Another nice day in 95086. The wind whistles through the trees and grass, rustling the petals of the wildflowers like I’d tousle my brother’s hair. The sky is blue, same as ever, and the mountain range still stands, thankfully. It’s temperate today, not as warm but not completely cold either. No clouds in the sky — the perfect weather for a picnic. Nothing seems off right now, and I’m happy for that.

The only problem is how far out I am from the town. Hah, I guess the coordinates were calibrated the same as last time; I did use Vita’s gun to get here — and, in a stroke of genius, I didn’t adjust the coordinates at all. Well, a quick walk will save me from having to hit the gym after work today. Should be easy breezy.

I trudge through the fresh grass and onward to the village. There’s a lot of smoke coming out of their chimneys today. Wonder why. Furnaces, or factories, or what… what do they make here other than art?

Halfway there, I’m startled by a rustling in the grass. 

I look in the direction of the noise to see a gelatinous, blobby thing; shaped like a fallen teardrop and cool blue like a sports drink. It reminds me of a child’s toy — I think one of my cousins was playing with something this consistency at the last family reunion we had together.

Slowly but surely, the blob’s getting closer. A chill runs the length of my spine. I have a really bad feeling about this. 

“Hey there, bud,” I say, knowing full well it probably won’t understand me. 

No response back. I mean, it doesn’t even have organs — none that I can see, despite its near-total translucence. I guess it might be magical or something, but it’s definitely not sentient. Oh, well, at least I won’t have to file any new paperwork for sophont species, which is a win in my book.

Self-defense, though… I reach for the dagger in my pack, keeping my distance from the blob creature, slowly stepping backwards every time it gets closer.

Shit, where’d I put that knife?

I can’t feel it anywhere, not even in the zipper compartments or the flap pockets… so I have to actively rummage through my bag to see if I actually brought it. Food rations, reusable water bottle, communicators… ¾ charged warp gun…

I take the gun out, feeling the weight in my hands. Would it make for a good weapon, I wonder? I’d rather not kill anything with it, but if worst comes to worst…

The blob barrels into my chest; knocking me backwards onto the grassy plain beneath. Shit! I dropped the gun! I reach in the direction of my bag, fumbling for the knife, or the gun, or anything I can use to beat this thing back — the blob is surprisingly heavy, and it’s pushing all the air out of my lungs like a cat sitting on its owner. 

I try to sit up, but — shit, it’s on my face, ah, I can’t breathe — it’s like I’m drowning, drowning in a pool of heavy, viscous water, like I’m covered in the same food residue of an unwashed dish in a dirty sink — disgusting, slimy, suffocating. My mind’s going blank — is this the end…

Something cuts through the blob, splitting it cleanly in half. Jelly-like innards flow out of a transparent casing, spilling around my face and into the grass.

Sweet relief! The pressure is gone, and I can finally breathe again. I gulp down as much air as humanly possible. Oxygen flows down my trachea and into my lungs, diffusing through my alveoli and into my bloodstream…

“Sir Clark!” Lysander calls out, towering over me on horseback, a gleaming broadsword in his hand. “What are you doing here? It isn’t safe!” 

“Uh…” I think of something nice and normal to say, but my mind wanders over to what happened to the blob — I glance to either side of me, but there’s no more jelly left, only a dark blue sphere.

Lysander must’ve noticed me staring at that funny orb. “That’s a slime core,” he says, prodding it with the tip of his sword. “It’s a concentrated ball of mana that maintains a slime's structure in life; it has many uses in medicine and the study of magic…” 

So that’s what the blob thing was. If the core is like a slime’s nucleus, then that casing is probably some kind of membrane, I guess.

Lysander panics. “No, wait, I mustn’t keep you from safety!” He gives me his hand to help me up. “Quickly, get on!”

In his surprisingly sturdy hands I find myself placed onto the horse’s saddle. He even zips up my rucksack and makes sure I’ve got everything, how nice.

After sheathing his sword, Lysander mounts the steed and takes his place in front of me, gripping the reins firmly. 

“Hold on!”

I shut my eyes tight and brace myself against the wind. It’s a good thing I listen to him, because the horse goes fast as hell — rivaling the top speeds of one of the hoverbikes back home. I had no idea horses could be this fast. I don’t know much about horses. 

After a while, the horse finally slows down. I smell something burning, so I open my eyes to see what it is.

Turns out it’s everything. That smoke I saw earlier? It was coming from all of the buildings.

“Those bastards have caused a conflagration!”

We’re back in the town square; instead of sunlight and blue sky, it’s smoke and fire as far as I can see. There are lots of people running around, fleeing from the smoldering buildings or carrying buckets of water. Is there a well somewhere around here? I hear screams, cries, howls — some of them don’t sound human. 

Lysander dismounts from the horse. I try to follow him, but he blocks my way.

“Stay put, Sir Clark.” Lysander unsheathes his sword. “This… is my responsibility.”

Like a good dog, I sit and wait for him to finish his work. The horse doesn’t seem to mind me being there; it stopped moving as soon as Lysander dismounted. Aren’t you supposed to tie horses to poles or something to stop them running away?

Whatever. I watch through the chaos as Lysander draws in a throng of strange beings — they look like stock-standard tabletop game monsters, but there’s something different about seeing them in the flesh. Their presence is oppressive; just looking at them makes me want to run far away and never come back. I’m regretting even coming back, but I’m sure Lysander can handle them just fine…

Suddenly, the blade of Lysander’s sword is set alight — burning brightly with a blazing flame. He wields the hefty weapon like it’s weightless; swinging it in a flashy arc, slicing through the torsos of the assembled monsters like they’re sticks of melting butter. In an instant, he clears out the commotion, reducing the congregation to dust.

Holy shit! I rub my eyes. What the hell was that?! Did he pour oil on his sword or something? How the hell did he—

Lysander returns to me at last, panting heavily from the exertion. His hair is disheveled, crowned by a bird’s nest of unruly strands. His face is contorted into a dismayed, turned-down expression. 

“I must apologize for my people, Sir Clark,” he trails off, sheathing his sword in deep thought, “they are chiefly artisans. No matter how much I encourage them to take up arms and fend for themselves, to prepare for when I am gone… they merely rely on my presence even more… and this, this is what happens when I leave them.” 

Although I don’t know the full extent of the damage, it looks pretty bad to me. “You’ll have to rebuild, won’t you?”

“Yes, we will. As we have done every time this has happened. If Damali, no…” He shakes his head. “If Saintess Magdalene was here…” 

Lysander puts a hand to his forehead. A choking noise comes from his throat — the sound of stifling a sob. He reminds me of a champagne bottle about to burst, and I imagine his tears as sparkling foam running down his pallid cheeks. I can’t bear the thought of it.

“No, no!” Lysander cries, his hand over his eyes. “I can’t dwell on the past any longer… I can’t allow my fellow townsmen to keep living like this! I have to…”

“You have to do something, right?”

Taking his hand off his face, Lysander looks at me as if I’ve just kicked his cat like a soccer ball. “Yes, but what…?”

“Don’t worry, Lysander. You’re already doing all you can.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “You asked for help — and that’s already a lot more than most people do.”

“But…”

“Once the merger goes through, your people won’t have to live this way. They’ll be safe. They’ll be free from those monsters, and they won’t need to suffer or fight anymore.”

“I…”

“Here, so we can stay in touch.” I give him a standard-issue communicator device. “If you’re ever in trouble, just call me and I’ll come by with backup.”

Lysander bows slightly; a gesture of thanks. In truth, I should be thanking him instead. In a matter of moments, we’re separated by a throng of people — his townspeople, the ones who are rightfully thanking him. He’s surrounded by all his loved ones, though, and I’d rather not get in the way of their gratitude.

Leon was right. I’m just a pencil-and-paper pusher — I shouldn’t have gone here, not for whatever selfish reason I had in mind, not without being able to protect myself. Lysander’s the one they really respect — who am I to intrude on their reality and take his attention away from the people he should be caring for? I’ve wasted everyone’s time just by being here.

I guess I could at least try to gather some info about this place. I’ll make some small talk with this guy on the edge of the crowd — the one with a slightly charred and lightly floured apron tied around his waist.  

“So, uh,” I blurt out. Uh, my question… I’ll ask for the name of the place. 95086 is a mouthful. It’s the number assigned to the whole world — it’s weird to keep referring to just the town like that… “I’m new here… what is this place called?” 

He seems pretty happy to tell me, a big grin on his face. “Our here town is Lothariton! It was always named that, but now that our Guil is the Hero, it’s an even better name to have.” He beams with pride. “After all, we’ve got the honor of being the very first Lothariton — all the others are named after him! Well, there’s also Guilletons and Lysantons, but those don’t have the same ring to them.” 

Right, Lysander’s surname is “de Lothaire” — makes sense that he’d get that name from his birthplace. 

But, then… who’s that statue in the town square supposed to be? For that matter, all this art — who is it all for?

The golden statue, the man riding the horse. I take a moment to admire its form. Long hair flowing in the wind and a sword held high. Irises carved away. A confident, assertive horseback pose.

I wouldn’t call myself an art critic, but I have to say the sculpture’s really well done. It’s life-like, yes, and all the details on the armor are super clear. The facial features are also pretty realistic. It’s almost like they had a reference while they were working, something like a live model…

It has to be Lysander. Here I was, thinking it was his dad or something — after all, this statue looks too old to be him. I guess they wanted to make him look cooler? They didn’t need to, though. He’s already as cool as can be.

Now that I think about it, all of the art here is about him in some way. I see him on the mosaics, the paintings, the carvings… It’d be a shame if their hero was some ugly bastard, because all this art-making skill would’ve gone to waste. Yeah, it’s good their hero looks as pretty as Lysander does, because—

“What are you looking at, Sir Clark?”

I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear Lysander right over my shoulder. “Nothing, nothing.”