Before he chanced a conversation with the wagon driver, he reviewed what he knew about this system.

The first, and most obvious, fact was that this world couldn't have possibly conceived of Dungeons and Dragons. From what he'd seen so far, they weren't advanced socially enough to have conceived of such a game. Too, it was a game that had already been invented in another world. For it to also exist in this one not only pushed the bounds of believability but shattered them entirely, then swept them up and tossed them in the bin.

In fact, as he spent more time looking at the character sheet and the book he became more convinced that not only were they just familiar, they were the self-same book and character sheet he'd last used – therefore the ones that were closest to the surface of his subconscious.

That meant that on some level the system was assessing and using his own memories to communicate with him, which was – as he'd concluded already – terrifying. Not only from a privacy standpoint, but also simply because he no longer felt like his head was his alone, that he was the sole inhabitant of his mortal shell.

But he shoved that particular awfulness in a little box and put it in the attic in his head, where it joined too many other little boxes to be opened at some point in the future.

Instead, he skimmed back through his recent experiences, recalling the few conversations he'd had regarding the system. "State test," the leather worker, Demos, had said. "How they developed it" – implying that it had been developed by somebody, on some level, a state level it sounded like.

Great, so the government was spying on his every thought? Sounded like a real Big Brother situation, all right. And that tracked with the type of behavior he'd already seen – occupying, murdering, and enslaving – from this society.

But there was nothing he could do about that. Besides, if they could read and were going to act on the things in his mind they would have done so already. Hopefully. An eventuality for which he could do nothing to prepare, so he let that lie too.

Another memory, from the same conversation: "a Path refined over generations by my family" – so, on some level, Paths could be developed by individuals, civilians no less. Interesting.

He chewed over all of this and came to the conclusion that it still didn't make any sense, and that he needed to know more.

He turned to the wagon driver. "So," he said conversationally, "what's your name?"

There was an awkward beat of silence where the wagon driver didn't respond. Then he spit over the side of the cart and slowly turned to look at Oliver.

"Timaeus," he said, eventually, voice gravelly and rough with old age. There was a scar on his right cheekbone, from just under his eye to the bottom of his chin. "You?"

"Oliver," said Oliver. He paused, searching for the right words. "Thanks for the ride."

"Ain't no thing, sonny." It wasn't just old age that made his voice rough, Oliver realized; there was another scar on his windpipe, a triangular puncture wound that had healed bad.

"Can I ask you a question?"

The old man nodded, turning his attention back to the road.

Oliver took his silence as an invitation to continue. "I've just... come by a new ability." He stopped, wanted to see how that sat with the old man.

Timaeus didn't respond.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"And I'd like to test it out," he went on. "But I need somebody else to help me."

The old man considered. "What's in it for me?" he asked eventually. Good. Oliver hadn't yet made the same misstep that had sent the couple running for the hills.

"It's a long road." Oliver didn't actually know that, but he assumed. The guy didn't have a phone. Oliver wasn't sure what folks around here did for entertainment in their free time, but this guy wasn't doing much of it. And it wasn't like steering the cart took a lot of focus.

"What d'ye have in mind?"

"It's simple," said Oliver. "I'm going to get two rocks of roughly the same size. I just want you to hand one to me and not tell me which one it is. Should only take a few tries."

The old man shot him a quick glance, shrugged after a while. "It's a long road."

Oliver hopped down from the cart, waited for a soldier to pace by, and then walked off to the edge of the road, keeping pace with the caravan while he scanned the ground. It only took a few moments until he found what he was looking for, two rocks that felt mostly identical in hand, and weighed, if not the same, then pretty close to it. One was a lighter color, the other darker.

He climbed back up onto the cart while it was moving, doing an odd little hop with one leg while he got the other up and over the side of the lower side-beam.

When he was back in his seat he flicked open his character screen. The inventory now had two additional items in it – "Small rock, dark" and "small rock, light" – perfect.

He tossed one of the rocks up and caught it in his hand. It didn't leave his inventory. He put it down on the seat beside him. It stayed. He tossed it to the back of the cart, and then it was gone. Ah... maybe he didn't need the old man after all. Still, it was too late to back out now. He was committed to this unfortunate social interaction.

He collected his first rock and held them both out to the man, who took them with a bemused expression in one hand, holding the reins with the other.

"Hand me one of these, but don't tell me which." said Oliver, after checking his inventory and ensuring the rocks had gone.

The old man shrugged again. Oliver closed his eyes and held out his hand. He felt the old man put one of the rocks into it after a pause, resisted the urge to open his eyes and peek at it.

He checked his inventory, summoning it with closed eyes. The white of the character sheet glowed white in the reddish darkness behind his eyelids. The Handbook had vanished at some point, he realized.

But it was the inventory he was interested in, and as he checked it his heart skipped a beat. Apparently he was holding a "small rock". No other identifying information.

He opened his eyes. It was the lighter-colored rock. He checked his inventory. It now held a "small rock, light".

So. It was presenting only information that he'd consciously become aware of himself. There was another test to do.

"Thanks," he said, holding his hand out for the other rock. The driver handed it over wordlessly, a spark of amusement in his eyes and a sardonic grin turning up one corner of his mouth. He looked a little like an older Harrison Ford with that smirk.

"Find what you were looking for, son?" he asked.

"Sort of," replied Oliver. "I have more experimentation to do."

"Experimentation?" asked the old man, a note of intrigue entering his voice.

"Yup," Oliver responded drily.

Timaeus took the hint and didn't respond. He went back to looking at the road with a studied indifference.

Oliver next spent a little time holding the rocks in his hands, trying to get familiar with their weight, any little identifying marks. When he was somewhat confident he could identify them by touch, he put them both down on the seat beside him and mixed them up with his eyes closed. Then he reached down and grabbed one, hefted it, then checked his inventory with his eyes closed.

Inventory: small rock, light.

He wasn't quite sure of that himself. Maybe six out of ten.

He opened his eyes; the system had been right. He repeated the process another twenty or thirty times, feeling the gaze of the old man on him more than once. He guessed Timaeus was probably feeling pretty curious, maybe a little confused right now.

He felt the pressure to explain himself, but said nothing. There was the amusing sense that whoever spoke first would lose.

After another ten goes, he nodded to himself. There had been more than a few times where he'd been completely unsure as to the rock and the system had told him rightly what it was. And there had been two occasions where the system itself had been wrong.

With such a small, crude experiment it was hard to be certain, but he was becoming confident of two more things: however the system worked, it operated on a level beyond his conscious awareness. And – it could be fooled, though not easily.

He had picked up the rocks and was just about to toss them over the side of the cart when the old man finally spoke, his voice the perfect mix of amusement, some annoyance, and mild incredulity.

"Son, just what in the nine hells are you doing?"