“You alright, hon? Not big on bacon?”

Sanda’s concerned expression drew Atlas’ attention away from the foreboding message. He gave a weak smile. “Sorry, I’m fine.”

“Mhm.” Sanda looked unconvinced. “You sure? I can always grab something else real quick.”

“It’s great, honestly. I just had a… bad feeling.” He grabbed the fork from his tray absent-mindedly.

TOOL LOGGED

[Fancy Fork]

Damnit.

“Alright. So… want to talk about it?” Sanda took a hearty mouthful herself.

Atlas tilted his head thoughtfully as he tried to navigate his tool menu under the table.

What did the message even mean? Remaining until what? Was he here on some kind of time limit? Was his mothership en route? Defeat the Demon King on schedule? Or was it personal? He was hardly what he could call “natural”. Did his batteries need charging? Was he going to… die? He didn’t know anything about anything.

“Could you… tell me about the city?”

“Oh?” Sanda paused, looking up at him through her lashes as she spoke. “Could have sworn that you’d be able to answer that question better than me.”

“I’ve never actually been to the city. I’m from… the west?” Atlas shifted uncomfortably. For all he knew the country to the west was some political enemy, but he gambled that it would be more reasonable than any of the various flavours of “alien body snatcher” that were his current best guess as to his identity.

Sanda’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What? West?”

He gambled wrong. How was he going to fix this?

“Oh, west of the city?” Her face went pale. “Moira? Oh my, I didn’t think anyone made it out of there in one piece.”

He’d lucked out. Atlas shrugged noncommittally.

“Well that sure does explain a lot, especially the name. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Wait, explained what? And what was wrong with his name? He opened his mouth to ask but, on consideration, filled it with bacon instead as Sanda started talking about the city, nodding politely and asking her questions between mouthfuls.

Apparently the city was the capital of the region, and the main population centre with “almost a thousand people” living there, a fact Sanda mentioned as though sharing some secret of monumental import. The lord, Prometheus, was rarely seen by the public, but his grand palace at the centre of town apparently released technological wonders to the public on a regular basis. When Atlas asked about them, his mouth full, she talked animatedly about mechanical workers that never tired, and steel chests that kept food fresh for months at a time. Atlas listened intently to all of it, taking advantage of her enthusiasm to furtively log and recover his mug from the tray while she lamented that more of the “gadgets” didn’t end up south of the river thanks to the distance.

The clock had struck seven by the time she’d finished, and she finally pushed out her chair as a few bearded men, probably farmers, given their clothes, walked into the hall.

“Well I’ve got to get back to work. Be sure to stop by the grocer’s before you leave town. Old Anders should have what you need for your trip… Oh! And the boss said to tell you if she caught you down on the beach again she’ll give you a whupping.” She winked.

“Thank you for everything, Miss Sanda. And please thank Mrs Damastes for me.” Atlas made to stand from his own chair.

Sanda smiled. “You just take care of yourself, handsome. I think the boss has taken something of a shine to you. Maybe you’ll come back and visit us sometime?”

She walked off with a wave. Atlas jettisoned his fork and laid it carefully on the tray before heading for the door.

Mrs Damastes liked him? Atlas couldn’t remember her wearing anything but a frown yesterday, but she was probably the one that had given him the boots, not to mention everything else. Apparently she was the gruff type with a heart of gold? The thought made him weirdly happy for some reason.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The village was even livelier when he walked out of the inn. Women sat working outside their homes or bustled to and fro on errands, while men walked through town on their way elsewhere, a variety of tools on their backs. Children roamed freely, laughing and playing, more than a few with pet otters in their trailing behind them. Everyone seemed to radiate infectious cheer as they greeted one another and went about their day.

And they all watched Atlas.

Well, he could think of plenty of reasons why. From what he’d managed to determine from his appearance in the absence of a mirror he wasn’t just pale, he was monochromatic. Nobody seemed particularly hostile though, more… wary? Curious?

Understanding why didn’t mean knowing how he was supposed to react to the attention though, so he was thankful when he reached the grocers, its sign, a winged staff entwined by two serpents, swinging in the cool ocean breeze.

“Hello?” Atlas poked his head in the doorway. “Are you open?”

“Door’s unlocked, isn’t it?” An elderly man with a long beard gazed coolly over a counter, framed by a set of golden scales and what appeared to be a hand cranked shopping till.

“Well what can I do for you, boy?” The man arched a grey eyebrow at Atlas.

Atlas tapped a finger to his lips. What did he need? More importantly, what did they have? There wasn’t a pricelist, and the only goods that seemed to be here in the front of the shop were mainly food.

“I need a whetstone, waterskin, travel cloak, cooking pot, a travel grill, tent, hatchet, two pounds of hardtack, a map and… a… tinderbox. Do you sell clocks?”

“Forty-two drakes and five.” The man didn’t move. “And no, I don’t.”

Atlas nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected to get everything, but according to his bracers he had exactly one drake. He held it up between finger and thumb, the merchant’s eyes followed it the whole way. “Alright. What can I get for this? Anything broken is fine.”

The man grunted and pushed himself up, walking into the room behind him with clicking knees. Atlas peered around the room while he waited. Black spheres of various shapes and sizes sat in unlabelled jars behind the counter alongside an assortment of cured meats and pickles. One box overflowed with an assortment of straps and string - probably laces, another with strangely shaped wooden sticks - tool handles maybe? Another was full of small metal blocks, probably for the scale.

Strange how there weren’t any fish.

The door to the back opened, the merchant laid a distressingly light threadbare sack onto the counter and slumped heavily back into his seat letting it fall open on the counter.

“I gave you a deal on the tinderbox, they’ve fallen out of favour since the city came out with those spark sticks last season. Gave you a few pastries that have started to turn and all.”

A rock, probably a whetstone - he’d never actually seen one, it was just ‘the done thing to own’, a badly cracked axe with a broken handle, a small waterskin with a hole in the bottom, a few hard biscuits and a tinderbox - again, he assumed - as well as the aforementioned pastries.

More than he’d expected. Atlas nodded. “Thanks a lot.” He held out the coin. “Can I keep the sack?”

The merchant grunted and took the coin. “May as well.” He turned to the shopping till, squinting at the buttons as he laboriously pressed at numbers, turning the crank between each before finally opening the drawer with a loud ring and dropping the coin inside.

Atlas scooped the bag closed and spun away from the counter, heading out of the shop as the sack vanished from his hand.

MATERIALS LOGGED

TOOLS LOGGED

EQUIPMENT LOGGED

“Boy!”

Atlas froze halfway to the door. Had he been seen? Was witchcraft a thing here?

“There’s a bad storm coming tonight. Be careful on the road.”

Atlas smiled over his shoulder. “Thank you very much.”

He stepped out of the store and ducked around the corner.

He had some coding to do.