"How was that?" Vil asked. "Rate it."

I shook my head. "Terrible. One out of ten."

He smirked to himself. "How about one out of thirty?"

"That's... worse."

"No," he said. "It's better because thirty is more than ten."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how fractions work," I said.

He stared straight ahead. "Who said anything about fractions?"

We walked through the forest, close enough to the ocean to smell the salt of it. The breeze shook the tops of the trees, and the birds chirped around us. Sunlight passed us as angled columns of light, and when we broke through the edge of the forest and back into the flat green plains, we found a beautiful, sunny evening and a little harbor town by the sea.

"A town," I said.

"It appears they have ships."

I squinted my eyes against the sun and saw masts with rolled-up sails stick out from behind thatched roofs and village trees. "Yep," I said back.

Vil took in a deep breath then eased it out. I sensed irritation in his exhale. "Redrim, I'm not sure if you've considered, but we're in a bit of a hurry, and taking a ship such as that would be much faster than walking." He stared at me with an unamused expression, his sort of default expression during our conversations. "This might be our last chance for some time."

"So it would seem," I said.

The walk here was... turbulent at best, a pain in the ass at worst. We weren't friends. We were old enemies turned temporary comrades. Not friends. The truth of this bled into our conversations, and with every two or three nice things to talk about--girls, usually--we would end up on another dumb argument--puns, usually. Making this trip end sooner sounded like the perfect idea, so I could continue my journey alone, without being slowed down by such beta males as he.

He was already heading over. "I'll take that as a yes," he said.

"Sure." I followed him, past the hedgerows, past the little gardens by the dirt road, and toward the town's main street--its only street, really--and I froze when I stepped on a piece of paper.

I stared down at it.

My face stared back. My mecha war machine face.

"Hurry, Redrim," he said, annoyed. "We need to speak to the captains before they get too drunk for the night."

"Wait." I knelt and picked up the discarded paper. It had a loose sketch of my face, and above it, the title read, WANTED: 10,000 GOLD. I shrugged, somehow satisfied with myself.

"What in the hells are you--" Vil huffed. "What is it?"

I flipped it over. His face stared back. A rough sketch of Vil in his ceremonial uniform. The title read, WANTED: 15,000 GOLD.

I crumpled it and tossed it aside. Clearly, that was a misprint. I was worth much more than this chump. "It appears we have bounties on our heads," I told him.

He groaned. "For fuck's sake." He looked around for anyone nearby. The town was relatively small, probably just a trading post, so there were only a few people who could see us. Even then, we were too far to recognize.

He looked at me. "Make us disguises," he said.

I scoffed. "Why should I make you anything? I don't owe you shit."

He glared, and I felt a momentary spark of anger from his spirit. Quickly, it calmed back down to a simmer. "Let us be clear, Redrim," he said. "I'm only walking this path with you as a convenience. We're only together now to better our odds at finding the rebels in time. Nothing else."

I smirked, and the darkness in his eyes reflected what I felt within. I had only been tolerating his company because I intended to use him as bait. That's what he was to me. Just bait. Together, we could take on an entire regiment of riflemen, sure. Alone, I would have... a bit more of a grind, but I could probably do it. This was just a convenience for us both. And if things went south, I would abandon him so that he be the one to be devoured.

Wordlessly, there was an air of honesty and morbid respect between us.

"You're my bait," I told him. "As I am yours. If things go tits up, then we split and divide the enemy. Our objective doesn't change."

"Good," he said. "We have an understanding."

"Then why do I need to do you any favors?" I asked.

"The only good bait is living bait," he said. "The healthier the bait, the stronger, the better."

I considered it, and by considering it, I was really just looking for another counterpoint to win this argument. To be honest, I couldn't find one. He really did have a good point.

Hmmmm-click-click-click-click.

+1 Hooded Cloak, Black (Poor)

+1 Mustache (Poor)

+1 Pair of Glasses (Common)

+1 Bandana, Black (Common)

I felt that my sides had little one-way latches that I could reach into, sort of like those fancy vending machines. I reached in, grabbed the bundle of freshly-made stuff, and handed it over.

He took it and gave it a look over. He shook his head with a sad sigh and started to dress. "Redrim, if you wanted me to look like a sex offender, then you have succeeded."

"No, no," I said. "You're a hex offender. Get it? Because you cast magic?"

"Two out of nineteen."

I chuckled to myself as I made my own outfit. Since I was, in essence, a bulky man with a perfect body who just happened to be wearing a full set of plate armor, the best idea would just be a simple tabard and cloak.

Hmmm-click-click.

+1 Tabard, Black (Common)

+1 Hooded Cloak, Olive Drab (Uncommon)

I equipped them both and admired my new look.

He shook his head. "It's not enough," he said. "Your face is still the same."

"It's armor," I countered. "I'm just wearing a helmet."

"A dirt poor serf couldn't tell the difference." He crossed his arms as his eyes searched me. Then, he nodded. "Make a human disguise."

"That would look stupid," I said.

"Oh?" He grinned. "I suppose it would look rather poor, wouldn't it? Your quality is a bit lacking, I would say."

This motherfucker.

Hmmmm-click.

+1 Human Face (Rare)

I drew it out. It looked horrifying, almost like I had just skinned a face right off a man. If a man were, by chance, the most default male to have ever existed. It didn't look like any man in particular, just the most generic male face that my recycler spirit could come up with.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"No," Vil said. "I don't think that would be enough. Try an entire suit."

"Seriously?"

"Yes," he said. "Unless you don't think you're up to it."

+1 Human Face

Hmmmm.

+90 Earth element

+0 XP

I ordered Cassandra. "Make me something good."

"Of course, Imsi," she said.

She was always so dutiful, as all women should be.

Hmmmmm-click.

+1 Human Disguise (Rare)

I flapped it out like a bedsheet and gave it a look over. Sure enough, it looked like I had just skinned a man and was admiring my handiwork. The quality was a bit hard to tell with the skin all wrinkly and loose, but I shrugged it off and started to stick my legs through.

It was just like putting on pajamas.

Vil didn't watch me change. He stared at the village people and dock workers on the street, probably keeping an eye out for guards or soldiers.

"Alright," I said. "I'm ready."

Vil turned and looked me up and down. Then, he sighed a heavy, sad sigh.

I looked like a balding, overweight, middle-aged drunk if this drunk so happened to have been involved in a skinning incident and lost his skin, which was then stolen by a metal creature who decided to try it on. Except, in this case, the skin didn't quite fit.

It dangled loosely around my elbows and chins but was stretched tight--nearly ripping--along my forearms and hands. It was true to form, with fuzzy neck hair, a receding hairline, and a patchy mustache that become malformed with my real jagged mustache threatening to rip through my face. It looked like I had a really bad dental fuckup, which was honestly not as noticeable as the permanent gaping mouth and soulless eyes.

In essence, I looked like a trash can warrior wearing the skin of a human.

"You look like a naked serial killer," Vil said. "You're not even wearing pants."

"Fine! Fuck!"

Hmmm-click.

+1 Pair Blue Jeans (Rare)

I slid them on.

Vil surveyed the extent of my fashion train wreck and shook his head. "This is... ragretful. Heh. Get it? Rag? Because it looks like you’re wearing rags?"

"Zero out of fucking zero," I said.

"A perfect score," he smiled.

With our disguises finally crafted, we walked over. My trash can heartbeat at an elevated rate, hoping no one would notice me. Not because I was afraid to be found, but because I really wanted this disguise to work.

The sun approached its golden hour, and several shopkeepers slammed shut their windows and locked the doors to head over to the tavern, which happened to be where Vil had taken us. "It's where the ship crew go when in port," he told me.

"So we kill them there, then take the boat," I said.

"They're ships. Not boats. And no," he said. "It would be better to simply ask for a ferry westward."

We walked along a fence and paused at the somehow obvious tavern. Obvious because it had a carved wood sign with a mug of beer. All taverns did that. Probably. Also obvious because of the noise of drunken patrons inside, and the warm glow of candle lights and laughter poured out.

There wasn't a door. We stepped in, tried not to slip on the muddy floor by the entrance, and saw that the place was packed--and worse--now silent with our arrival.

I tried not to stare. I tried to keep my head down. This was the perfect disguise; it was impossible that it could--

I felt it. No, I felt it. The digging stares of a hundred half-drunk sailors and maybe a dozen more villagers. They knew.

"Hey!" said a voice. "This tall guy here."

I stared at the floor, refusing to lock eyes with anyone, but this fucker crept up like a cat right into my field of view, practically crawling on the dirty floor with a bottle in hand just to steal a glance at my face and--

"Yo! This guy!" he shouted.

I shielded my face with my arm.

Hmmm-click.

+1 Shotgun

I reached in for it. We've fucked up already, and now I gotta kill everyone here.

"Goddamn, he's ugly," said another face that peered up at me. He was also practically on the floor.

I turned my head and stepped back.

Vil stood between us. "What's the problem?"

"That your grampa?" said one of the men. "He ugly as shit, goddamn."

Vil paused. "He's my... uh, yes. He's my grandfather. Please leave him alone, for he is senile and old."

"What's wrong with his skin, there?" said an out-of-sight voice.

"He has a medical condition," Vil said. "That's just what his skin looks like."

Another face emerged, with squinted eyes of disgust.

I looked away and stepped back.

"Ain't never heard nothin’ like that before," said the voice.

"Then get out more," Vil said back.

Some of the patrons laughed, and somehow the tension deflated.

I stood nearly in the corner now, trying to hide my face like a total wiener, not because I was scared--I wasn't scared--but mostly because it kinda hurt my feelings being shit talked like that. Well, not really. My feelings were rock-solid. I was just getting impatient since I didn't want to have to kill all these people.

Vil came over and eased close for a whisper. "Sit here. I'll talk."

I nodded. Speaking here could ruin my perfect disguise since my voice still had a slight metallic feel to it, and as manly and deep and gruff as my voice was, I didn't want the attention.

So I pulled a chair and sat at a corner table, hood over my face, head resting on a hand like those typical edgy rogue-types.

The tavern had returned to its loud and noisy status quo. Patrons chugged out of mugs, played cards on every other table, laughed and hollered and slapped each other's backs at each lame joke. The usual sight of a peasant bar, something I had seen plenty of times in my younger years, in my early levels, and while taverns and bars never really deviated from their somehow standardized layout, standardized noise, and standardized sweat and beer and overcooked meat smell, it was somehow comforting knowing that some things would never change.

"Hell no," said a gruff sailor at the table beside me. "Ain't no way some half-assed vegmancer gonna do somethin' like that."

"Sir, you are out of your bloody mind," said the other across from him. A glass mug of presumably beer clanked on the table. "Vegmancers are respected for a reason."

"Yeah, no shit. In the culinary arts, maybe. But in combat?" The sailor scoffed. "The hell is he gonna do? Throw corn?"

"Okay, first of all," said the other, "corn is complicated. It's not just a vegetable."

"I don't give a fuck what it is. Throwing any vegetable is fuckin' pointless in the heat of combat."

"Obviously, you've never been stabbed with a frozen carrot before."

The sailor groaned loudly. "Aight. Fine." His glass picked up, tilted, drained, then slammed back on the table empty. "Let's say there's no such thing as, y'know, fuckin' firearms, or spears, or any goddamn thing that isn't food-related. Maybe then the vegmancer might be something, but at that point, the fruitmage still gonna win."

"You take that back," said the other.

"I ain't takin' shit back." The sailor slammed the table. "You're the dumbass thinkin' a vegmancer is better than a fruitmage."

The other guy jolted to his feet. His chair clacked on the floor behind him. The noise of the tavern dwindled.

I couldn't help it. I couldn't resist. I had to look. I had to see what these two looked like and what they were doing and what they were threatening to do.

I looked up.

They were staring at me!

The sailor spoke to me. "I asked you a question, you old-ass ugly fuck."

"Mm?" I grunted.

"What's better? Vegetables..." he slammed his fist on the table, "or fruit?"

Obviously, fruit was the answer, but regardless of what I would say, I was certain it would start a fight. I had to prepare.

Hmmm-click.

+1 Anti-Creeper Grenade

The other guy flipped the fuckin' table, and mugs and plates and silverware clanked and clattered on the floor. He stomped over to me and got in my face. "It's vegetables, isn't it?" He wheeled back to the sailor. "It's vegetables. It has to be vegetables; think of the nutritional value!"

"Think of the taste, cocksucker. Fruit is a million times better."

The other guy gripped my table, raised it with a barbarian grunt, and slammed it on the floor to shatter. He crouched in front of me, and I couldn't look away. He was a villager, eyes wide and wild like a madman thinking he's on the verge of truth, but it's just over the horizon. "Okay," he said. "You can't talk. I get it. We get it. But you can... understand, right?" He cradled a dagger in his hands, not threatening, but just to, you know, hold it.

I stared.

He punched the wall. "Nod yes. Shake no."

I nodded.

"Good," he smiled. His voice calmed. "Now, to answer our question: Vegetables are better, right?"

My eyes widened. I eased my head over to the sailor. His face was the expression of murder. In his hands, a pistol. "Answer th' question, ye old fuck."

I shrugged to myself, reached into my vending slot, and--

"Oh, there you are, grandfather," Vil said in his usual lazy tone. "Come on, it's time to go." He pulled me by the wrist, and I followed him to the door.

The sailor tried to get in his way. "We ain't got our answer yet."

"Grainmancer," Vil said. "Bakers are better."

The sailor and his rival nodded in defeat and respect. "Yeah, aight, can't argue wit' that, eh?"

These people were weird. This place was weird. This was weird. It was time to go.

We hurried out the door, over the mud, and back into the street. The sun had just set, and only a dull blue covered the sky. The crickets were out, even loud, and we walked toward the docks. There, the ships dipped and bobbed, and the lanterns around reflected off the water.

Vil pulled me along until we were far out of sight, then I yanked myself free. "Well?" I asked. "Did we get the ship?"

"Yes," he said. "But we need to hurry aboard. They'll be leaving as soon as the captain finishes his drink."

We stepped up on the boardwalk, our feet tapping hollowly across the rickety planks, and I followed Vil as he searched for the correct ship. He spotted a lone man sitting on an overturned barrel, smoking a pipe. The light from his match lit his face, and in the dark, I could tell he was a real scraggly fucker. Was he a pirate?

The pirate spoke before Vil did. "You th' new meat?"

"Yes," said Vil. "Mercenaries for the trip West."

The pirate took a long drag on his pipe. He waved his match, and the light blinked out, but his pipe glowed. He breathed out the smoke, and it thickened his voice. "Aight. You're on starboard cannon duty. Welcome aboard."

Vil turned back to me, his eyes searching for that approving nod, but I didn't return it. This was something like manual labor, which I was far, far above.

Still, options were low, I had to admit, so when Vil turned to cross the gangplank and onto the ship, I followed.

And we froze at the sound of a piercing scream in the night.

A woman's scream.

The echo came and went. A dreadful silence followed.

The crickets were silent.

Vil and I stared out into the distant forests. Something... was moving. It was too dark to see, but it was big. A beast? No. It had hard edges. A metallic surface? We could hear it now, a groan. A low rumble. A forest tree shook and groaned and cracked and toppled with the shaking of leaves, and the... thing crunched over it with massive weight.

"We need to leave," Vil said to the pirate. "Now."

The pirate said nothing. He only stared.

I groaned. "Come one. Let's just kill it and get this over with."

Vil said nothing.

I looked out, straining my eyes to see in the now-pitch black of night, and in an instant, the world flashed white.

And in that frozen moment, that frozen frame of time, I saw it clearly.

A massive war machine with a huge cannon--the same that attacked the rebels.

A roar echoed.

And the tavern exploded.