The pair moved on to the cafe-like building Kyra had pointed out earlier. It was arranged similar to an American-style diner, lots of cushioned booths lining the walls and a counter on the far side of the room, staffed by a singular person, a Hispanic woman in her late 30s. Grant liked the woman, Maya, although she was far less interested in the questions he tried to pose to her about her abilities and how they functioned.
“What do I care? It works, I make good food, that's all I want,” she grumbled at him when he pressed her on the limits of her powers.
Kyra was grinning by the time they sat down, bowls of goulash in front of them. “Suriya is really going to want to talk to you at some point. She always complains that too many people back up Bukola,” she said, shovelling the delicious stew into her mouth as she spoke.
“You said something like that before,” said Grant, pausing briefly to enjoy the flavours dancing across his tongue, “but I don’t exactly - damn this is good - I don’t really get what you mean.”
“Well,” Kyra began, finishing her food in record time and setting her empty bowl aside, “basically, the way it was explained to me, is that there are three schools of thought about our situation and how to get back home. The first is people like Bukola. They think that this whole ordeal is some kind of test, and that the only way to return to Earth is to grow more powerful. So they train, and train, and train, and venture further and further into the unknown doors looking for stronger enemies to fight. The actual way they win the test, they all have different opinions on, but the general idea is that some immensely strong creature will have to be defeated and they’ll find a way home. Of those who follow that idea, Bukola has been here the longest, and overall he is almost certainly the deadliest person in Sanctuary, so he kind of leads that group.
“The second group is people like Suriya. They think that our powers are important, but not for their power or danger. They study our abilities. They run tests, make notes, ask questions, and spend days arguing with each other about what our Sources are, where they came from, etc. By the sound of it, you’d love that. After you’ve trained up a bit, I’m sure Suriya would love to spend hours filling you in on all the different discoveries they’ve made over the centuries. Suriya, and others like her, think that if we can understand our Source, we can use it to find a way to escape. They also spend a lot of time studying the artifacts and messages and stories they unearth about the people that were here before us, and what happened to them.”
Grant looked up sharply at that. “Thargh war-” he swallowed the large mouthful he had taken as she spoke, gasping slightly as it passed, “-there were people here before us? Like, before Ed?”
“Apparently,” Kyra said, shrugging, “but I don’t know much about that. I tend more towards the smashing rather than the thinking. But I do know that there are definitive signs of people existing here long before Ed arrived. You’ll have to ask Suriya more about that, she’s the expert. But she thinks that there could be an important hint about how to escape.”
“The third group,” she continued, “are people like Bernhard. They… well, they basically don’t care anymore about returning. They like it here. They’re strong, fast, healthy. They can explore wonderful, safe worlds, see sights that can’t exist in nature. Most of them experiment with drugs a lot - I don’t know if you noticed, but Bernie was definitely a bit high when we saw him - and they spend most of their free time fucking each other.”
Grant coughed, sending a chuck of meat down the wrong pipe and thumping his chest. “Sorry, what?”
Kyra grinned at him. “Well, they’re not the only ones who do that, but they do it a lot more than the rest of us. For whatever reason, it’s impossible to get pregnant here, and we’re all immune to disease. It’s definitely created a sexually free environment. Not only that, but our improved strength also translates into improved… virility, I guess would be the nicest way of putting it. For men and women both. I don’t know how much of a prude you were before coming here, but I hope you lose that quickly.”
“Oh no, don’t get me wrong,” said Grant quickly, waving a hand dismissively, “no judgement or anything. I just… hadn’t even considered that. But it does explain why I haven’t seen any children around. Hundreds of years of cohabitating would guarantee a few kids, so I guess it's a big positive not being able to get pregnant.”
Kyra’s face darkened slightly, and she clasped her hands on the table, studying them. “Well, that would depend upon your point of view. I don’t know about you, but I was looking forward to having kids before coming here. And, more importantly, there are more than a few people here who left kids behind when they got stuck here. So I wouldn’t talk about lack of children as a virtue too loudly.”
Grant stared at her, shocked. “Oh wow. I’m so sorry. I hadn’t even considered that some people would… man. No wonder some people turn to drugs.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Kyra nodded. “Remember how Bernie said it was only lately he’d been sensitive about his age? It’s because about five years ago he realised that his son was almost certainly dead of old age by now. Before that thought came upon him out of nowhere, he was a valued member of Bukola’s inner circle. Since then, he just gets high and drunk as much as possible, and experiments with making stronger and stronger drugs.” She sighed. “I hope that he moves on soon. I wish I could have met him before he fell down that hole.”
Grant looked at her, considering the source of her sadness, and wondering if she was carrying a torch for the dapper artist. “That sounds like a hard thing to get over,” he said gently.
Kyra nodded, before seeming to realise she was giving away too much, and getting up to take her bowl back to the counter. “Anyway, don’t get me wrong,” she said over her shoulder as Grant hurried to finish his meal before jumping up to join her, “even those who have given up are still valued members of the community, so don’t get too judgemental. Bernie hasn’t slacked off, he’s just… numb.”
“Yeah, I get it. I’m definitely not judging someone struggling with any of this stuff, not least of all because I’m sure I’ll go through a similar phase if I really am stuck here for centuries.”
Kyra glanced at him. “Yes,” she said softly, “we probably will.”
The pair made their way out of the cafe and set off towards a small, tidy building near the centre of town.
“Here we are,” said Kyra, “your new abode.”
At first glance, the house they had stopped in front of was less otherworldly than many of its neighbours. It was a two-story building, quite sizeable and cosy, made of what Grant at first thought were multicoloured bricks joined with cement, but as they moved close to the front door, he realised that the bricks weren’t made of clay, but of dense, interlocking layers of wax. The craftsmanship was remarkable - from a distance, the colours all blended together to create the appearance of a normal red brick, but the closer they got the more he could see that each brick was a unique combination and arrangement of more colours and shades than he could identify.
Magic.
Kyra led him inside the house. There was a pleasant scent permeating the air, faint hints of honey and oak and soil, earthy scents that appealed to Grant greatly. Tall, thin candles were spread throughout the house, some attached to the walls, some hanging upside down from the ceiling, and some simply floating in mid-air. Grant frowned at a candle above him, wick facing down.
“That seems… dangerous, given what this house is made of,” he said.
Kyra laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said, leading him through the hallway to the kitchen, “despite appearances, the house is fireproof. And damage-proof, really, and the wax in the candles will never diminish. Most of the buildings here aren’t structurally sound, and would collapse if they were built normally, but they’re sustained, at least in part, by our will and Source. That’s why some of the other houses are being destroyed, they no longer have a Source to draw on. That’s what Suriya says, at least.”
Grant absorbed this as he examined his surroundings. The kitchen was relatively bare and unfurnished, though there was an impressive-looking black iron oven in the corner. The pots, pans and utensils were solid but basic, a sharp contrast to the intricately decorated crockery that was stacked in the corner, the colours throwing arcing rainbows against the wall. On the whole, the house felt surprisingly comfortable and modern, and Grant could feel a small bar of tension he hadn’t known he was carrying ease out of his shoulders. He had always been rather particular about his living space, and if he was to be stuck here for the foreseeable future, he was glad that this house appealed to him.
Maybe I do have this guy’s Source, he thought.
They finished their tour of the house. The bedroom was far more opulent and indulgent than the rest of the rooms, with a four-poster bed far larger than a normal king mattress, with what Grant assumed were silk sheets, despite never having actually seen silk sheets in his life. There was a workroom of some kind, with a modified potter’s wheel, vats of plain wax and a shelf with dozens of bottles of dye in a variety of hues. There was even, to Grant’s great surprise, a massive rec room occupying the back half of the bottom floor, with a full-size snooker table, a table-tennis table, even a cornhole set. Though, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed by the lack of a TV or video games - there were so many other modern utilities here, he was half expecting someone to be able to magically make an Xbox.
By the time Kyra had shown him everything in the house, the sun was beginning its descent. Despite the fact he had only woken up less than ten hours ago, he felt a sudden rush of weariness, struggling to keep his eyes open. Kyra noticed him stifling a yawn.
“Ah, yes,” she said, smiling, “I didn’t mention this earlier, but another effect of overdrawing on your Source is exhaustion. I’m impressed you’ve lasted as long as you have, to be honest. I was expecting you to collapse in the middle of the street and have to carry you home. Go to bed, Grant. I’ll come get you tomorrow morning and take you to Fyodor’s.” She gave Grant a swift and sudden hug, startling him. “Welcome to the family.”
After a second of hesitation, Grant squeezed her back. “Thank you. You’ve made an absurd, horrible situation relatively bearable.”
She laughed as they separated. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Grant stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom, desiring nothing more than to collapse into his new bed and pass out. So he did exactly that. As he closed his eyes and felt consciousness drift away, he heard the voice speak to him.
Time to talk.