industrialized society, she was no different from the common-stock. Her otherworldly knowledge were to be of little to no help. Source of Income, she wrote down; and moved on. - Test your Supernatural Abilities. Magic Competency. Am I special? Can I cast fireballs out of my hands? She did not expect much in this regard. - Research about History. Geography. Religions. Churches. Gods & Goddesses. One of the deities of this world could¡¯ve very well been the culprit behind her transmigration. If so, then she wanted to pray to Him, or Her, for some answers. ¡°Transmigration comes at a price.¡± Such was a common trope in isekai stories. She was no stranger to it. But she had to go about it furtively, as she didn¡¯t know how otherworlders were treated in this world. ¡°Speaking of which,¡± - Look for Evidence of fellow Otherworlders: Transmigrators, Reincarnator, Summoned, etc. Given the fact that Ednin conversed in english, and so much of the world had so far bore semblance to a bygone era she was familiar with, it seemed unlikely that she was the first one to have travelled here. Were she to look in history books, she was bound to find her senior, hidden in plain sight. ¡°Now, for my resolutions.¡± There were behaviors about herself that she wanted to forego, improve upon. - Take Care of Yourself: Brush, Diet, Exercise, etc. And, an Absolute Ban on Onanism. If she had erotic desires, then she would relieve herself by means of a significant other; not through prostitution, not one night stands, and definitely not by herself. ¡°I¡¯ve masturbated enough, for one lifetime¡­¡± There was no excuse to continue such behavior when she had such looks. ¡°Get laid,¡± she thought out loud, but only meant it in humor. She wasn¡¯t going to write that down. To embarrassing. Instead, with a smile she wrote under a new heading: ¡®Bucket List¡¯: ¡°Fall in love.¡± ¡°What else¡­ Nothing else¡­ For now¡­¡± It was good enough. The day had just started, and yet she felt as though she had gotten so much done. Inspiration had flowed in rapids, and in a stream of consciousness she had filled up an entire page. Work had her invigorated. She did not stumble over ¡®what to do¡¯, like yesterday, and hours had passed by in mere seconds. By the end of this chapter, she was left with a page cleanly-torn in half filled with jargon only she could understand, and the time on the clock at a quarter past six. ¡°Time to go outside.¡± 5.1 Lower Ednin While inspiration was still fresh in her mind, she reread her notes one last time to make sure that the future her would be able to understand what she had wrote. She stumbled on a line. What did she mean by that, here? Clarifications appended on the side, she folded the note and stashed it in her back-pocket. She stood up, yawned, and stretched herself. Her body felt somewhat sore, but in a good way. Nothing a little stroll outside couldn¡¯t fix. She put on her vest; then her coat. Look, how it all narrowed at her hips and her shoulders. Her tight-fit trousers (akin to breeches) she had slept in especially accentuated the contours of her thighs. What an hourglass figure she had! Again, she reminded herself that these were her only pairs; that she had to be extra-careful to not get them soiled. If not today, then by tomorrow, she had to go buy some spares. And a valise, to carry it and all the things I¡¯ll need to buy¡­ She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her tousled black hair was slightly disheveled, and covered her entire forehead. She tried to fix it, but nothing she did seem to get it back to how it was yesterday. Five minutes of fooling around, she decided to leave it as it was, before she made it worse. She tried to stand casually, but found how she let her hands hang all wrong. Then, her leg. This time, she recognized her symptoms immediately. ¡°Don''t overthink it, darling.¡± Wow. Did she really just say that? She had to close her eyes to drive out the sheer embarrassment; but why such backlash? There was nothing to be bashful about saying something risqu¨¦. Did she want to stay aloof and reserved forever? In all the years she had spent playing Project Elyse, how did she imagine Enza to be like, as a person? Vivacious. Charismatic. Witty. Morally-vague and larger than life¡­ She took a long hard look at herself in the mirror, and tried to bring her to life. She tried not to break eye-contact. It was hard. Then, leaning her weight on one leg, she bent forward, and sent a flying kiss towards herself. She blushed. ¡°Aiyah!~¡± ¡ªFled. ¡°How do girls do this without cringing!!!¡± This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Her moans were muffled by the pillow she had buried her face in. One had to commit to a gesture, with confidence, to succeed. But even a failed gesture had its own sort of charm, if not more, if done with a pretty face. It took time, but once she recovered, she proceeded to tidy her bed till not one crease remained. Then she clipped the razorblade back in her cuffs, looked at herself one last time, and then with her satchel up on her shoulder, headed outside. Any warmth there was disappeared the moment she stepped out of Edson Hotel. The morning was cold, but pleasant. An engine spluttered to a start, somewhere, or tried to. The unmistakable hum of airships fell over the otherwise quiet street just waking up, but she did not see one flying frigate when she looked up at the morning sky; only enormous orange-hued clouds. Perhaps they were there inside or above, hidden from view. Lower-Ednin did not look as depressing in daytime as it had under the harsh and pale moonlight. The twists and turns she thought could¡¯ve refuged a ruffian did not look so daunting now. The unrepetitive warren was by no means ugly, but it had a dilapidated look to it, which, in moderation, enriches the feel of a city rather than mars it. None of the buildings looked the same, but differed slightly from each other in their details. Homes co-existed with shops, all the way to the Great Wall, two hundred meters tall, where people, ants from such distance, she could see, were admiring the sun crest over the city. Not far from the old crossroads, she came across the ruins of what must¡¯ve once been a small brewery. A third of it still stood, somehow, without floors. A break through its crumbled walls revealed at the other side an arched gateway, which led into a market plaza. Workshops, smithies, et.al.¡ªan apothecary, this world¡¯s drugstore and pharmacy¡ªas well as flower shops, eatery, and so much more¡ªmost of them were closed. ¡®Open, 9 am to 5 pm¡¯ the signs read. Furtively taking a peek through one of the display windows, she saw figures walking about inside it¡ªpeople getting ready, drinking tea. A truck stopped, not far from where she stood, as she failed to figure out how the drinking fountains worked. Workmen got out, began to unload wooden crates to the side of the road. Satou observed them by the sideline, when she saw a young girl in uniform with a clipboard under her arm stride up to the lapidarist¡¯s workshop, and sternly knock on the door. Tapping her foot, she made no attempts to hide her impatience. What caught Satou¡¯s eyes though were her ears, which were a little long for a human, peeking out under a vintage postman cap. ¡°An elf.¡± Or half-elf. They exist in this world? Diversity was a fortuitous sign. Not only did it signify that Ednin was at least tolerant towards its non-human subjects, but the evidence also entertained the possibility of other races, out there, in the world: dwarfs, beastmen, and who knew what else! Perhaps for the first time in her life, she found herself long for education. She knew where to look for answers, too. If memory serves her right: then there was a bookstore, not far from here, she had just passed not too long ago.