Having left the club (though not before eating the damned meal I paid for), I wandered for a while, heading in no direction in particular, hands in my pockets and mind on the matter at hand.

It took about ten minutes before I arrived at a suitable enough place—a small wooden bench. Caught on the outskirts of a park, a grand fountain and flowers close by.

"So, what do I do about this?"

I stare at the floating menu. No one should mind me here, so I'll probably be able to tend to it in peace.

Tapping on the menu, I watch as the text transforms into something else.

[The Holtzarm]

Your right arm coats itself in violet metal and becomes impervious to damage when in close proximity of fast moving object(s)/projectile(s).

Based on the information I'm seeing, this 'Holtzarm' should give me a budget version of that churl's ability.

Not bad, Camille. Honestly, it's starting to seem that there's more to this 'ability' than I thought.

Might've drawn the long end of the stick, to be honest. Call it a lucky guess, but I don't think the other guy got this shtick. So, it might be that I am gifted in some sense.

Hah.

Now isn't that something to consider?

Ironic, true, but also welcome.

Still fixated on that menu, I decide to mutter a random 'Skills', faintly recalling the 'Status' shenanigans of before.

Skills Active Skills Available Skills

The Holtzarm

Before me, then is another menu. I stop to stare it over. At a glance, it would appear that I have 'two slots' to put abilities in. And as of the moment, I have just one.

So, deciding on the best course of action, I drag 'The Holtzarm' into an ability slot. Then I feel it: a spring of energy in my right arm, like a slight electric shock just beneath the skin.

Quick to test out my ability, I punch at my right arm.

Damn.

Shit really does work.

"Haha."

—Ba-dump

I can feel the heart in my chest.

No doubt I'm on a bit of a power trip right now. The same feeling as prior, though much more muted. I inhale. The sense of dominance persists. I take my right arm then and punch the air.

Nothing. Besides its defensive capabilities, my trusty limb's the same as ever. Though, maybe it's better this way. In the event of a fight, I might be able to get the upper hand by tricking my opponent to thinking it's just another fleshy bit.

That's just a hypothetical, of course. Up until this point, I hadn't had a real fight yet. This idea leads me, in turn, to wonder if I'll ever have to risk my life somehow.

I mean, what do I want to do with this ability? Back in my younger days, I might've said to become a martial artist. But that's just vague. I can be a martial artist and do plenty of other things. So, what's in store for me?

Becoming a mercenary? Selling my services to the highest bidder? Maybe, travelling the world and doing contracts?

A long pause.

It's a crazy thought. Any person will tell you that it's just a dumb idea, especially for someone who's never done anything remotely similar.

In fact─I'd agree.

I won't deny that it's absurd; I only suggest that, even so, that it might just be an entertaining idea to chase, regardless.

I bow my head and close my eyes.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

My mind wanders about. A minute later, and I decide that I'll reserve the idea for later. Instead, I take out my phone and the ID card I snatched with it.

"Algernon Adams, eh."

Alright. My goal is to find him and extort whatever information I need. Though I can’t recall the origin of my ability or circumstance, he might. Too many things point out that he might be in the same boat as me.

First of all, I managed to acquire his ability (something I doubt I’ll be able to pilfer off a normal person).

Second of all, when taking into account his overall demeanour, I could tell it was off. As if he was on a power trip and abusing something he just got.

Though circumstantial, these two points are enough motivation to get me to find him.

“Let’s do this.”

Everything after that is a cakewalk. Using a website, I input the name and general location of Mr Adams, retrieve the info, and make my way to his place. The internet is one powerful tool, won't lie.

Now let's see.

According to the info, the guy's living in a not-so-great area. Comparatively, I mean. I'd thought he was a part of the upper class, considering his accent and all. You know, descended from a family that supported King Arthur or something. Though, that wouldn't quite make sense considering his given situation.

Maybe he was disinherited?

Or maybe, he's just some rich kid looking for a thrill.

I'm left without a concrete answer, continuing to walk all the while.

Once I think I have arrived, I stop. Unsure, I check for a nearby indicator, finding an address sign in the process.

739 Groove Street...

I glance at my phone. The sign has the same address as the one I found online.

"Gotcha."

My cross-examination takes me past a green light. Beyond a few steps lies the guy's residence—an equally tall and dull square of green. Dozens of windows on display, each one in a uniform fashion.

I approach the main entrance, climbing a short flight of brick steps.

"Shit."

I feel dumb.

I'd been so caught up in everything else that I forgot I might need a keycard to get in.

Cursing my stupidity, I look around for any local inhabitants, hoping one might assist me.

—Ah.

Lucky me. Feigning my innocence, I bide my time, waiting until a lady opens the door for me. Past the doors, I then enter the carpeted room and head to a nearby elevator. The woman is still coming close, probably about to take it with me.

"Thanks, by the way," I say to her, my eyes on the ground. "Appreciate it."

There's no reply. We both enter the elevator without a word.

I press the button with 'Six' written on it.

She doesn't. More specifically, the woman who opened the door didn't press any button whatsoever. I check the elevator panel to see if my ears have betrayed me. Sure enough, the only illuminated floor is 'Six'.

Out of interest, I decide to look up at her.

Huh.

She seems foreign. That's rare. Her skin is a light brown, she's got shoulder-length black hair, and there's something indescribable about her face that leads me to believe she's also middle-eastern. That, or Mediterranean, both are pretty possible.

Hrmm.

Judging by her clothes, I'd assume her to be a diplomat, especially with that suit of hers. Maybe it's just confirmation bias, but it seems well-tailored. Wool, if my instinct proves correct...

"...."

Damn. I can't take my eyes off her. She's writing in a notebook right now, so she doesn't realize, thankfully.

Look. I'm not someone who just rudely stares, but resisting the temptation here is hard. I mean, her coming from overseas is strange enough, but she's even got an eyepatch on her left eye to go with it.

That and one of those gloves that only cover your pinky and ring fingers.

Is that just customary there?

Am I just delusional, or is she quite the character?

I feel highly uncultured for a few brief moments.

Thankfully, the feeling is cut short by a familiar 'bing'. A metallic sound from nearby speakers, signifying the elevator door opening.

Wasting no time, the woman leaves first. Heading out into the open-air path, fading out of view.

I head down my own path in the meanwhile. Feeling the wind on my face, I walk past a hallway, take a quick glance at the overwhelming height below, then turn my attention back to the walls (in attempting to discern the apartment number). Apartment Thirty Two is what I’m looking for. And from the way it looks, I’m maybe about a dozen steps from arriving.

Finally, I take a left turn, supposedly bringing me to where his apartment is.

Damn.

I can see her standing. Offhandedly gazing at a vending machine, perusing for some drink. I pause, contemplating what to do next. My plan was to ring Mr Algernon's door and enter that way. And in the event the former wasn't possible, just break in.

But now, I wonder if the latter will be possible.

Possibilities flood my mind.

I know it's pointless, but I can't help but think over the many things that could go wrong.

Ok, think Camile..

Think.

Think about something remotely smart dammit!

Think. Think Think.

Thi—

“Do English people like chia?”

Wait—

“What?”

From what I just heard, someone’s asking me a question. Wait, fuck. I mean, the only woman a few steps away is asking me a question. She's the only one here, dammit.

“Could you repeat that again?”

Her lips curl themselves in what I assume to be amusement.

“Tell me, do English people like chia?”

[https://imgur.com/Q1afN3e.jpg]