Cain’s processing had already gone up to seventeen and his head was still buzzing. Several passerby made a show of giving him strange looks. He just kept moving, searching for someplace quiet he could hole up in until he was functioning normally again. Magira was trying to talk to him, but it was hard to hear her. He walked and walked but couldn’t find anywhere to hide from people. Every beat of his heart rattled his skull in its fleshy prison, and chafed his brain against its calcium cage. Eighteen. Excess perceptions were relabeled as pain. He walked, though it was nearly a jog. The sound of metal grating against metal grating against his ears was just making things worse. Magira was still talking. Why is everyone moving so much…?! Nowhere was free of the constant movement. Nineteen. The backs of his eyes were searing in their sockets with pain. He kept—

An alley. Cain’s head snapped to the left as he made a straighter version of a beeline for the shady offshoot. As he approached, blessed inactivity began to worm its way through the perpetual motion of the street. Every step, a living human faded out of his awareness to be replaced with cold cobble. He stopped in the dead center of the alleyway. People still passed by on either end of his passageway at the edge of his perception, and a few milled about in the buildings he was stuck between, but it was tremendously more manageable than a busy street. He began trying to steady his breathing and the shaking of his limbs. Then Magira made herself known again.

‘Cain, what’s happening?’ She was afraid.

‘Refined a skill. Very unpleasant.’

‘What kind of skill could make you panic like that? Don’t tell me you got more teeth?’ She was a little relieved.

‘Perception. Enhances my senses. Brain can’t keep up with it, sensory overload.’

‘Are you… okay now?’

‘Getting there.’

‘Okay… should I just wait here for you?’

‘Yes. I’ll be back with food and clothing later. Then we can talk more.’

‘Alright.’

His heart was still racing uncomfortably fast, but Cain had mostly steadied his breathing. While he waited out the skill’s side effects, Magira checked in on him now and then to make sure nothing else happened to him. Hopefully I didn’t wake her up again. She promptly informed him that he did. That made him feel a bit guilty through his discomfort; he knew from experience that when someone couldn’t get enough sleep, the days tend to bleed into one another, which made it feel like they hadn’t slept in weeks. Still, she had probably gotten enough sleep by now that it would be pointless to try and sleep any more. The best thing for Cain to do was finish acclimating to the effects of Self-Awareness for the third and hopefully final time so that he could get on with the day’s errands. Just focus on your breathing and it’ll work itself out.

Minutes passed while he stood dead-still in the empty alley. His processing attribute had by now gone up to twenty-one. Several people had briefly paused at the edge of his awareness to give him suspicious looks, but none had yet accosted him. The skill’s overstimulation was beginning to fade from pain to mere discomfort, meaning it was probably time to go before someone took issue with him. The last thing he needed was more problems to solve, and on what? His third day of being here? Cain grit his teeth and walked out of the alleyway, trying to focus on his surroundings enough to get an idea of where in town he’d wound up. As he did, he mentally went over the checklist of things he needed to do once again. Clothes for me and Magira. He needed more than one pair to his name if he wanted to maintain any semblance of hygiene, or maybe some enchanted pair that would be magically easier to wash, if that was a thing. If there are clothes with enchantments of that nature, it might actually be a good investment. He would also get something of a similar nature for Magira if he could find any — what she had with her barely constituted clothing anymore. Something for us to eat. He was getting peckish, and Magira needed as much nutrition as she could get right now. After that, it was consulting with her on their next steps.

‘I sort of thought you’d try to hide your thoughts from me after last night, but you don’t seem to be doing anything like that. You’re kind of just acting as though I’m not here… can I ask why?’ Magira’s voice sounded through his head, accompanied by a sense of curiosity and skepticism.

‘Sure,’ replied Cain. ‘I briefly considered trying to hide my thoughts from you, but figured it would be beyond me. It seems I get some privacy while you’re asleep, anyway, so it’s not a huge issue. The thing is, I’m not the best at controlling everything that goes on in my head, and I tend to devote my entire focus to one thing at a time when I can. From what I’ve learned about telepathy through interactions with you, that would make it hard to actually keep anything from you. The best I could manage is to completely shut off my thoughts and feelings at the time — and that would get in my way as much as yours.’

‘That… sounds incredibly odd. Most people don’t have nearly enough control to shut out their thoughts. Why would you be able to manage that but not any other, more practical options?’

‘There’s a difference between control and capacity. Think of it like hammering a nail; most people get a normal hammer and use a balance of force and control to gradually push the nail in. Then there’s people like me. I picked the heaviest sledgehammer I could and practiced with it until I had the capacity to actually lift and use it. I can just swing it back and push the nail all the way in with a single blow.’

‘I guess that makes sense? Sort of.’

‘Then let me make a little more, because I’m not finished yet. The benefit of using a smaller hammer — of having control — is that you can hammer a nail in only halfway to, say, hang a coat from. Ignore the coat, it bears no special meaning. If you use a sledgehammer like me, it’s almost impossible to achieve that level of precision. You’d probably bend the nail trying. That’s what I mean by the difference between control and capacity. Not everyone has the strength to lift and use a sledgehammer effectively like me. But because I’m using the sledgehammer in this analogy, I can’t do anything halfway. It’s an all-or-nothing measure. That’s why I can shut out my thoughts where other people might struggle to, but I can’t filter their content the way some people are able to.’

‘That’s a little easier to understand. Why hammers, though?’

‘I couldn’t think of anything better on the spot. I don’t know how many technologies and concepts from my world don’t exist here. I figured you’d at least have hammers and nails, since a lot of the buildings are made of wood.’

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

‘Fair point. Thanks for answering my question, and sorry for distracting you.’

‘What do you mean, distracting…’ Cain stopped walking. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped looking for the things he needed and started wandering aimlessly. ‘See, this is what I mean when I say I focus on one thing at a time.’

It took several more minutes and two more conversations with street vendors, but Cain had once again figured out where he was and how to actually get back to where he needed to be. After a while, the street he was on would turn back out into the main road via a side avenue, and from there it was a straight walk back to the Adventurer’s Guild. All he’d have to do is head west. On that side avenue he would be able to find a tailor that, as Allie the Woodcarver had confirmed, did indeed sell enchanted clothing. From what she had said, it would set him back a few irons to get the higher end stuff, but fortunately that wasn’t a problem for him. Also, he had mused on the possibility of clothes that were magically easier to wash, but apparently that was an actual thing. Some of the most common enchantments for clothing were self-mending and self-cleaning effects, to the point that those weren’t even considered high-end products. ‘Who buys clothes for slaves, though…?’ Magira’s voice leaked through the link just a bit. ‘Oops, sorry.’

‘No worries. To answer your question, I buy clothes for slaves. Do you have a favorite color?’ Magira didn’t respond, but he picked up on a slight note of embarrassment. He continued down the increasingly busy thoroughfare, keeping an eye out for the side street he was looking for. After a few moments he received an impression of blue and yellow, along with more embarrassment. He knew what to look for, then. As Cain slipped fluidly through the mid-morning crowds, something caught his eye — a tailor’s shop with windows full of colorful dresses and semi-formal clothes. What perfect timing. Having found what he was looking for, he turned and made his way to the avenue housing his quarry.

----------------------------------------

Magira didn’t know what was going to happen next. She hated that feeling.

Usually, it was manageable, because slavers are a predictable breed. Cruel, but predictable. So this walking enigma by the name of ‘Cain’ scared her half to death. He’d started by simply asking her name — not unusual in and of itself — but then he’d actually used it. Normal people didn’t typically refer to their slaves by name, even if they knew them well. Moreover, she’d met his eyes and he didn’t so much as twitch. Slavers hated that; she’d been beaten and lashed a multitude of times for that exact offense. And then he’d told her that he intended to end slavery — and that he’d set her free if she didn’t want to help.

The telepathic link made everything worse. If he was lying to her, he’d concealed his dishonesty masterfully, even if she wasn’t experienced in using telepathy. But that would’ve meant he’d faked letting her hear quite a few of his rambling thoughts; he was either more skilled at lying and manipulation than any human had any right to be, or he was being entirely honest.

It might even be both — his interactions with the auctioneer and enchanter had contrasted as would night against day as opposed to how he spoke and acted in private.

Of course, Magira agreed to help him despite her misgivings. If it were a trick, she would be better off going along with what her owner wanted. If it weren’t, she would be pleasantly surprised.

But then he’d gone and scared her. She had been sleeping as she usually did — without much actual rest, and while navigating confusing and nonsensical dreamscapes. And then this horrible scream had filled her head. She awoke in panic, and took a moment to realize that she was awake and not having a nightmare. When she figured out that it was Cain she heard screaming, she tried to reach out to him, but nothing she did got through. She just sat there in bed, clutching her head and shaking, waiting for it to stop. That he had screamed so loudly, and been in so much pain, that the telepathic link inflicted pain on her — Magira thought he had been attacked by a shrieker.

And then it was over. The screaming stopped, and after a couple minutes, Cain started talking to her again. Yes, he was alright. No, he wasn’t in any danger. He’d simply inflicted such dramatic change on his body that it had caused him several minutes of excruciating pain. And then he just explained it away, and assured her there was nothing to worry about. It’s just been a long day, he’d said.

He made no sense. He burned his own flesh away and poisoned himself simply because it seemed the most efficient way of training. He asked what her favorite color was. He smiled and did business with slavers one moment and cursed their entire bloodline the next. He treated her the exact same way she’d seen him treat everyone else — respectfully, at least in earshot of them. And he claimed to be one of the rebirthed souls of Earth.

Those souls who set forth and became the mightiest heroes and generals of the land.

Those souls who laughed in the face of unspeakable horrors, treating life-and-death struggles like a mere children’s game.

Those souls who forged legends as naturally as they breathed, who decided the fate of empires.

It was the most believable thing Cain had told her.

Magira had been trying to conceal her thoughts ever since the rune had been inscribed on her chest, but now it was so much harder. How could she keep her thoughts scattered and hard to read when Cain took up her every waking thought? Every part of her screamed to focus on him and him alone; to figure out how he ticked, who he really was. Every fiber of her being told her that he was a liar. She didn’t trust him.

But she really, really wanted to.

It wasn’t because of the promise of freedom, of change. Such words were hollow and would not truly mean anything to her until he proved them with his actions, no matter how sincere he seemed. It wasn’t the food he gave her, that he used her name, that he let her sleep in an actual bed, or even his treatment of her as an equal that had made her want to trust him. It wasn’t even his thus far complete willingness to answer her questions.

It was the music.

After the screaming stopped, and he had finished explaining himself, he had retreated into his own head. Magira didn’t pay it any mind, and just tried to calm down and go back to sleep. Then she started hearing snippets of song. Song like she had never heard before. Violins, trumpets, pianos, and all sorts of instruments only heard in noblemen’s courts — as well as a couple she had never heard anything like before — all echoed through her head as Cain switched back and forth between them. And as she started paying attention, she noticed that his mind felt different than it usually did. It was off. Uncertain. Like someone trying to walk again after being healed from two severed legs. Then he started to seem less uncertain, and less agitated. He finally settled on a song.

It was just an ordinary music box. Magira had heard of shops that would sell them. Someone in her tribe even owned one. But it felt special. Cain could be felt gradually starting to relax as the melody played. Then the humming started, and plucked both their heartstrings like a pair of harps. Memories started flowing through Cain so vividly that even Magira could perceive them clearly. He even started to feel downright emotional, and she couldn’t stop herself from getting swept up in it. Before she knew it she was humming along with him, along with the memories of his mother, along with the melody of the music box. Even her own memories and emotions started bleeding through. Delara was holding her in her arms again, comforting her after their father had fallen ill. Songs from Magira’s childhood and songs from Cain’s started to blur, until the whole thing was just a mess of emotions and memories and music.

She had made herself vulnerable to him. She had even made a show of trust in the heat of the moment. And now she was just waiting for him to stomp on her bared heart, determined not to show weakness like that again.

And yet Magira wanted nothing more in that moment than for him to be telling the truth.

She sat on the bed hugging her knees, stewing in her own anxiety. Waiting for Cain to come back. To bring back a blue and yellow dress like the one Del had worn. To say that demihumans didn’t deserve clothes. To tell her it was all a lie. To tell her it was all true. Anything but the waiting and wondering.

‘I’m back, but my hands are a little full right now. Can you get the door?’