(Dylan)

Shops lined the entire street, and it made sense to Dylan why they called it Market Street—he assumed it was because it led to Merchants’ Circle. His eyes roamed from storefront to storefront, taking in all the interesting clothes and strange items whose function he could only guess at. Each displayed a sign with its name and specialty, written in an abstract typeface that made it impossible to distinguish individual letters, yet he understood them anyway.

“Magical signs,” Dylan whispered. Technically, it wasn’t reading; his eyes saw the letters, but before his brain could process them, they transformed into words he understood. The experience sent a tingle through his brain. He smiled, still amused by the magically translated words.

Each shop specialized in something, hinted at by its name. Grel’ka’s Hidden Cloaks & Daggers, a small, single-story building, was overshadowed by larger shops on either side. The Fleet Feet & Boots Boutique had a large pane window, filled with footwear of every shape and size. The Chromatic Crypt: Dyeing to Meet You and Your Needs, got a chuckle out of him.

‘Puns, my only weakness. That and those wretched terror tubes,’ he thought. Puns were a guilty pleasure.

A simple, nondescript sign hung over a closed door that read Fred’s. It was the first door he’d seen made of actual wood—a simple red door. The others had been metal-framed, with large, inviting, full-length windows. The last sign he read was for Big, Tall, & Small. Dylan thought that would’ve been the perfect name for Charles’s shop.

Fred’s shop was the only one that didn’t hint at what was inside. Dylan wasn’t sure if it was marketing genius or plain old laziness. Either way, he was curious about what lay behind that door. Eventually, he stopped reading the signs; the most interesting names were behind him now.

Without the distractions of conversation, accidental flirting, or ASMR signs, Dylan finally noticed what was off—something even more disorienting than being on another world. The streets weren’t just clean; they were immaculate.

‘Where’s all the trash?’ Dylan wondered. Turning, he walked backward, scanning the street. No trash bins in sight. Charles gave him that, “what are you doing?” look again. Dylan ignored it, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the road.

Even the cobblestone road was free of litter. At the very least, Dylan expected some rubbish tucked against the curb, but there was none. The lack of trash was more unbelievable than the existence of magic. He crouched low, scrutinizing the ground more closely. Charles followed him into the street, nearly running him over when he stopped abruptly.

“What are you doing?” Charles asked.

“I can’t find a cigarette butt,” Dylan muttered, still inspecting the ground.

“Did you drop one? What do they look like?” Charles leaned over, peering at the ground. He joined Dylan’s quest for the cigarette butt.

Dylan shook his head. “No, I don’t smoke, but back on Earth, you can’t take five steps without seeing one.”

“What does the cigarette butt do?” Charles asked, crouching down in the street beside Dylan to get a better view.

“It doesn’t do anything. It’s just trash. People smoke ‘em, then flick ‘em away when they’re done.” Dylan mimicked the motion.

“I don’t think we have any cigarette butts.” Charles stood up, giving up on the search.

“Me neither, but you don’t have any trash on the ground.” Dylan gestured up and down the street. “Who’s picking it all up?”

“I don’t understand.” Charles put a hand on his hip, precariously close to the dagger. “What do you mean by trash?”

‘How do I explain trash?’ Dylan thought, pausing for a moment. He stood up with Charles and asked, “After you eat chips, what do you do with the wrapper?”

“Fat-soaked, over-cooked vegetables?” Charles asked.

“It’s a snack.”

“You snack on low-nutrient, high-fat foods?” Charles asked, raising an eyebrow. “That explains your girth.”

Dylan closed his eyes, took a breath, and tried to ignore the unflattering remark.

“Let’s try that again,” Dylan said, stepping over the curb and back onto the sidewalk. “After you’re done eating, what do you do with the packaging?”

“Sanitize the container,” Charles said, following Dylan out of the road.

‘Ah,’ Dylan thought. He saw where Charles was getting stuck and clarified, “But it’s not a container, it’s a disposable plastic bag.” Then he asked again, “What do you do with the bag?”

“Is this a riddle?” Charles asked, his tone suggesting he enjoyed them. He repeated the same tactic as before: standing far too close to Dylan, positioning himself on the opposite side of where he wanted Dylan to go.

‘He’s doing that on purpose!’ Dylan thought. He didn’t appreciate being manipulated, but his choices were: keep moving or set boundaries with the triple sword-wielding, bow-toting, phoenix-summoning, tea-pouring elf who’d killed him three times already. He capitulated and started walking.

“No,” Dylan said, shaking his head, “it’s not a riddle. What do you do with your snack bags?”

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“While I’m fond of puzzles, riddles, and theoretical discussions, you’re being disingenuous. This is obviously a trick question,” Charles said, continuing to walk right behind him.

Dylan spun around, still keeping pace. “Nope, I swear, it’s not a trick question.” He pursed his lips, searching for a more relatable example. “What if you drink a potion? What do you do with the bottle?” A streetlight narrowly missed his elbow as he passed by.

“Sanitize it and give it back to an alchemist for a discount.” Charles reached out and guided him away from the oncoming poles.

“Recycling,” Dylan nodded, sighing, “yeah, we’ve got that too.” Placing a finger on his lips to think, his eyes widened with his next idea. It was foolproof. He pointed at Charles. “Flak!” The enthusiasm he put into that word even surprised Charles. “What happens to the paper? You can’t sanitize it.” Dylan smirked. ‘I’ve got him now.’

Without hesitation, Charles said, “Kindling.”

Dylan cringed, remembering Charles feeding the campfire.

‘Thwarted again…’ Dylan thought. ‘Why is trash so hard to explain?’ The rugged elf dodged every logical argument he threw at him, but Dylan would keep trying—eventually, something would hit.

Charles intervened again, keeping Dylan from hitting the pole.

Dylan pointed to his feet and asked, “Alright, how about boots? What happens after you wear them out and can’t use them anymore?”

“You know I craft and mend clothing, right?” Charles asked, concern growing on his face. “Do you remember when I resized your boots?” He squinted, looking closely at the lumps and scratches on Dylan’s head, re-evaluating for a concussion.

“Yes…” Dylan said flatly.

“With regular maintenance, they should last a lifetime. Unless they’re consumed in a fire, disintegrated, or something else catastrophic. But at that point, I’d be more concerned about the person wearing them.”

Desperate, Dylan asked, “Okay, what about the box they come in?” He continued walking backward, straying closer to the streetlights again.

“They’re shoes, Dylan. They don’t need a box.” Charles leaned around him, eyeing the approaching obstacles, and sighed. Keeping Dylan off poles was turning into a full-time job. So, he tried a different approach, sidestepping away from the road, he waited to see if Dylan would follow.

“That’s an excellent point,” Dylan said, sidestepping to stay in front of Charles. The rugged elf’s responses had him questioning himself. ‘Why do shoes come in a box?’ Dylan realized his mistake—he assumed things worked the same way here as they did on Earth. Correcting himself, he asked, “Does anything come in a disposable bag, container, or box?”

“No,” Charles said, shaking his head, “what’s the purpose of a disposable container? Seems impractical and wasteful to me.”

“It’s cheaper,” Dylan said, but it was too late—Charles had infected him with questions. His mind immediately challenged that answer. “It’s cheaper to make.” While that was closer to the truth, something pushed him further. “It’s cheaper for them to make, and you have to keep buying them.” Finally, he got past his consumerist programming and answered honestly.

“I still don’t see the advantage,” Charles said. “Why can’t you sanitize and reuse them again? Are there laws preventing it?”

“It’s not illegal, but usually you have to tear or break it open.”

“Broken after a single use?” Charles asked, adjusting the short sword on his lower back. “And there’s no way to mend or repair them?”

“We don’t have magic, and they’re not designed to be fixed. Also, they’d probably fall apart if you tried to wash them.”

“Who designs such a terrible container?” Charles asked, disgust clear on his face.

Dylan shrugged and said, “People who want to sell containers?”

That made Charles stop walking; his eyes narrowed. “And you knowingly purchase from these charlatans?”

Dylan also stopped and said, “There aren’t any other options.”

“All your food comes in these ‘disposable’ containers?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“How many containers do you use?” Charles asked, taking a moment to straighten his shirt and re-adjust his bow, composing himself. He resumed walking and took the lead.

“Let’s see,” Dylan counted in his head. “Maybe a dozen, give or take?” He followed, catching up to walk beside Charles.

Charles whistled. “Twelve containers is a lot for one month, even for a family.”

“Uh,” Dylan said, raising a finger, “no. Sorry, I misspoke.”

Charles looked relieved and said, “I sure hope so.”

“It’s actually more like a dozen per person, per day.” Dylan bit his lip, waiting for Charles’ response.

“Dylan!” Charles stopped again, this time with a raised voice. “Do the containers only hold one bite?”

“Well,” Dylan didn’t want to lie, “it’s more like a couple bites?”

Charles stared at him. “That’s an unfathomable number of containers.”

Dylan could see the conversation was upsetting the rugged elf. It upset him too, but he couldn’t stop himself from unburdening his soul and continuing the doom spiral. The only way to get past it was to go through it.

“It’s not just food. It’s everything,” Dylan admitted. “Every single item we have comes in disposable packaging.”

“And there’s no way to repurpose any of it?” Charles asked as cracks continued to form around his already damaged calm.

“We tried recycling.” Dylan looked away. “But it wasn’t as profitable as making new ones.”

“So, hundreds of thousands of people are just creating,” Charles struggled for the right word, “waste?”

Dylan’s eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers, pointing at Charles. “That’s what trash means!” They both nodded, finally coming to an understanding.

“And it’s not thousands…” Dylan said after a few moments.

“I apologize,” Charles said, his voice restrained once again. “I realize I’ve made an unfounded assumption about Dirt’s population.”

“It’s billions…”

“I think you’re confused, Dylan. Million is the one that comes after thousand.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Charles nodded.

“Earth has just under eight billion people,” Dylan said, unable to let it go.

“I’m sorry, what?” Charles did a double take and stopped again.

“Billion, the one that comes after million.”

Charles stared at Dylan, slack-jawed.

“You—” Charles turned and walked away, cutting himself off. He paced back and forth across the sidewalk while tabulating that number, eventually looping his way back to Dylan. Charles held up his finger. “What—” Still unable to complete a thought, he did another lap to work through it.

Approaching Dylan for the second time, Charles held up his hands, forming a sphere between them. “Eight?” he asked, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Billion.” He was off again, this time taking two laps before returning. Charles came back, took a deep breath, and finally asked a complete question.

“What do you do with all of it?” he asked, his voice tight with restraint.

Dylan wasn’t sure which part of the conversation Charles was asking about. He tilted his head, hoping Charles would clarify.

Charles took hold of both Dylan’s arms, looked him in the eye, and asked with a forced whisper, “Where does it all go?”

“Where does what go, Charles?” Dylan asked, still confused at this point.

Charles lost control of the volume of his voice.

“The trash!” he yelled. “Where does all the trash go?!”

Dylan pointed both fingers at Charles and yelled back, “Exactly!”

The chubby man and rugged elf stood on the sidewalk, yelling at each other.

A male elf cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

Both Dylan and Charles turned to look at him with wild eyes.

“Sorry, I just need to…” He pointed between them at his destination.

Charles released Dylan, and they both took a step back.

“Thanks,” the elf said. He opened the doors to the League of Adventurers’ Hall and walked in.