Chapter Eighteen

“A path of growth is not linear.” – Coach Williams

Level Five

Zar’Keth Village

Frank

"Did you also catch that fire users were basically outcasts?" Frank commented toward a distracted Trish as they headed north toward the Guardians' hold.

"What?" Trish shook her head, struggling to keep her thoughts together. "Oh yeah, I did. I think James picked up on it, too. That's probably why he wanted to talk to Elric tonight."

"You know what?" Trish halted mid-step before they reached the inner gate and looked towards the east. "Frank, go on without me. I need to check something out."

"Do you want me to come?" Frank asked, confused by his friend’s sudden turn of direction.

"No. No, I'll head to the Weaver's Den soon, but I need to check out this junkyard first." Trish glanced back at Frank, who seemed ready to ignore her request. "It's just an itch I need to scratch. Go on. I'll send you updates over Nex. Go check out the Smithy; I know you're eager."

Frank stood confused as he watched Trish head towards the dilapidated building. It took him a few seconds to reconcile what had just happened, but he knew Trish could be eccentric at best. Figuring he'd let her follow her gut, he remembered he had a date with a sledgehammer. With an awkward wave toward the inner gate, it started to move. As Frank began to wonder if he'd just used a skill he wasn't aware of or if it was like the automatic doors at a grocery store, a Zar'Keth tribesman appeared as the door quietly slid open.

"Where to?" Frank asked the man, realizing he must have been watching for residents coming and going.

"Hi, uh, name's Forge," he said, giving another awkward wave as the man made no move to return the gesture. Frank rubbed his hands together nervously, the structured environment bringing out his timid teenage self. "I'll admit, I don’t know how things work around here, but I was hoping to see if I could help at the Smithy?"

The man nodded, which Frank took as approval, and he continued on his way. The scene played out no differently than before, albeit with fewer tribesmen around the area—the same rhythmic drumming of metal clanged through the yard, growing louder as he approached. The building, no larger than a few big high school classrooms, was lined with stone and metal fixtures. Opening the door, he breathed in his favorite smell in the world. The hot air pressed against his face, carrying the comforting tang of charcoal, leather, and steel. Instantly, he felt his natural perspiration kick in, his body ready to shed its outer layer of water and get into working mode.

Much as before, five workers were spread out across the area. One hovered over a wall of unrefined metals, looking for the next piece to pass to the forging station, where a hefty woman stood, hammer in hand, working the forge. She pulled what looked like a sword out of the fire and struck it, sending sparks flying. Closest to the forge, a man drenched another object in water before striking it again with a smaller tool. The final two were on the far side of the room at grinding and polishing stations, not bothering to look up. None of the crafters seemed to take a commanding role within the group. Frank attempted to contain his excitement, not wanting to start on the wrong foot with the crew as they worked diligently. The trouble was, with nobody noticing him, he wasn’t sure who to approach.

Finally deciding, Frank took a deep breath and approached the woman at the forge. He chose her because forging was his favorite part of the process, and he had to admit, he was pretty good at it—at least back on Earth.

"That's a new color for me," Frank half-stated, half-introducing himself, catching a glimpse of the inside of the forge. The colors almost shimmered in a rainbow pattern, darting back and forth as the metal was pulled out, the natural orange and yellow reemerging within the dull blade.

The woman, who had noticed Frank earlier, didn’t shift or budge at the new voice directed at her. She stayed focused on her work. "This isn't a school. We have deadlines. Move back to the side."

Stolen novel; please report.

Frank frowned; it had been years since he hadn't been the lead worker in a forge, much less someone who might hold a team back. Even in college, he was a partner to the smithing professor, often exchanging guidance. Yet Frank understood his current position: an untested stranger observing unfamiliar practices. He stepped back towards the wall, awestruck as he watched the crew churn out sword after sword. The metal, unknown to him, and many of the materials in the Smithing room within the Hangar were foreign. However, the hulking woman leading by the forge was the most baffling aspect. Her strikes were precise, yet each piece was uniquely shaped, though a longsword in type, with some hardly resembling a longsword at all. Yet, every strike molded, formed, and precisely broke off unwanted pieces. Frank noticed that even the man handling the secondary forming and quenching process didn't bat an eye at what could seem like sloppy forge work. It had to be intentional. If he were continuously crafting weapons for the outer tribes and the mountain, he'd likely do the same. Frank remained transfixed at the team and the sheer volume of weapons they produced since he started watching.

"Frank heads up. Thirty minutes until your team is expected back at camp," Nex announced. Frank jolted out of his trance, questioning if Nex was playing a prank. Nex answered his unspoken questions, "No prank. You've been watching these workers for six hours. Based on sunrise, we have just half an hour left."

Frank stepped forward, almost losing his balance as his blood and muscles reawakened after being stagnant for hours. He sighed and turned to leave, but a voice called out.

"One question," the female forge worker said, still focused on her task. Frank, caught off guard, quickly adjusted as the question he had been wrestling with came to the forefront. "Your strikes are perfect, yet you choose to," Frank paused to ensure he framed the question correctly, "create diversity in your creations… Why?"

"Do you believe that every piece of the earth wants to be formed the same way?" she responded.

Frank wanted to ask more but thought better of it. "Thank you for allowing me one question," he said, trying to sound like Will. With no reply, he stepped out into the fresh night air as the rhythmic hammering continued.

***

Trish

Trish questioned herself. The Weaver's den offered the greatest potential to learn. The System wanted her and Frank to hone their primary crafts, and now she was already diverging from what she knew was the right path. Yet, she resented it. How could a Talent become something its user starts to hate? It was in her DNA, her personality, and her very upbringing. Talents weren't gifts to be avoided, yet here she was, heading towards a so-called dump instead of the place where she could build on her Weave skill. She reasoned that she had to check this other building out first, then return to the right path soon enough.

Trish found herself standing in front of the building closest to their camp. Dusty and starting to rust, it seemed the tribe didn't spend much time here. Still, when Trish pushed the door handle, it slid open easily, releasing a gust of dust and faint smells of oil, metal, and maybe plastic. The inside of the building resembled an open circus tent, with piles of machines and scraps scattered in mounds. Someone had attempted to sort the room, yet items toppled over and lay haphazardly on each other. Every device or its remains looked tarnished by time and neglect. As the yellow light of the stars shone through the few windows, shadows formed, casting eerie pictures on the outer walls.

"Who's here?" A familiar shrill voice called out as a shadow near an outer wall started to move, growing in height with a slight moan. "You kids better not be trying to play around in here again!"

"Uh. No… My name's Glitch," Trish replied uneasily, her eyes on the growing shadow.

"Glitch? That's a strange name."

"It's, uh, from another world. My friends and I are new here," Trish admitted honestly.

"Yeah, so? It's still a silly name. Why would someone want to glitch?" The voice responded as the shadow descended, and a cloaked figure emerged from behind a mound of devices.

"Well, what's your name?" Trish was now irritated. She was proud of her hero name; it was always high in the online forums, especially when she topped many top game scores.

"Sutt."

"And you think my name is bad?" Trish said, quickly covering her mouth, but the words had already slipped out.

"Oh, feisty, I see. You aren't from around here. I like you." The shrill voice now had a playful tone as the cloaked figure stood directly before Trish. Thin arms extended from the cloak, and long fingers pulled the hood over a lengthy braided mane of dark and silver hair, which remained tucked beneath the back of the cloak but looked voluminous enough to reach the older woman's legs. Her eyes shone with a playful white glint, and her nose pointed downward. Trish almost mistook her for an evil witch from childhood princess movies. "I'm… sorry."

"Oh, stop," Sutt said. "I don’t have time for apologies. Tell me, what brings you to the junkyard?" She smiled wide, seemingly pleased to call her domain a standard dump.

"I'm not sure," Trish hesitated, the complexity of her reasoning challenging to articulate, but she was quickly cut off.

"Glitch, huh? It's starting to make some sense. A bit of communication issues, I see… Don't make me repeat it. I am old. I don’t care for pleasantries, and I sure don’t care about your moral compass. Now, be straight with me or leave."

"It's a calling. I don't know how to explain. I need to be here."

"Here? In my lovely forgotten realm?"

"Yes," Trish sighed, still unsure of how to explain.

"Tell me, Glitch. Do you come from a world ruled by the System?"

Trish's eyes widened in shock. Kael’s initial response made her believe no one knew about the System. "How do you know of the System?" she asked incredulously.

"Oh, you might find it a calling…" Sutt heckled and laughed heartily, reinforcing Trish's impression of her as an evil witch. She continued, "These devices tell the stories my people have chosen to forget. Stories that challenge the very way we live."