Well... To be honest... I can't help but feel that all women, across all worlds, share a puzzling similarity. Why do they enjoy posing such questions?[1] It drove me up the wall in my past life and, it seems, it continues to irk me in this one! So... I'm praying my memory doesn't fail me now! What could she be referring to? This world doesn't celebrate International Women's Day or Mother's Day. Her birthday is nearly six months away. If Izao has any other relatives, he doesn't know them. His mother cut ties with her family because they abandoned her father during his hardest times, leaving him to die in obscurity. Could it be a name day? That also seems off. Damn, nothing comes to mind. Am I really about to blow my cover in such a trivial way because of this perplexing question?
"Mamá-ah-ah..." I drag the word out, making it sound almost like a wail, echoing Izao's typical reaction to his mother's nit-picking. I can only hope I've nailed it.
"And just who did you inherit that memory from?" Her question is clearly rhetorical, so I remain silent. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of your grandfather's death! When will you finally remember this date?!"
Damn it! Of course, tomorrow is August 1st! Perhaps the sole tradition in this small family has been to visit the town of Troyusse on this day, where Izao's grandfather is buried. They tidy up the grave, pour a couple of glasses of alcohol onto the tombstone, and lay down flowers, before heading back home. Although a touching tradition, Troyusse is located about one hundred and forty kilometers southeast of the capital, deeper in the mainland. The journey itself takes almost five hours, back and forth.
Izao, incidentally, never understood this "tradition". He never met his grandfather, who passed away when Melanie was sixteen, several years before the boy was born. Despite this detail, year after year, on August 1st, his mother would drag him along, and they would endure a long train ride just to spend a mere fifteen minutes near the grave of a man the boy never even knew. However, her respect for the memory of her father is one of the few things I admire about this woman.
"I can't get away from work. And the flights are long... They won't let me take a few days off. We're preparing for a major exhibition, and I'm swamped with tasks! We're inaugurating a new outdoor section." Melanie rambled on, not waiting for a response to her chastisement. "So, you're going without me."
"Mamá-ah-ah-ah!!!" I retort, as if I have nothing better to do than to spend an entire day putting flowers on a stranger's grave.
"This isn't up for discussion!" Melanie barked back, with as much authority as the captain of an artillery crew. "You are going!" Her tone softened significantly but retained such finality that all objections evaporated into thin air.
Naturally, I could simply disregard her demand, but the authentic Izao would never have openly defied his mother. Therefore, no matter how reluctant I am, I'll have to oblige. Fine, let it be. It's merely a wasted day, not a catastrophe.
"Alright, Mamá, I'll go."
"Good!" Melanie's tone instantly softens, any commanding or irritable notes vanishing. "You'd be best taking the train that departs at ten-thirty." Without missing a beat, she begins to reel off instructions. "Arriving any earlier would be pointless, and any later might leave you without a comfortable seat for the return trip."
"Ten-thirty, understood." In truth, this time is quite convenient for me - I can do my morning exercises, have breakfast, watch a movie, and then head out.
"Bring the bottle of Glen Grant from '79. It's in the corner bar."
"Heh!" I couldn't help the cough that escaped me. That half-liter bottle costs a whopping one and a half thousand francs!
"I hope you haven't been drinking it without me." Melanie's voice suddenly brims with suspicion.
"Of course not! I've been studying!" I'm not lying, and the fact that I'm studying differently than what she anticipates can't be considered a lie either.
"You'll pour three glasses under the tombstone and bring the bottle back!" She didn't add "I'll check when I get back!" but the implication was clear. "There's an envelope under the bottle with three hundred francs." I already know this, having thoroughly inspected the apartment long ago and found the stash. "Use them to buy the tickets, and give a hundred to the cemetery caretaker so he remembers to look after the grave... You can keep whatever's left."
Now that's generosity! She's never been known for her "lavish" expenditures on her child, yet here she is leaving over one hundred and fifty francs, as the tickets for the round trip would cost no more than thirty francs at most. Ten days ago, this would have thrilled me beyond words, but after receiving the reward from BKDW, money has lost its importance to me. However, I attempt to convey gratitude in my voice:
"Yes, Mamá, thank you, Mamá."
"Do you remember the way?..."
She grills me for another five minutes, ensuring that her son has understood everything and remembered all the details, before finally saying goodbye. Of course, she doesn't forget to promise to visit at the start of the school year and to call more frequently in general.
As the saying goes, one phone call can throw all plans out of the window. However... What exactly were my plans for tomorrow? Apart from training and watching the next "masterpiece" of local cinema? Maybe I'd have wanted to find a new spot to practice wave motion training. Of course, it would also be prudent to check the internal forum of BKDW. But both of these can easily wait a day.
On the other hand, I could just disregard her command. Melanie wouldn't verify, right? Or would she? And what if she poses a direct question that I can't circumnavigate through wordplay, and due to the "Word," I wouldn't be able to lie? Sure, I'd likely figure out a way to navigate through the situation, but is it worth the risk? I reckon it's safer to avoid the risk and simply go. I'll bring along five or six manga or comic books and a novel - that way, time won't be wasted.
Sitting at my computer, I confirmed the train schedule and the travel time to Troyusse. Indeed, my memory served me well. The one-way trip is an hour and fifty minutes. Plus, another half an hour to reach the station. All things considered, it's still a bit of a hassle...
Wait. Why am I so hung up on this train? I could get there much faster by myself, in the projection form, of course. On a relatively flat surface, moving in the Break allows me to achieve speeds of up to two hundred kilometers per hour with no issues.
The idea seemed enticing at first - utilizing the Break for travel would save a considerable amount of time, and it could serve as a form of training. Only one detail deterred me from committing to this choice... My grandfather's surname was Vaillant, and he was buried under his own name. Yes, Vaillant isn't an uncommon surname, but I've heard of cases where analysts, having sifted through lesser coincidences, were able to locate the individuals they were looking for. What if someone notices Maestro rushing in the Break towards Troyusse, and then happens to see Izao's face in photos taken near the grave? I've already caught Maya's attention, and who knows - perhaps the analysts at the ducal house are that diligent? The chances of such a coincidence occurring are one in a million, and I could easily dismiss it if using the Break held more benefits than merely saving three hours. Also, Melanie could call me just before the train departs or immediately upon arrival, and cellular service does not function within the Break.
Moreover, the journey promises to be far from dull as I had saved a compelling fiction series, judging by its reviews. Therefore, it would offer the perfect opportunity to read it thoroughly and thoughtfully. After all the contemplation, I resolved to travel to Troyusse the ordinary way, that is, by train.
I spent the rest of the day at home. After my encounter with Crixus, I had no inclination to venture outside, let alone look for a location with anonymous internet access. Consequently, I devoted the day to stretching exercises and movie watching. And during breaks, I repeatedly reflected upon my recent duel.
Before retiring for the night, I finally came to the conclusion that accepting the battle was the right decision. I needed to gauge whether I had truly advanced to a new level, or if it was merely an illusion. Now, I have a better understanding of my abilities and limitations, which is extremely crucial. One could even argue it's vital, given that a confrontation like the one in the morning is likely not the last in my life. Moreover, one must remember the Breakthroughs, where knowing one's capabilities will undoubtedly prove advantageous.
People say you can get used to anything. I question this assertion. Both in my past life and in this one, I have found it impossible to adapt to waking up early to an alarm clock. Each awakening feels like being shot upon by a firing squad. Without lifting my head from the pillow, I mentally calculated that if I snoozed for another two and a half hours, I would still comfortably make the train. After performing these calculations, the challenge of forcing myself to get out of bed and freshen up was even more daunting. Nonetheless, by mentally scolding and pushing myself, I managed to accomplish this difficult task. I didn't fully wake up during my exercise routine, but rather, later - when I accidentally burned myself with a frying pan while preparing scrambled eggs for breakfast. That burn certainly jolted me into full alertness! No, it was nothing serious, just a minor reddening where the heated metal had touched the skin. However, I promptly entered the Break to erase any evidence of my clumsiness.
Granted, such an awakening isn't the most pleasant, but during breakfast, I pondered if I should wake myself up like this regularly. I could put my hand in the fire and immediately shift to the Break. Indeed, it's a drastic method, but it instantly dispels sleepiness. However, I am not yet so masochistic as to resort to such an unpleasant and painful approach.
Before preparing for the trip, I glanced at the weather forecast. Today was predicted to have moderate winds and average cloudiness, and the temperature was finally supposed to dip below thirty degrees Celsius, albeit only by two degrees, but this was slightly comforting.
Since the trip wasn't intended to be long, I packed a small, lightweight backpack with a bottle of whiskey, a single glass, and some magazines. Light, linen white trousers, a T-shirt embellished with a large, beautifully illustrated robot across the chest, and a CD player attached to my belt completed my preparations. There was no need to prepare sandwiches or thermos tea. Now, with no financial constraints, I could afford to eat at a café or buy a bottle of mineral water at the station. Additionally, I didn't wish to carry a thermos in my backpack. Half a liter of Glen Galen was weighty enough. Afterward, I tidied the apartment — which primarily involved picking up items from the floor, stashing them into cabinets — and then I set off.
I wasn't concerned about ticket availability. On a weekday, the ten-thirty train was never crowded. In this respect, I was correct. I arrived at the station via tram in half an hour, without any incidents, and leisurely purchased a ticket, selecting a window seat.
The train pulling into the platform vaguely resembled the renowned Sapsan[2], albeit with bright yellow and red stripes. Settled in my seat, I donned my headphones, switched on the music, and opened the first comic.
Honestly, I didn't grasp the appeal of comics or manga in my previous life. I tried to read them several times, but each attempt proved fruitless. The same held true for anime; I didn't attempt to watch anything until I was thirty-five, and even then, I switched it off after a maximum of ten minutes. However, quite inadvertently, I was persuaded to watch the first couple of episodes of the anime series "Death Note" with a group, and I found the story intriguing. No, I didn't become a fan of oriental animation, but my outright rejection — "Anime? Gross! I won't even look!" — subsided, and I discovered some excellent pieces. Something similar occurred here. I still held the belief that books were superior to comics, but thanks to Izao, I realized that a good story would always remain good, regardless of how the author presents it. Furthermore, for the purpose of accumulating information to later identify the enemy in the Breakthrough, if robots emerged from there again, comics were better suited. They provided a comprehensive visual image, unlike what one might encounter in books — often incomplete, with numerous gaps, like descriptions of combat vehicles.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Being immersed in a captivating melody and the gentle, nearly imperceptible swaying of the train car, coupled with an engrossing story, made the journey pass in a state of total relaxation. Before I knew it, I had breezed through the first three issues of the comic. Upon closing the last page of the third volume, I reflected on the similarity of all the stories I had read and watched. It wasn't the limitations of the plotlines, or a lack of authorial creativity, but something else. All humanoid fighting machines, androids, and other colossal robots in all books, movies, cartoons, and comics, have always fought with swords, spears, hammers, or axes. Any other weapons were secondary and were never utilized against another robot. Concurrently, firearms are also prevalent here: there are rockets, cannons, and other killing apparatus, which are indistinguishable from those on my Earth. However, the author's imagination always equips robotic creatures, for some reason, with various power swords, nano-pikes, or axes made of an unidentifiable metal. Nothing in this world is similar to my favorite giant robot story - I'm referring to the book and game series from Battletech! I can assess local creativity somewhat objectively, and this discrepancy is striking. If only I had artistic talent! I would undoubtedly attempt to translate at least the first books, which I remember so vividly, onto paper. Regrettably, Izao inherited his artistic abilities from his mother, and if I tried to sketch a colossal battle robot, at best, it would resemble a blueprint of a wheelchair for a maniac or an arms dealer. It's a shame. I believe such a series in this world would be incredibly popular. Even with the best intention, I wouldn't be able to recollect the entire book, but what I recall from the plot would certainly suffice for more than one comic issue. The task would be significantly facilitated by the current trend of devoting an entire multi-page issue to a single battle, and the saga had an abundant number of those. Moreover, having played all the games in the series, I wouldn't face difficulties deciding what to illustrate, as I had a myriad of vivid scenes etched in my memory.
This idea intrigued me so much that the reasonable counterpoint that popped into my head just before arriving at my desired station slightly disappointed me. It was simple: "Even if I could draw, where would I find the time for it?"
Moreover, a lurking fear existed that if I recreated a tale about enormous walking war machines, whose weapons could erase a small city from the face of the earth, and it gained popularity, then a Breakthrough could bring it into existence.
However, despite the formidable firepower of the mechs from the Battletech universe, they are rather convenient adversaries for raigs. Their relative sluggishness and bulk make their armor akin to a sheet of paper against raig swords. As for the weapons, judging by the nearly zero effectiveness of the heavy combat platform's shots in the last Breakthrough, the Knights' armor would also protect the Break Knights from mech volleys.
Lost in these thoughts, a far cry from my usual concerns, I alighted from the train. As I took the first step, it felt as if someone had placed a concrete slab on my shoulders. Troyusse's midday heat and humidity met me with such intensity. The sun, almost at its zenith, heated the air so intensely that a slight haze arose above the asphalt. My throat instantly parched, and my eyes darted around in search of a salvaging shade.
Well, this town isn't too far from the capital, less than a hundred and fifty kilometers inland, but today the weather difference is striking. In Wilflaes, it's cloudy with a pleasant sea breeze, while here, it's entirely calm, dry, and infernally hot without a single cloud.
If Izao's memory serves me right, I would need to cross Troyusse almost entirely to reach the cemetery. However, it's not far. The city is relatively small, with a population of around twenty thousand, and the houses are predominantly low, two or three stories, designed in the mid-nineteenth-century style. The city is renowned for its mud springs and excellent pensions. Yet, I didn't come here to admire the local sights, although I must admit the town held its own pastoral beauty. There are many green spaces, and each house on the central avenue looks like the residence of a modest nobleman from the facade.
Glancing at the station, I checked the timetable - the return train was in two hours. I immediately bought a ticket for it and, exiting the station building onto the city square, felt the oppressive heat again. A digital display on the facade of the municipality revealed that it was thirty-eight degrees in the shade today. This was too much even for Izao, who was accustomed to the local climate. After enduring three minutes in this scorching weather, I already regretted not bringing a cap or a Panama hat with me.
A stall near the bus stop, selling souvenirs and paraphernalia featuring pictures of healing springs, also offered caps. However, my frugality held me back - I wasn't keen on spending nearly a hundred francs on a simple cap, the only noteworthy thing about it being the inscription. Although it seems I'm no longer financially restricted, whenever someone tries to sell me something for a price three times its usual value, a deep-seated part of me strongly resists.
Initially, knowing I would have to kill two hours in Troyusse before the return train, I planned on a leisurely walk through the city. The cemetery was three kilometers from the station, and since I wasn't planning on lingering at Izao's grandfather's grave, such a stroll seemed an ideal way to pass the time. Additionally, memory suggested the town was quite picturesque, and my first view from the station square confirmed this. In some nuanced way, Troyusse bore resemblance to the central part of Karlovy Vary. Not an exact likeness, but a similar spirit in the architecture and the relaxed pace of life. Perhaps the city genuinely merited a slow, thoughtful exploration. However, the oppressive heat quickly evaporated any desire for this, like a droplet of water on the near-melting asphalt.
Despite the midday sun and it being a weekday, many people strolled along the central alley. Mostly elderly, often walking in pairs, they sheltered under snow-white sun umbrellas or sat on benches under the shade of numerous trees.
After only five minutes under the sun, I was overwhelmed by a thirst. Glancing around, I selected a café from the many within walking distance that seemed most appealing and headed towards it.
The option of sitting at a table outdoors, albeit under a vast awning that provided ample shade, I dismissed instantly, choosing instead to enter the slightly dimmed interior. Well-maintained air conditioners circulated a refreshing coolness that contrasted sharply with the outdoor heat, making me want to stay longer. The café was surprisingly busy for this time of day - three-quarters of the two dozen tables were occupied. I found a cozy corner spot and settled down.
Originally, I just planned on stepping in for a green tea, an excellent thirst-quencher, but as soon as I sat down at the table, my nose picked up a familiar scent. The aroma of lingonberry pie! Lingonberries! Here, almost in the tropics! I'd never come across a single dish featuring this berry in Wilflaes! So, I opened the menu and sure enough, found it listed. With plenty of time on my hands, I called over the waitress and ordered a slice of this delicacy that I had so loved in my past life, along with the tea.
As I waited for my order, I reclined in my chair, relishing the cool air filled with the nearly forgotten aroma. Vivid memories came rushing back: my whole family gathered in the summerhouse, my grandmother serving her pie; there's Vicky and me picking lingonberries for the first time, she's eating more than she collects, making faces at the taste, but persistently continuing to munch on the berries...
A sharp sting hit my eyes, forcing me to shut them tight to keep the treacherous tears at bay. This wave of nostalgia couldn't be blamed on Izao's hormones. It was my sorrow, my irretrievable past. This sentiment was heightened by the predominance of middle-aged couples dining in the café. Vicky and I once sat in a similar café on the Karlovy Vary embankment, seeking refuge from the scorching summer heat.
If Wilflaes conveys an impression of effervescent life that never pauses, associated with youth, Troyusse is its antithesis. A serene, one could say, perpetually sleepy town. If you were to personify it, the image of a grey-haired, yet sturdy, older man comes to mind, sitting in a rocking chair and slowly savoring his favorite brandy.
If not for the blistering climate, at first glance, this town would align with my concept of an ideal place to spend my twilight years.
My reverie was interrupted by the vibrating of my cell phone. The incoming call was from an unfamiliar number.
"Yes?" I answered as neutrally as possible, answering the call.
"How are you doing there?"
"Thank you, I'm okay, Mamá!" So it was her. The call was international, so the number was unrecognizable.
"The weather forecast said it's windy and cloudy in Troyusse today. I hope you're not wearing sandals?" What did she mean, "cloudy"?
As soon as the question popped into my mind, the reason for the call became apparent.
"Mamá, you must have seen an inaccurate forecast." I perfectly feigned surprise in my voice. "It's thirty-eight degrees in the shade here, without a hint of a cloud!"
"I hope you brought a Panama hat?" Melanie immediately pivoted to another topic.
"Mamá-ah-ah-ah?" I responded, placing emphasis on the last syllable in the word, mimicking Izao's habitual tone when his mother meddled in his affairs.
"Okay, okay..." Melanie responded in a placating manner. "You haven't forgotten - the three glasses for the tombstone, right?"
"Mamá, why do you have to bring this up?!" It seemed I was getting better at playing the role of a seventeen-year-old.
"Don't forget!" Ignoring her son's words, Melanie abruptly ended the conversation. "I'm busy. I'll call you in the evening."
I didn't even have a chance to say "goodbye" before I was met with the sound of the call ending.
To my surprise, Melanie had taken it upon herself to verify whether I had made it to Troyusse. This act didn't quite align with the psychological profile I had formed of her. However, maybe this was a subtle idiosyncrasy concerning her father, a family ritual that was beyond my comprehension. Everyone has their quirks, and Melanie's insistence on this particular matter was far from the strangest thing I had encountered in my life. Moreover, my own family held a great deal of respect for ancestral graves, so in some ways, I could understand Melanie's ritual as her way of honoring her father's memory.
Less than five minutes after the call ended, my lingonberry pie and tea arrived, and I momentarily lost touch with reality as I savored the taste and the memories it evoked.
I might have sat there for quite a while, slowly enjoying my pie with a teaspoon and sipping hot tea, had I not noticed something peculiar nearby. At first, I assumed the rippling air to the right of my table was due to warm air circulating from the kitchen. But when this anomaly, which looked like a faint haze, moved to the side in an unusual manner, and then did so again, I was left with no doubts.
Just a couple of steps away from me was a raig in the Break. Or rather, two raigs! A similar haze, completely invisible to others, was located near the front entrance.
[1] TLN: In many post-soviet spaces, it's common for jokes to begin with a wife or girlfriend asking a man, "Do you remember what day it is?" causing him to frantically recall their first meeting or wedding anniversary, when in reality, it might just be her mother's birthday.
[2] TLN: This is a reference to a high-speed train, well-known in Russia (its name translates to Peregrine Falcon). Feel free to replace it with any other modern, high-speed train.