5 : 268 : 12 : 51 : 08

My dream to see all the trees in the world turned into fuel for the fires of industry isn’t making headway. Here I am, once again surrounded by overwhelming masses of coniferous plant life, which loves me as much as I love it, and the oh so familiar, damp smell of mold and humus.

The only other lifeform around that doesn’t grow leaves or needles is the hunk of a bear leading me on.

It plods on ahead, its back to me, but mistaking its lackadaisical act for carelessness would be my last mistake. Under the huggable floof is a natural born killer. It drank fighting spirit straight from the tit already as a cub. While you were smothered by your mom’s sagging udders, this thing was honing its claws, getting ready for a life-long death game tournament.

It doesn't need to see me to tell where I am. Its round ears miss nothing. If I’m left half a step too far behind, it growls at me to pick up the pace. If I make the slightest move to suggest leaving the narrow animal trail, it spins right back with an angry scowl and bares its teeth.

It tenses when I try to gather mana too. It may not know what magic is, but it can feel something suspicious is happening. And suspicious in nature translates to dangerous, to be terminated with extreme prejudice.

But I don't need to channel mana for a quick air bullet.

I might still be able to kill it, catch it by surprise.

But—really, it’s a talking bear! Wouldn’t that be a waste? Maybe we can still settle this peacefully?

So we hike on under a morose silence, the bear and me. As you’d expect, it gets kind of boring to march through monotonous woodland without so much as a Walkman, and I eventually get over my fear of being gored to death.

“So, you have a name, my new bear friend?” I ask.

The bear doesn’t answer.

“No name? Well, I can give you a name, if you like. I happen to be pretty good at that, naming things. I even named myself. I also named all my seven imaginary girlfriends—Although, I sometimes call the wrong name in bed in the heat of the moment, which is mighty embarrassing. But thankfully, it hasn’t happened with any real person yet.”

I think my resume is pretty impressive, but the bear still won’t talk to me.

“What? You prefer I just keep calling you bear? I thought you didn’t like that? Elves don’t like being called ‘elves’ either. Dwarves? They hate ‘dwarf’ too. They don’t think they’re any shorter than they should be, everybody else is pointlessly tall. Humans might be the only species out there who actually don’t mind being called humans. Isn’t that weird?”

The bear growls faintly but doesn’t look back.

“By the way, am I addressing a mister or a mistress here? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sound kind of manly to me. Is that how all bears sound? I’ve only ever seen three bears so far, and one was a rug with piss streaks, so I wouldn't know. All that fur makes it kind of hard to tell only by looking too.”

I peek between the bear’s back legs, but it really is hairy all around. A short tuft may be fine, but I’m not a huge beaver fan. Some say it’s hotter to leave things up to imagination, but I don’t think so. I prefer a full view, personally.

“Hrrr, you talk too much!” the bear finally says.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. But don’t worry; I’ve learned not to let it get to me.”

“...”

“Let’s see. Tom? Jim? Stevie? Stacy? Just say stop when you hear one that you really like.”

The bear stops, turns to me and stands up, nearly double my height.

“I hope you’ll be as talkative when it comes to your plans to exterminate us,” it says. “You are only as valuable to us as is the knowledge in your head. And if it turns out you know nothing at all of use—then it may be that you make noise no more, ever again.”

It wouldn’t need to even punch to kill. Just sitting on me would take care of things.

But by this point, I’m too hungry and tired to care.

“Okay, listen here, fur face,” I step up and tell the bear, “nobody said anything about exterminating anybody! We’re not friggin’ daleks! I got sent here with the other people you blasted out of the sky, because apparently that wasn’t your first time doing it, and we’d really like you to stop! So if I were you, I’d take a minute to think about what I’ve been doing with my life till now, before I point fingers! Though you don’t have fingers to point, ‘cos you’re a fucking bear!”

“Pah!” The bear turns away and goes on. “Shut up and walk.”

“Dalek,” I tell it, my mind made up. “I’ll call you Dalek.”

“I don’t care what you call me,” the bear grunts back. “You don’t have the right to know my true name.”

I hurry to catch up. “My name's Zero, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask!”

“Nice to meet you too, Dalek. I’m a human being, by the way. Have you ever seen a human before?”

“No.”

“Then clearly this is a big day for both of us. Because I’ve never seen a talking bear either.”

“I’ve not had a day this irksome in a long while, that’s for sure.”

“Say, how old are you, Dalek?”

It goes back to being dumb.

“Me? I’m four. Give or take. Age is just a number, really. I’m not losing sleep over it. When you’re old enough to get in the kinoplex, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“...”

“By the way, the folks you murdered last night were all basically thousands of years old. Ripped apart, set on fire, dropped from up high without a parachute…Age and experience didn't help those guys much. Eleven longass journeys, over in a flash. Really gets you thinking. Like, what was even the point? A fourteen-volume fantasy saga, interrupted without warning. And then they get some Kickstarter word factory to wrap up your magnum opus. Life’s just funny like that. A pitch-black joke you have to laugh at, so you wouldn’t lose your mind.”

“And how many of the Fey do you think have died by now?” Dalek retorts. “How many trees cut down, to make way for the elves’ ugly houses? No matter how many we kill, more always come. Ask yourself, if you think you are so clever—why can’t they let others live in peace? Is nothing enough? Why do they send their people to die here, instead of simply staying away? Settle elsewhere!”

“...”

I hate to admit it, but the bear may have a point there. You don't want to think about it when you're neck deep in the stinky stuff yourself, but it always takes two to tango. I learned that lesson well enough during our tour in Nikéa.

One side is clearly and obviously wrong—how nice and easy would that be?

If only the others would admit their mistake, the whole problem would be resolved. Life would be good again. The sooner we beat those pesky dissidents into submission, the sooner I can go back home and have a hot bath and food that tastes like food.

And then the enemy I find here is—a bear?

An awfully civilized bear.

I can only admit I know practically nothing about why there’s a war here. Who started it, or why? Why the fighting and killing still continues, even though the war itself was officially supposed to have ended a long time ago? Nobody would tell me these things before they stuffed me in a uniform and shipped me out. A tool would have no need to know.

I vowed to help. But is the help I came here to give the kind of help that actually helps anybody? Or am I only a moron handing out Bibles to people who ask for rice? Who’s the bad guy? Who's less wrong? How am I supposed to tell that?

Deciding such things is the smart people’s job. People like Irifan and Endol. But they’re not here to tell me what to think, or who to trust. I only have my own advice to rely on now. And that's so not my job.

I’m just a bullet. I make things go bam. You load me in a gun and fire away. That’s the role they gave me on that beach. Of all the people I’ve met, only the Commander of the Cradle could tell how I'm best used. But if that's the case—why am I even thinking about this now? Why is there that tiny, nagging piece lodged next to my left coronary artery that insists I should care?

Who the hell, a god or a Divine Lord, decided to give feelings to a grenade?

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We hike through the day without stopping. Not to the west where I wanted to go, but southeast, deeper into the woods. We walk under the shadow of pines so wide and old no axe in the world could cut them. We follows the sides of steep canyons, where tall waterfalls pour into low-cut creeks full of sharp rock edges, and you get dizzy just looking down. We circle around deep basins where emerald water sits in old pits of moss, framed by the round leaves of water lilies.

The day's not very warm, but it’s humid and I sweat like a pig, covered in a slimy film of perspiration and condensed water. But it’s not only an unpleasant feeling. It’s as if all my pent-up stress, doubts, and frustrations pour out of me through the sweat glands and are rinsed away, leaving me empty but mysteriously refreshed at the same time.

I can’t even remember when I last felt this alive.

But being alive also reminds me of my empty gut.

“Is it far, wherever we’re going?” I ask Dalek and hold my flat belly. “I don’t want to whine like a little bitch all the time, but—Chris Almighty, I’m starving!”

“Hrm.” The bear gives me a glance. “They don’t even feed their soldiers? Indeed, you look like you haven’t eaten in years. How can you even stand on those sticks? It’s revolting to look at.”

“I may be anorexic by bear standards, but my kind doesn’t need to bulk up for winter. My human measurements are nothing short of ideal, and the result of a lot of hard work. And I’d like to keep it that way. Is there anything edible here that doesn’t come out as spray from my butt and wreck my kidneys?”

“Anything edible? What do you even have eyes for?” Dalek asks me with an amused snort.

“What?”

I look around. I’ve been doing a lot of that.

I came to know a bunch of edible plants in my time in Felorn, but the local flora is worlds apart from what grew across the sea. I hardly recognize anything. It’s still early in the spring too, and there aren’t any fruits or berries I’d want to try.

“Starve then,” the bear tells me. “You only have yourself to blame, if you don’t even know how to eat.”

“Great. Thanks for nothing.”

Yeah, rules of nature and all that. The weak perish in agony, the strong get to fuck. Truly, there’s the natural, sustainable way of life we should all strive to return to. No, I happen to like civilization! Becoming a baby factory in exchange for food and protection is not what I view as the ultimate state of living. Polluting the hell out of rainforest and seas is still the lesser evil.

But I really am hungry.

The gurgling of my empty stomach starts to annoy my travel companion too. The downside of having sensitive hearing. Apparently, I’m pitiful enough that even Dalek finally shows me mercy.

“Those leaves are safe to eat,” the bear grunts, nodding at the bushes by the path. “They’re full of water and taste sweet.”

Safe for whom? I don’t ask dumb questions, but grab handfuls of the thick, round leaves and start chewing. They really are sweet and juicy, full of fructose. A bit tough, but my teeth can handle it.

“Those mushrooms are good,” Dalek says, pointing its nose at brown-gray, flat-cap fungi growing by a fallen tree. “They keep hunger at bay better than one skinny hare would.”

The shrooms don’t look half bad, so I grab one large and take a bite. It’s not slimy or bitter, like I imagined. It doesn’t taste like much anything, but has a texture like a very smooth, fridge-cold french bread.

“See that,” Dalek shows me a thick, pale larva crawling along the backside of the same tree. “A fox could live content for three days with one. Just beware of its teeth. Unless you bite the head off first, it’ll eat its way out of your belly.”

The thing looks like somebody tore out a squirrel’s rectum full of shit and wrapped it up as a bumpy sausage, complete with a bulby bug head, antlers, and tiny legs. Well, compared to some of granny’s signature dishes, it doesn't seem so bad. The key is to not overthink it. I grab the bug, bite off and spit out the head, and make sure to chew the body well before swallowing.

It's like thick rice porridge, without sugar or salt. Might be great, if deep-fried.

“Haa...”

As gross as the meal was, it sure hit the spot. And the world suddenly looks a little brighter again.

“Hey, thanks,” I tell Dalek, who continues to stroll on, reaping shrubs with its teeth in passing. “I owe you one.”

It says nothing. You know what? Maybe all bears can talk. They just don’t feel like it.

“Well then,” I say and stretch my arms. “A favor for a favor. By way of thanks, I offer you my top ten bear puns.”

“Shut up!”

5 : 268 : 06 : 59 : 23

We walk and walk. The sky behind the trees has turned peachy, with a hint of blueberry whisked in, when Dalek abruptly stops for no clear reason. I stop too, a safe distance from the bear. The furry beast looks up at the dimming sky and lets out a very bear-like roar, though I don’t see anything.

Then we stand, quiet, waiting.

Waiting for what?

I wonder if an army of bears is going to come out next. Damn, that’s not a scene you want to see in the middle of darkening forest. Or maybe it'll be something worse than bears? I recall all the fantastic beasts I’ve read about and which make that movie with Eddie Redmayne seem tame. Is that really-really the guy's real name?

“Your buddies—they don’t eat people, do they?” I ask Dalek, just to make sure.

“Be quiet,” it answers.

They do. They totally do. Fuck it. Fuck this.

I wish there was a hole I could crawl into and never come out, but none are in view, so I can only hide in Dalek’s shadow and wait for my doom. Let’s not put meat back on the menu!

And then…something slightly worse than a bear shows up.

I watch a person come down from the evening sky.

Not quietly, in style, but like a meteor, hard and heavy. The earth jumps all the way where I'm standing.

I said a person. Yes, the weirdest thing is, despite everything—that thing looks human. A human woman. A rather manly sort of lady, or else a very girly dude, I’m not entirely sure which. But let’s call it her for now, until an elephant is confirmed.

The dame lands on the path in front of us and somehow doesn’t break all her bones. She absorbs the titanic shock of impact by just bending her knees a little and then stands upright, none the worse for the wear.

Her hair's long, vivid red and super fluffy, spikily pointed here and there like a lion’s mane. Her eyes are gold-brown, their stare feral and any human softness or warmth is absent from them. Her figure is pretty ripped and low-fat, as you’d expect of someone raised the way of Tarzan. But still, convincingly human.

As little sense as it makes—human.

No animal body parts, no beastly claws, no fur in strange places; her ears are regular round human ears, and she’s dressed in a self-styled adventurer garb, a tank top and pants sown together of patches of hide and hardened leather. Real chic. She doesn’t wear shoes, but has some light rags wrapped around her feet and ankles, only toes bare.

In the woman's grip is a large lance. Or maybe it's an axe? A halberd? It looks more like a half-melted, malformed slab of black-burned iron than anything crafted for a practical purpose. And that’s probably what it is. If the point is to intimidate you, then I regret to report it is effective. Status: very intimidated.

“You’re late,” the woman tells Dalek, speaking in the Old Tongue, like emiri and everybody in these parts.

Then she notices me behind Dalek and we unwittingly make eye contact.

“Ow—!”

A flash of sharp pain pierces my brain from front to back and makes me wince. It’s like a discharge of static electricity, but inside. Like rubbing a cat on your polyester sweater and then running face-first into chicken wire.

My Third Eye is responding to something. But what? I can’t make sense of it. There are some kind of magical effects on the stranger, but she’s not actively casting anything, and I’m not getting a clear enough reading to analyze the eidos.

“What is that?” the woman with the lance-like thing asks Dalek.

“A survivor of the crash,” the bear reports.

“There were no survivors.”

“And how do you know that?” I interject.

“Because I destroyed that ship,” the woman declares and takes a step forward. “And I have fought the elves long enough to tell what kills them and what doesn’t.”

“Okay.” I move back behind Dalek.

Animosity flares from the lancer like a blast of hot air and I’m starting to wonder if looks can, in fact, kill.

“Why did you bring it with you?” she asks the bear.

“She’s not an elf,” the bear says and shakes its head. “No elf talks so much. Something has changed, if they're sending new faces. I’d like to know what they are plotting this time.”

“Nothing good for us, of course,” the woman replies and turns to leave. “Whatever they throw our way, we pay back in spades. This thing gives me an unpleasant feeling. She’s wearing their clothes, and that’s all I care to know. Dispose of her.”

“We need news,” the bear argues, not hiding its reluctance. “It has been too long since we last had outside contact. I don’t particularly want to know either, but it usually helps more to know than not know.”

“So make her talk and then kill her?”

“Hey, excuse me!” The conversation isn’t going in a good direction at all, so I find it necessary to object. “Let me clear up a few things for you, Ms Demon Lord. Firstly, you can’t kill me; I’m the protagonist. Also, I can’t die before my first kiss, that’d be way too sad. And third—”

She turns back with an angry glare.

“Oww…!”

There it is again, that flare of sensory interference. The visual noise almost turns me blind. Really, what is that shit? Whenever her emotions shift, mana levels surge in tandem. But there are multiple overlapping effects in the mix, to the point that I can't tell where to pick up the thread. My faculties are overloaded.

Who is she?

The woman appears to ponder the same as she glowers at me.

She glances questioningly at Dalek. The bear answers only with something of a shrug.

“...Those answers had better be worth the trouble,” she finally remarks and turns to head on. “She’s on your responsibility.”

That’s it then?

It seems my execution is postponed, for the time being.

“Come on!” Dalek barks at me, and our merry fellowship departs once more, with an added member.

To a better tomorrow, or a belated doom?

Don’t we all love hanging in suspense?