It’s sunny and hot when I encounter people again. It’s past noon, and I’m sweating, dressed in dirty and ripped clothing. I realize, from the looks I’m getting, that I could change into clean clothes, but why bother? As soon as I have my bar, I’m going to be out of here and into the wild. All I’ll do is dirty a new set that I won’t have a way to clean until I’m back home, if even that.
With technology dead, I’m going to have to wash my clothes by hand. How the fuck is that even done? It’s not like I can look at YouTube anymore to learn about it.
I walk for thirty minutes, actually enjoying the sounds of people around me. The reminder I’m not alone in this vast new world. I didn’t expect it, just like I didn’t expect to want to head back here after a few days on my own. I’m not supposed to want to be around people.
That’s when I realize I have a problem. I don’t know where I’m going.
I’d been heading north, with the goal of getting onto the forty-two and following that to Winchester, when I encountered Oskar. The problem is that I don’t know where I started from. I was further east, I’m confident of that much, but how much further?
There is a way I can solve that problem.
It takes me ten minutes of ignoring the people I come across, and glancing at my full willpower bar, to work up the nerve. I stop, go from enjoying having people around me to dreading interacting with one of them, and take three steps to the edge of a front yard where people are turning it into a garden.
Immediately, I procrastinate, wondering if I’m near the university again, knowing I can’t be. That’s near the center of town, and it took me more than an hour when I left there to put civilization behind me.
Without mass production of food, everyone’s going to have to turn into a gardener.
Procrastination should come with a debuff icon.
“Where can I find the B
*0gbears?” I ask.
“The what?” the closest woman asks, glancing up from tilling the ground, then tripping back in surprise. Others look up from their work. Some tighten their grip on their tools.
You went and did it, my father says, amused.
I ignore him. “Bogbear,” I repeat. “They’re covered in fur, the Jarzabek family.”
I ignore the approaching men. They can’t be that stupid.
She gets to her feet. “Fur? You mean they’re one of the mon—non humans? They’re all in the northeast. That’s where the mayor said he sent them so they wouldn’t be able to cause us any trouble?”
I’ve driven through Harrisonburg enough to know that past downtown, highway eleven heads in that direction, and every major road heads downtown. I start walking again.
“That’s right,” a man says behind me. “You go right back to your kind!”
I stop.
I turn.
I tell who the speaker is by how he’s abandoned by those around him. He’s who I head for. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” he replies, smirking, then continues slowly. “Go back to your kind.”
“My kind?”
“Yeah, the monsters, or have you not looked in the mirror lately?” He chuckles. No one else does, so I’m confident that wasn’t funny.
“They’re people, just like you.” I force my hand open and try to keep my voice steady. “Not a month ago, they were human, too.”
He snorts. “I doubt that. They might have looked human, but if they had been? The system wouldn’t have turned them into monsters. They’d have stayed human like the rest of us.”
Did he miss the handful in his group with pointed ears, or the two with too gray skin? Or is that still human enough for him to qualify? What makes him think I’m not human? The fact I need a shave? Or is being willing to associate with them enough to have my human membership card taken away?
You can punch him. You aren’t doing it for you. You’re doing it because he insulted them. That’s how it works with you being a guardian now, right? You put other people before your wellbeing. So I know you don’t want to hit him, but you have to, right?
I glare at the man and contemplate doing what my father advises. Normally I dismiss it outright because not once in my life has my father given me advice meant to help me.
He snorts.
But this certainly seems like it’s a first.
How are they going to learn to treat people who are now different from them if there are no consequences when they insult them? They’ve already segregated them to the city’s outskirts. Next thing will be to take away their rights as people. Make them into the monsters they want them to be.
One punch, holding back most of my strength, will teach this guy the error of his way. That is how they had to do it, back in the sixties, wasn’t it? Violence was how African-Americans got their respect. Stonewall was how gays put their foot down and started gaining the respect regular human being, regular people deserved.
This is just me nipping this problem in the butt.
Exactly! It’s for the greater good!
My father’s giddiness is ice-water on my reasoning.
On my justifying.
I so want to punch that smirk off his stupid face. Instead, I turn my back to him and walk away. Ignoring the slurs he yells after me. My willpower drops, and it continues for a few minutes after I can’t hear him anymore, as I can imagine him still yelling. I fight the desire to turn around and shut him up for good.
I’m proud of you, my mother’s voice says gently, and I feel better. Knowing she approved of a decision always made it easier. She makes her presence known rarely enough that it’s a balm on my anger.
My father snorts again, and I ignore him.
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This is why I can’t be around them, Mom. There’s only so much I can tolerate. I might have a visual indicator of how close I am to losing it to help me walk away, but the lower my willpower drops, the harder walking away becomes. I know you think I can be part of society, and maybe before things changed, I could. The system’s made things more extreme now. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to mesh with them anymore.
Don’t give up hope.
Can I give up something I don’t have to start with?
She doesn’t answer that.
* * * * *
Highway eleven’s in bad shape, but it gets me to the part of the city where the non-human people live. The pavement is cracked as if it’s been a decade without maintenance. Grass is already growing through it. There’s enough back and forth that it’s going to remain a road, but if they don’t do anything about it, it’s going to be nothing more than a dirt path, eventually.
The reception is warier than what the humans gave me, but when I ask about the Bogbears, I’m pointed westerly. Someone tells me to follow the road to what’s left of highway forty-two, and they don’t get it when I laugh.
The first of the Bogbear I meet is well outside the Jarzabek neighborhood, trading with a group of lizard in what looks like an impromptu marketplace. She, I think she’s a she, sees me, waves and by the time I get over my surprise and remember I’m expected to wave back, she’s back talking to the lizards, so I don’t bother.
The next one takes one look at me and runs off.
The closer I get to the Jarzabek neighborhood, the fewer looks I get, and those I do don’t look angry or wary. Surprised is my best guess.
“Chuck!” a Bogbear greets me and before I can say anything, his arms are around me and I stiffen. “It’s good to see you again,” Albert says, letting go. “You look like you’re trying to be one of us.” He chuckles. “Although you could use a bath and new clothing. Come, I will see you get both.”
“I’m just here to get my bar.”
“Oskar won’t throw it out just because you take the time to clean up.”
I ground my teeth, watch the bar settled near the nine-tenth from the full the peaceful walk had brought it back to, then follow him. This is him expressing gratitude, I remind myself. What for… I don’t have a clue, but I do need to wash, and it’s not like I have to accept whatever clothing they hand me.
The bathroom is a literal bath room. The only thing in what had to be a bedroom is a large claw-foot tub with blocks of foam packed around it and four wood-burning stoves with buckets resting on them.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Albert says. He taps the top of a dresser by the door. “The clothes will be on here when you’re done.”
“I don’t need—” the door closes behind him.
The tub’s already three-quarter full of scalding water. I add the other bucket, get out of my clothes and very cautiously get in.
Hot water is amazing, even when it feels like it’s boiling my skin off. I have missed hot water more than I expected. I’ve always been more of a shower guy, but now, I can see myself learning to enjoy these. Especially since they are going to be so rare. The bar of soap on the crate next to the tub looks… not appealing. It’s clearly home made, and with everyone here having fur, it’s not surprising it’s covered in the stuff. Fortunately, I have my own, so I scrub myself clean, then lean back in the tub and relax to the sound of people in the distance.
* * * * *
I snap awake to the sound of a door closing. I’m in cold water, the bath I fell asleep in, the room is still empty. The sounds of people is distant, with one set of footsteps moving away from the door. On the dresser is a stack of clothing, along with a thick towel.
It occurs to me that if there’s one thing furred people must need a lot of, are towels. I look the room over again to confirm I’m alone, then stand. I let the water drip off before crossing the room for the towel.
The clothes aren’t what I expected. There’s a roughness to the fabric of the shirt that screams homespun. The pants look to be hide, thick but supple. I pick it up once I’m dry and focus on it.
System Query: hide legging, Quality: Excellent, Type: armor
Set of hide legging made by Janet Jarzabek that protects the lower body.
Absorb fifty damage
Perception check unsuccessful
I whistle. That’s more damage absorption than any one piece my employee of the month provided me with, and this was made by someone, and not a dungeon.
System Query: Hide Vest, Quality: Superior, Type: armor
A hide vest made by Janer Jarzabek that protects the upper body
Absorbs twenty-five damage
perception check unsuccessful
System Query: Rough Spun Shirt, Quality: good, Type: clothing
A shirt made of rough spun fabric made by Daniele Fletcher
I put them on, and they fit relatively well.
And how do they know your size?
Outside I find a Bogbear on the younger side passing by the door. “How do I empty the tub?”
“We’ll deal with it,” He replies.
“I can take care of it. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“It’s all fine.” He smiles and reaches for me. I stop his hand and he pulls it away, but the smile remains. “We will take care of it. Oskar waits for you.”
I consider insisting. This feels too much like him making sure there’s something he can hold over me. He did this for me, so I have to do something for him in return. But I’m going to be gone in under an hour, so if that’s his plan, it’s his loss.
The sun’s lower than I expect when I step outside of the house. It was midafternoon when I arrived, now the sun’s nearly touching the horizon. I slept for a while.
When I reach Oskar’s smithy, there’s a dozen Bogbear with him. Albert is the only one I know. I stop a solid dozen steps away. There was no talk of this being more than him handing me my bar.
“Chuck,” Oskar greets me.
“I’m here for my bar.”
“We eat first, yes?”
“Oskar, all I want is my bar, so I can get out of here.”
“A meal to say thank you. And it is best at night to show you what I made.”
I narrow my eyes, wishing I could read people as easily as others seem able to.
Perception check Successful
Oskar’s body language indicates he is being truthful
Perception skill had raised to 16 (effective 17)
I stare at the message. Letting the implications sink in.
I can read body language.
The one thing that’s made it nearly impossible for me to interact with people my entire life is overcome by a skill check.
Fuck, maybe my mother’s right and there is a chance for me to be part of society after all.
“Alright,” I say, grinning, “food it is.” I am hungry anyway.
* * * * *
Oskar extends his hand, and a barbell appears on it. The metal is dark gray, streaked with green, and I understand now why he wanted to do this after the sun set. The green glows faintly.
“This is the best work I have done with Lunarium.”
“I’ve never heard of that material.”
He smiles. “It is something new. It is something only one such as I can make. I am a person of the night. A night owl, you will say. It is when I am comfortable. The moon sung in me as a boy, favored me. In the light, I played. Now, in the light, I make. The moon was full when I made it. It drank of its light, made your weapon special.”
He hands it to me.
I hesitate. “I wasn’t expecting something special. Just a new bar.”
“It is why I give this to you. If you had demanded more, I would keep this and make another one, a normal one. But you are… a man trying to be good.”
I smile at his hesitation, then take the bar. The weight is good, heavier than my previous ones, even the one made of steel, but with my strength, it feels natural. I spin it a few times, then extend my arm, holding it. None of the motions are great, but I can tell I’m improving beyond the skill number going up. It’s easier to hold it, stop it.
I spin it again, watching the green light trail.
“What’s special about it?” I asked when I put the end down on the ground.
“It drinks in the moonlight,” Oskar says solemnly. “It will repair itself when the moon shines on it. The more of the moon is out, the quicker it will happen. It will strike harder with the moon.”
“So only at night.”
He smiles. “The moon comes out when the moon wills, not only at night. But yes, if the moon is not in the sky you see, your weapon will be weaker. Never as weak as a normal one, but not as strong as when wielded under the full of the moon.”
“Anything else?”
He hesitates. “Possibly.” He shrugs. “It is a new material, and I do not know all that it does. Maybe you will tell me when you know. Have word sent to me,” he adds as I’m about to point out I’ll never be back this way. “Now sit, drink. Tell me of the plans Chuck makes for his life in this new world.”