"So I guess I should call Aphrodite then, huh?" Brock said to himself numbly, forehead pressed against the transparent window of the elevator ant. It descended through the advertising layer and he stared out at the endless city below. "Make sure my mind's okay?"
The black tablet hovering sedately near his ear didn't respond, and Brock turned slightly to glare at it.
"Oh, too good to talk now, are you?"
The floating magiphone continued not responding.
"...asshole. Call Aphrodite, uhhh, Rin... whatever. You know what I mean."
"Contacting Councilor Softheart," it responded with a happy chirp. Pleasant piano music softly rang out for several seconds, then a familiar woman's voice answered.
"What's up, Brock?"
"...Director wants you to check my brain. Make sure no one messed with it today."
"Sheesh, no foreplay or anything, just right to the chase. You sound terrible, by the way."
"It was a long day. Again."
"Bummer. I'm a little busy right now, but I can meet you in an hour. Does that work?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever. Where?"
"Well, we do live across the hall from each other. Why don't you head back to your place and I'll knock on your door when I get back? We can go get coffee or something."
"...they have coffee here?"
"Sure do. Really good stuff, the kind that'll-"
"I hate coffee."
"...fine, you can have a glass of warm milk or something. I'll see you in an hour."
Aphrodite's voice abruptly cut off, and Brock resumed his silent contemplation of the approaching city.
That's... the Arena over there. I recognize that crystal roof. And that's... a Miyazaki line over there. Is that an Elvish Joe's?
The elevator ant descended back into a root opening and deposited Brock at street level. He stepped out into the omnipresent chaos, and much to his surprise, was not immediately lost.
Oh, hey. That's that one bench. Let's see, that means I should go this way...
Brock drifted through the crowds, retracing the route Mikael had led him on last night, half on memory, half on a gut feeling that his feet knew where to go. Sure enough, five minutes later, he spotted the unmistakable sign of the Unsavory Unicorn gouting out its eternal flame in the late afternoon haze. A horse-headed man wearing a pair of leather chaps over a neon green thong was leaning against the wall next to the swinging saloon doors. He nodded as Brock passed by, and Brock absently nodded back.
Okay, so then we went down this street...
Brock paused suspiciously next to an alleyway, peeking his head around the corner, but no lurking attacktrucks were visible, and he crossed without incident.
Now it was... up the steps... and through the park...
Multiple figures were running around the open green spaces between the trees, enjoying some sort of game involving a floating disc and several magical spells, and Brock stared at them wistfully as he wandered by.
That looks like fun. I wonder what the rules are.
One of the figures dodged through a series of lightning bolts and blasted the disc triumphantly with a fireball, sending half the group erupting into cheers, the other half gazing dejectedly at the ground or trading recriminations with each other. Brock found himself sneaking looks back even as he exited the line of shrubbery bordering the park.
...I probably wouldn't be able to keep up with them anyways.
He ambled vacantly into an immediately recognizable tree-lined avenue filled with throngs of people, many sporting high collars or other means of hiding their necks, countless vehicles cruising down the paved road in slow weaves.
Made it. Good ol' Sekkie District.
Brock crossed the street, making sure to look both ways several times in case the mystery truck was still lurking somewhere nearby, but he continued to avoid inexplicable vehicular aggression. Raucous laughter drifted out in the distance from the High Score, but he was far enough away that he didn't feel the press of unseen eyes even as another body came tumbling out the front doors.
Ugh, that place still looks like it sucks... is George going to poison my food if I don't go see him there?Maybe I should go say hi real quick later tonight.
He passed beneath the broad leafy branches of a magnificent tree, and something small and hard beaned him in the side of the head, causing a flash of discomfort that vanished as soon as he realized it was there. Brock raised a hand in greeting.
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"Heya, Seymour."
The squirrel-dog-raccoon thing chittered, then whipped another nut at him, but Brock was already walking into the apartment complex entrance, biosig panel returning to its usual opaque whiteness as he took his hand off. The nut bounced off the rapidly-closing door, and Seymour hissed in disappointment, shaking a furry fist before disappearing into the tree's upper branches.
Here I am. Home at last.
"H'excuse me," an imperious voice demanded, and Brock shambled to a halt in the firefly-lit foyer. A tiny figure in a ruffled red and gold ballgown was hovering in front of him at eye level, blurring wings giving off tiny sparks of rainbow light. Shoulder length raven-black hair framed a high-cheeked nut-brown face. "H'I do not believe h'we've been h'introduced."
Is that a pixie?
"...uhhh, I'm Brock?"
"H'introductions are not a question, boy," the figure snapped, glaring at him with viridian eyes, her fists propped on her hips.
"Uhhh, yeah, right, sorry. I'm Brock. Brock Manly."
Brock hesitantly held out his hand, and the pixie sniffed haughtily.
"A peasant's greeting. Typical." She flourished her dress to the side in an elegant curtsy. "H'I h'am Lady Gweniven Thordacia Razoralia the Fifth, and h'you may address me as 'Lady Razoralia.' If you do not, h'I will chop off your head."
The pixie produced a six foot long sword from somewhere, absurdly dwarfing her three-inch tall body, and Brock blinked several times.
How... is she even holding that?
"Seems a little aggressive," he said eventually. "Lady Razoralia."
The uptight pixie sniffed again.
"Manners separate us from madness. Remember that, as you continue your attendance h'within my demesne."
She pointed the gigantic sword at him for emphasis, then made it disappear with a spinning flourish. Brock shrugged.
"Sounds good, Lady Razoralia. So, are you, uhhh, like, the manager here?"
Lady Razoralia drew back slightly, an affronted look sweeping across her face.
"As if h'I was some sort of common merchant? Impudence! I h'will have you know that these ancestral lands have belonged to my family for h'eighty-seven generations! H'I suffer your presence solely due to binding treaties made h'with the pre-eminent lords of this realm!"
Brock rubbed his eyes. The extraneous 'h's were really starting to grate on his nerves.
"What, an apartment complex with attached barbershop and swordstore?"
"This is our family manor," Lady Razoralia hissed, a galaxy of continent-length blades compressed into two inches of reality suddenly circling her hovering form, "and you would do well to respect it."
Brock stared at the eye-wrenching halo of stabby death and decided discretion was the better part of valor, regardless of his own theoretically immortal status.
"...sorry. I'm sorry. It's been a long day. Again." He let loose an involuntary groan. "And I'm not done yet. I'd just like to sit down for a bit, if it's all the same to you, Lady Razoralia, and I was hoping I could do that in my room."
The floating pixie regarded him critically for a moment, then dismissed the ring of violence with a muted snap of her fingers.
"Nonsense. H'You will accompany me for tea."
"...h'wut?"
"You clearly need a soothing tisane. No," she gestured, as Brock's jaw began to drop, "I h'will not take no for an answer. Come, to my parlor."
Befuddled, all Brock could do was follow the hovering figure across the foyer into what looked like, for all intents and purposes, a broom closet tucked behind the circular stairs leading upwards.
"Behold," Lady Razoralia proclaimed grandly, slamming the maintenance door open in front of her, "the Greeting Chamber! You are the first mortal in five generations," she confided as Brock pushed aside a mop to take a seat on one of several moldering footstools that looked like they'd been forgotten forever, "to be offered such a privilege."
"Uhhh, charmed, I'm sure," Brock managed, hunching in on himself to keep from knocking over the shelves of decrepit cleaning supplies. "It's definitely a-"
He paused for a second, taking in Lady Razoralia's pinched expression, the teetering cleaning supplies, the general malaise of the environment, and his own looming bulk.
"-intimate setting. What kind of tea are we enjoying?" he finished hesitantly.
"H'Only the finest of tinctures," Lady Razoralia replied imperiously, tilting what looked exactly like a bottle of drain-cleaning solution into a plastic bucket. After the last glug blorped its way into the container, she uncapped a small brown bottle covered in warning labels, tipping it in as well, then followed that up with two more bottles plastered with skull and crossbone icons. Noxious bubbles seethed upwards, their effluence stinging Brock's nostrils. "A tea-service fit for those who would shake the world."
Brock gawked at the horrible concoction busily dissolving the sides of the bright orange plastic bucket. The eructations within were only growing more violent by the second, globules of acidic fluid spraying every which way, yet somehow still contained within the industrial container. A plume of purple haze drifted up lazily, lightning crackles of ozone interactions sparking along its edges.
"Ahhh," Lady Razoralia said dreamily, swooping through the inimical cloud, seemingly impervious to the flashing bolts of electricity, "the bouquet is sublime, as h'expected." She dove down, a thimble-sized mug in her hand skimming the top part of the roiling chemical reaction. "Here," she presented the tiny cup to Brock, "you are my guest. H'I present you the first taste."
Brock delicately pinched the minuscule container between his thumb and index finger and regarded it dubiously, various parts of his mind warring with itself.
It's like, barely a milligram. What's the worst that could happen if I drank it? Even if it's poison, I won't die, right?
...I'll go blind if drink that. It's fucking boiling at room temperature, and it smells like an illegal chemical plant humped a nuclear meltdown.
...wait, no, with my powers I probably can't go blind, but what if it messes with my mind?
...I can't upset my landlord, where am I going to stay if she kicks me out? What will the Director say?
...I'm so goddamn tired of all this. All of these fucking games I don't understand.
Brock upended the thimblecup into his mouth. Trying not to think about what he was doing, he swallowed the tiny droplet. An unfamiliar buzzing sensation spread throughout his body.
...whut. That is the best thing I've ever had to drink! Can I have seconds?
Lady Razoralia regarded him inscrutably over the top of her own tiny cup.
"H'you're supposed to savor it, peasant," she remarked irritably, taking a genteel nip from her own miniature teacup, "but h'I suppose allowances must be made for the uncultured." A bigger, human-sized mug twice her size materialized in her hand, and she scooped up a significantly larger portion from the violent chemical reaction still stabilizing in the plastic bucket between them before offering it up to Brock.
This time, Brock blew air on the concoction in what he thought was an appropriate manner before greedily taking a sip.
It tastes like hot chocolate on a rainy weekend. It tastes like fresh lemonade at noon in summer. It tastes like happiness distilled. What the fuck?
Lady Razoralia raised her eyebrows as he gulped down the second, larger portion, steam still wafting from her undersized cup.
"Does the taste displease h'you?"
"...hngrghkk. No, no, it's good. Real good. Amazing, actually. Thank you, Lady Razoralia."
"H'excellent. A hostess does h'have her duties. Now, h'why don't you tell me h'what's troubling you?"
Brock held out his mug for another serving of objectively delicious tea, and opened his heart for the second time that day.