“Good work today, boy, and for the week as well.” the austere man in a relaxed robe and night-pants said to his son, a young man whose wheelchair sat nearby, his accent thick with the Highlands of Scotland where he had been born. The younger man, who had been permanently lamed in one of the last real conflicts of the world, merely smiled as he continued sitting upright in his bed.

“It was not much my doing, I'm afraid.” he replied, his accent floating on the border of English and Scottish. “Lana and her friends did most of the clue finding; perhaps you should have made her a deputy!” he added with a laugh, and the older man smiled.

“Someday perhaps, if we need her expertise again. But you still played your part admirably. Perhaps the young lass and her guild would not have gotten involved without a nudge from you.” he returned.

“I'm glad, then. And more than glad to be able to be a part of that world,” the younger man said, reflecting on what was now known as the Garth-Queens War, a conflict within Panarena Fantasy Online perpetrated by the titular and now apparently missing Garth.

“I'm glad my expertise in programming complex sensations in a virtual environment led me to that company in America; that machine of theirs is a wonder. You're walking and running again there, boy, and it couldn't make me happier to see you so lifelike again. Even if you never really did complain about it,” the older man remarked.

“It is wonderful that, after all this time, I can once more experience what other people experience, if only mentally. I wish mother were here to see it,” the young man said.

“To be sure she's looking down with a smile, and your gran as well.” the other replied.

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“I know.” his son smiled. “All the items have been restored, then?”

“Almost. Gallancleeve did a number on that blasted helm and shield; Forseti and Lumpstein are both griping about it.”

“He should get in a lot of heat for that, eh?”

“Oh to be sure, but more likely he'll get a slap on the wrist, even doing it as long as he has.”

“Pity.”

“Don't fret the matter too much; like as not that rotten Yank will do something else to earn the ire of the higher-ups, then he'll definitely go.” the older man said as he drank his coffee.

“If it takes something worse than this to get him fired, I can't imagine what that would be, not in the slightest,” the young man shook his head.

“You and me both, lad.” the other said with a soft grin. “That Lana, though; a fine lass, is she?”

“Absolutely. But definitely taken,” his son said with a laugh, and the father chuckled.

“That's the way of it,” he said with a shrug.

“Too true.”

“You'll have your hands full soon getting ready for the Grand Tournament, eh?”

“I've got a lot of Tigers to train up, so definitely!”

“There'll be some tricky ones, for sure, being the first year and all.”

“Next year they'll be even stronger, too; the ones that stay at least.”

“Oh, by the Saints, I can't imagine.” his father chuckled again. “But it's time for this old fogey to get to bed. You'll be all right, will you?”

“I will, dad.” the young man nodded back. His father stood up, and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then, whatever time you come back to this world.” the older man said, taking his cup and departing the room for the night as his son placed the Dream Machine on to visit that world of dreams as his alter-ego, Wildeye, leader of the Mountain Tigers.