The bus rumbles along, and I sink into one of the free seat's, pulling out my phone. I glance around once more—no one’s paying attention, too wrapped up in their own worlds. Perfect. With a quick swipe, I open up a secure app I built, one that lets me slip through digital cracks like water. As the bus thumps along, I lose myself in the screen, tapping through layers of firewalls like flipping pages in a book.
First stop—the Bakersfield Police Department’s local report logs. I thread through the network, bouncing from server to server, skimming through a list of recent incidents. Just the usual mess at first—petty thefts, disturbances, the odd bar fight. But then I spot a keyword that catches my eye. “Suspicious person.” I zero in, reading about a couple of reports from last night. Grainy details, but a vague description that's more likely to match my own. Whoops deleted that one on "Accident".
Next, I jump into the city’s network of security cameras, each feed a flickering window into a different part of Bakersfield. I pull up the area around Pioneer Village first—grainy night shots, the flicker of neon signs, streets cloaked in shadows. No sign of either Rico or Leo, so I expand the radius, hitting up nearby streets, dive bars, alleyways. My thumb moves on autopilot, eyes trained on the flickering frames, analyzing every shape and figure.
Nothing… but then, just outside a hospital a few blocks away, I spot a figure, hood up, his stance a little too familiar. The fuzzy feed doesn’t make it easy to tell, but my gut twists. Could be Rico. I snap a few stills of the frame to save, making a mental note to dig deeper when I get the chance.
I step off the bus, nodding to the older woman as she smiles kindly and bids me farewell. There’s something comforting about her warm, familiar face, even though I’ll likely never see her again. As the bus pulls away, a strange feeling hits me one a mixture of nerves and nostalgia. The air is crisp, carrying the faint smell of autumn leaves as I walk toward the entrance of Pioneer Village.
The place has an old-world charm, with its rustic wooden buildings and cobblestone paths, almost as if it’s frozen in time. It hasn’t changed much, still preserved like a page from history. I used to come here as a kid, fascinated by the little pioneer cabins and blacksmith’s forge. Back then, the world was simpler—stories of long-ago Outlaws and daily struggles seemed like relics of a different world. Now, irony stings. I’m a walking story myself, a name whispered in accusation, all too real and raw.
I glance over my shoulder, feeling the prickling urge to check if someone’s watching. The paranoia is hard to shake, a habit I can’t quite abandon now. But here I am, for what it’s worth, trying to find some piece of myself in a place that feels like it should be safe.
The air shifts as soon as I step through the gates of Pioneer Village—dusty and thick, heavy with the scent of old wood and dry earth. I take a breath, and it’s like inhaling history. Around me, the buildings stand silent and worn, every faded plank and rusted nail holding on to the whispers of a past life.
My eyes roam over the place. To my left, there’s a massive windmill, its rusty blades frozen mid-turn, casting long shadows across the ground. An old general store sits a few paces ahead, its cracked windows displaying relics of another time: cans with faded labels, glass bottles coated in grime, an old cash register gathering dust. Across from it, a single lamppost leans, barely standing, its base swallowed by hard-packed earth that hasn’t seen rain in years.
The place feels timeless, like I’ve walked into a forgotten pocket of history. My footsteps echo across the quiet, and each creak of the floorboards under my boots feels louder than it should, almost intrusive. The silence here isn’t just quiet—it’s thick, heavy, like the air itself has weight, pressing down on everything. I feel like a stranger in a world that’s long gone but somehow still watching, still waiting.
I pause, taking it all in. There’s a small schoolhouse further ahead, its paint peeling, standing stubborn against the decay. I feel the history in this place, raw and lingering, like an invisible hand tugging at me, drawing me deeper into the village, as if there’s something here for me to find.
I make my way to the general store, feeling the pull of something ancient guiding my steps. I let the coyote’s memories wash over me, syncing my movements with the traces he left behind. Under my breath, I begin the spellsong, each line woven with intent, my fingers brushing along specific, invisible points on the walls. The words hum in my chest, like plucking strings on some ethereal instrument. As I touch each spot, the store shivers and bends, edges peeling away, turning into tiny cubes upon cubes, dissolving like grains of sand caught in a windstorm.
With one last blink, the world reforms around me, and I find myself in the heart of The Bazxar.
Colors burst in every direction—a kaleidoscope of lights and sounds that hit me like a wave. Ahead is a candy shop, its glass jars overflowing with magical sweets. Each piece glows faintly with its own hue, pulsing and shifting as if alive. Some sweets levitate, others emit faint chimes or whistles, and a few display flavors with labels that flicker between human language and something ancient, forgotten. “Frostbitten Pearls” swirl in icy blues, while “Ember Drops” glisten like captured fireflies, sending out tiny sparks when disturbed.
Across the way is a general goods store, its shelves a fascinating blend of the mundane and the magical. Bottles of “Evershine” polish promise to keep objects perpetually gleaming; enchanted umbrellas ripple with colors that match the weather forecast; and a box labeled “Dream Dust” seems to glow with faint, sleepy stars inside. There’s a section for “One-Use Enchanted Amulets,” affordable charms that flicker with limited but potent magic, all perfectly arranged like they’re everyday necessities.
The street is alive with street magicians, some juggling spheres of liquid fire, others making entire mini-gardens of flowers bloom from the tips of their fingers. A cloaked figure twists his hands, creating a little whirlpool of stardust that spills over his fingers, vanishing only to reappear in midair, sparkling and spinning like a tiny galaxy.
Around me, people of all sorts weave through the crowd. Near one of the market stalls, a group of goblins is deep in a spirited debate over a bundle of crystal-encrusted mushrooms, their voices crackling with excitement and indignation, laced with a rough, gutter-accented drawl.
“Oy, these shrooms better be the real moon-crystals,” one goblin snaps, tapping a long, bony finger against a particularly shimmering mushroom. “Last batch I bought barely ’ad an silver light! Blasted useless, it was!”
The merchant, an older goblin with an impressive tangle of jewelry clinking around his neck, holds up his hands defensively. “Moon-crystals, plain an’ true! Grew ’em meself under a full-blood moon, I did. Price is fair fer the quality, no skimpin’!”
Another goblin squints suspiciously, her gravelly voice dripping with scorn. “Fair, y’say? Yer tryin’ to rob us blind! Look here—there’s barely any glow! Half off, or we walk, savvy?”
The merchant scowls, clearly offended, but leans in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ye want the full glow, eh? Gotta grind ’em proper in a brew under stardust! No cuttin’ corners now. These here be the real deal. Fifteen charms, an’ not a blink less!”
The first goblin groans, digging through his satchel. “Bah, eleven charms, an’ we won’t go tellin’ no one how steep yer sellin’ ’em!”
The merchant’s eyes narrow, but after a long moment, he finally shrugs with a crooked grin. “Thirteen, but only ‘cause I like yer squabbly faces.”
A satisfied grin spreads across the goblins’ faces as they count out the coins, muttering plans under their breath—“Night-vision boost, this’ll be!” says one, “Nah, potion for dream-walkin’!” argues another—as they leave the stall, clutching their hard-bargained prize, each step brimming with goblin pride.
Near the center of the bustling street, a halfling musician sits casually on a wooden crate, his lute plugged into a small, enchanted amp that pulses with an electric-blue glow. He’s dressed in a sleek, modern style—a fitted jacket with embroidered patterns that shimmer like starlight when he moves, white leather jeans, and a pair of worn leather boots that tap the beat as he plays. A small collection of charms dangles from his neck, each one catching the light in time with his music. His hair is tied back, streaked with silver that catches in the glow of his enchanted amp.
The tune he plays has a powerful, magnetic quality, blending old-world melody with a modern rhythm. His voice drops low and resonant, pulling the crowd closer with each word as he sings of prophecy and heroes:
“A Hero born in darkest night,
With stars as eyes and fire bright,
From shadows deep he’ll rise alone,
To claim a fate he’s never known.”
His fingers glide over the lute strings, conjuring a sound that echoes through the marketplace like a drumbeat in the earth. He strums with intensity, voice rising as he chants the tales warning:
“By rivers red and mountains tall,
He’ll stand before the darkness’ call,
A sword of flame within his hand,
The last defense of broken lands.”
The crowd grows, captivated, and even the usual hum of The Bazxar seems to quiet, as though the very air holds its breath. The musician leans into his final verse, his words surging with power:
“Though kingdoms fall and hope runs thin,
When storms arise, he won’t give in.
The earth will quake, the heavens bend,
Yet he shall stand ‘til journey’s end.”
The last chord rings out, amplified and hanging in the air like a lingering spell. For a moment, there’s only silence, the song settling over the crowd like a shiver before they burst into applause. The halfling grins, nodding as coins clink into the hat at his feet, his eyes glittering with the satisfaction of having woven something timeless into the heart of the crowd.
The bear-man, a towering figure with deep chestnut fur streaked in silver, leans down to inspect a merchant’s stall. He wears a faded leather satchel slung across his broad shoulder, its edges worn from years of travel and adventure. His large paw gently lifts one of the hovering books on display, careful not to disturb its delicate balance. This particular tome, bound in emerald leather, glows faintly with an enchantment that makes it float, and the title shimmers on its cover, adjusting to match the reader’s native language.
“Ah, fine choice there!” pipes up a tiny voice. The merchant—a sprightly gnome no taller than the bear-man’s paw—pops into view from behind the counter. His bushy, moss-colored beard has bits of dried herbs woven through it, and he sports a pair of oversized, round spectacles that glint with enchanted lenses. His pointed cap is patched and frayed, more a testament to his long years of study than to fashion.
“That there’s The Woodland’s Heart,” he says, voice gravelly but warm. “Not just any old book, that one. Got adventure, a bit of mischief—and she’s got a spirit all her own.”
The bear-man lifts an eyebrow, intrigued. As if in agreement, the book hops from his paw, fluttering open to a random page as if it’s eager to share its secrets. Ink dances across the paper, forming a scene of a misty forest bathed in dawn light, where mythical creatures flit among the trees. A faint scent of pine and morning dew wafts up from the pages, wrapping the bear-man in the tale’s magic.
“She’s lively, that one,” chuckles the gnome, clambering up to sit on the edge of the counter, his feet swinging. “Books like these—they’re not content to sit all dusty on some shelf. Nah, they wanna live, wanna be read.”
The bear-man lets out a low, amused rumble, flipping to another page. A tiny forest creature—a sprite, perhaps—leaps from the illustration, hovering in midair with a mischievous grin before tossing a handful of sparkling dust toward him and diving back into the book.
The bear-man carefully closes The Woodland’s Heart and sets it back down, though his gaze is drawn to another tome—a thick, black leather volume bound with silver, vibrating with an energy that seems to hum in his palm. The Chronicles of the Stormbound is etched in jagged, lightning-like letters across the cover, each stroke seeming to pulse with a faint charge.
“Ah… you’ve got a good eye,” the gnome murmurs, his voice dropping to a hushed tone as he leans in close. “That one there’s no simple read. Heavy with prophecy, trials, even a bit o’ danger if you believe the tales. She’s a keeper of secrets, that one. Try to read her too quickly, and she’ll turn the words into fog right before your eyes. Won’t reveal a thing ‘til you’re ready.”
As if in agreement, the book flutters open, sending a sudden gust of air that ruffles the bear-man’s fur and makes the gnome’s spectacles wobble. The faint sound of thunder rolls out from its pages, and dark clouds form along the margins, offering glimpses of warriors battling amidst flashing storms.
“Some stories,” the gnome says with a knowing smile, “ain’t meant to be trifled with.”
The bear-man’s eyes gleam with respect. Carefully, he closes the book, feeling the weight of it like a world contained within covers. He slides a few polished coins across the counter, nodding to the gnome. The gnome’s eyes sparkle as he accepts the payment, carefully wrapping the tome in a cloth woven with faintly shimmering runes, binding it with a silver thread—almost like sealing a pact, as if the book’s secrets will wait patiently, until the bear-man is ready to uncover them.
I even spot some younger folks wearing sleek, modern outfits, their fingers swiping through translucent screens of light projected from strange, magical tech—half spell, half gadget.
“Check it out—my Pixal’s got this new pulse mode,” one of them says, his Pixal flashing a deep, electric blue that seems to sync with his heartbeat.
Another laughs, her own sphere flickering with shimmering pastel shades. “Well, mine’s got holo-flare! Watch this.” She waves her hand, and the Pixal projects a tiny, hovering scene of a dragon breathing fire. “It even syncs to my spells. Just say ‘Display’ and bam—projection mode!”
“Did you try the vibe link yet?” a third one chimes in, holding his Pixal close. “It’s like, instant thought-cast to anyone else with a Pixal in range. Super private, zero lag.”
“Yeah, like, total next-gen,” the first one replies, making his Pixal zip through a series of neon symbols. “Can’t even look at my old comms crystal after this. Pixal’s where it’s at!”
As I pass their little group, I catch the name of the glowing orbs—Pixals. Their banter is almost as magical as the devices themselves, tossing around terms like “pulse mode” and “vibe link” like it’s nothing special. It’s incredible, how they treat these little spheres as casually as I’d use a phone. They’re just kids, showing off to each other, but here they are, holding this bit of the supernatural in their hands like it’s another trendy gadget.
It’s hard not to feel a mix of awe and envy. The Bazxar is unlike anything I’ve ever seen—a place where magic isn’t just some hidden mystery but part of everyday life. Candy that sparkles and hums, a bear-man browsing spellbound books, kids with floating, glowing orbs that let them communicate by thought. Everywhere I look, magic breathes; it’s in the air, the laughter, the light itself. It’s strange and surreal, and I can’t shake this feeling of wonder… like I’m glimpsing a world I’ve only ever dreamed about. The air is thick with mystery and the smell of spices and herbs that I’ve never encountered before. the supernatural isn’t hidden here; it flows freely, embedded into every item, every person, and everyday life.