Chapter 20: After Dark
weredrago2
"Cowabunga, Shadow the Hedgehog..."
- Location
- Florida
Ruby Haze
Chapter 20: After Dark
The planet Mobius, which was likely Earth before some catastrophe or another, had thus far thrown a lot of challenges at me. I fell from space. I've fought hordes of evil robots who would gleefully shoot me down or ram me through if given the chance, and they got more than a few licks in. I've learned enough black magic to violate moral and ethical barriers that were previously unthinkable. I wasn't sure if I was processing the fact I might be the only human on the continent, but I was at the point where I could deal with it enough that I could keep on living. Keep on surviving.
That being said, I wasn't expecting Friar Buck to invite me to help with catering for our post-battle soiree. There was more than enough food to go around now, so why not do something special to celebrate a solid win against the High Sheriff's forces? A party was good for our morale. The Friar asked if there were any good recipes I knew from my homeland, and I did the best I could with what we had.
"How's it taste? Does it need anything else?"
Friar Buck lowered the ladle into one of the stainless steel pots that was warming on the canister stove. He deftly manipulated the utensil past the strips of salt pork to scoop up some mixed beans to sample. I understood that the Friar was still considered a pacifist because he laid nonlethal traps, bolstered spirits, and didn't directly dirty his hands in combat, but his declared status as a vegetarian was a lot more iffy. I was pretty sure that eating beans boiled in the same pot with meat was cheating.
"I say! The legumes taste splendid!" he said.
"Thanks. I was worried I made a bad call."
Since I didn't have too much time to decide what to make, and whatever I made needed to feed more people than I could spread a pizza or two, feijoada was what I ended up going with. A hearty stew of beans and pork. The national dish of Brazil. Simple enough that I could make it from memory. The recipe normally called for black beans, but I had to work with the kidney and pinto beans that were included with some of the meal rations. I was also able to secure some turmeric for the yellow rice that went with the feijoada during my trip to Casabana, giving my contribution a bit of a Cuban flair.
When it was done, it should almost taste like home. It was nice to do something that didn't involve inflicting large quantities of violence. Maybe I could cook more often? I'd have to try making café con leche or a pressed sub another time.
"Nay. I'd say the dish fares well, John."
If Friar Buck's response told me anything, the feijoada should be received decently enough. He wished me good tidings and stepped away to observe -- as well as subtly taste test -- what everyone else was cooking. The villagers that had been at or around Hideaway were going to be bringing roast mutton, custard tarts, boiled vegetables, cooked haddock, sweet rolls, and meat pies. The Mercians of the Highlands and Outlands were invited as well, which meant we could expect French and Scottish dishes at this potluck. Cuisine that wouldn't be out of line for the Middle Ages… until someone brought out a tray of black pudding on whole wheat smothered in a paste of minced beef, cheese, and vegetables.
I did a double take when I saw that last one being prepared on a tray. Was that a local attempt at a chili dog? It looked like a certain blue hedgehog's influence spread further than his direct contributions to the freedom fight.
Once the preparations were completed, the feast began in earnest. I hadn't seen this many mobians in one place since… ever, really. Except maybe when we got Clan Argyle loose from that landship. Each of the disparate levels of Hideaway, from the treetops to the forest floor, was flush with people enjoying a bit of happiness in an otherwise miserable situation. Rob o' the Hedge was at the center of the festivities, being hoisted up in a makeshift throne for everyone to see. I knew he got flustered in regards to the whole 'king' part of being a king, but he was being a good sport about all of the extra attention. I doubted I'd be seeing much of him one-on-one. Amy followed her cousin's palanquin in a Ren Fair princess costume and chucked confetti until she had to be tucked away for bed.
I was happy for them all, sure. I was enjoying the food, too. It just took some reacclimating to the extra noise and people. In all directions. With the only respite from the buzzing atmosphere being wherever Figment went after he snagged a whole pig and flew away to eat in peace.
Good food or not, I already knew tonight was gonna be a hard one for my nerves.
"🎶~Singing too-ral-li, oo-ral-li, addity,
Singing too-ral-li, oo-ral-li, ay,
Singing too-ral-li, oo-ral-li, addity,
And we'll see you in Priscilla Bay!"
Presto and Cadence, being minstrels by trade, went all-out with putting together a show, whipping up a band from a few villagers who could play instruments and carry a tune. The civilians initially gave the two of them the cold shoulder. There was a general stigma around the entertainers' profession of choice, and people were scared of the mechanical parts they were stuck with, but the two of them gradually won over the crowd with their regular service to the king and their ability to lift anyones' spirits.
They both bowed to the audience.
"Thank ye, thank ye!" Presto said.
"We haven't had this warm a' reception since we played at Scarburrow!" Cadence added.
When the applause died down, Presto cleared his throat.
"Now, we'd like ta play this next song as a tribute to our fightin' wizard!" Presto pointed me out, as though I was possible to miss in a sea of munchkins. "Give it up fer Sir Scarlet!"
The response was tepid, with a few claps and huzzahs sent my way out of obligation. I appreciated the gesture, and I could tell the bards were trying to help sway the opinion of the common folk in my favor, but I didn't expect it to work for me as it did for them.
At the end of the day, the cyborgs were still mostly mobian. I wasn't, and never was. Seeing that I wasn't quite getting the reception they were hoping for, the two salvaged the festive mood with a rendition of their newest fighting song, Come Out Ye Metal Mans.
If I still had a charge of magic, I'd have used them to walk off and rejoin the party with a new face. Blend in with the rest. Instead, I've had to come as I was.
A human. An overlander.
♦ 0
Pushing myself past my limits and going further than that meant I was officially out of juice. The Phantom Ruby's pink hue was replaced with a dull blue. It left me feeling weak and sluggish, not having a constant flow of magic keeping me vertical, but it was preferable to instant death. Dying when the Ruby went dry was a dumb thing to worry about, in hindsight, but I had a lot of dumb worries mixed in with the real ones.
I gave a grateful nod to Presto and Cadence for the tribute and disengaged from the crowd, making my way down one of the spiral staircases around a tall tree to the snowy ground. When I put a hand on the thick bark of the olden oak to hold myself steady, a set of thick spikes popped through my gloves to strengthen my grip.
Not again.
It was one of those worries of mine that was finally coming to roost: That the Phantom Ruby had made me as much a mutant as Figment. I'd noticed one of the most recent modifications to my body, two feral sets of claws, shortly after that last badnik skirmish. They were on my hands when I grabbed onto that tree to stop my fall, and they lingered, independent of whether the gem was powered or not. Shortly afterward, I discovered a new set of fangs that had grown in to replace my incisors or canines. I wasn't a dentist, but my tongue certainly felt the new additions when I nearly lost it while eating. While they weren't retractable like the claws, the fangs were less visible when I kept my mouth shut.
Any one of those changes, several of them in tandem, or some specific alterations wrought to my vocal chords, could've accounted for my voice being rougher and raspier than before all of this. Assuming it wasn't, of course, from all of the screaming.
That cinched it. The Phantom Ruby was turning me into a damn werehog.
There was a pattern of cause and effect to these accumulated changes. The more I was hurt, the more Phantom Ruby energy I burned up, and the more monstrous I became after it healed the damage. What didn't kill me made me stranger.
Fine. Fine! I guess I'm not human anymore, either!
My claws carved a bit too deep into the wood, leaving thick gashes through the bark. With a force of effort, I willed them to recede back into my skin. Now they only looked like unusually sharpened nails. Barely visible through the holes in my gloves.
Why was it happening? Was it a reaction to my desire to be stronger? To not be hurt? Were the energies inside this thing on the same wavelength as Dark Gaia?
Ah, yes. Dark Gaia. The apocalyptic force of destruction that would burst out of the mantle like an egg and end the world. Not exactly something I was looking forward to. With any luck, it wouldn't be a problem for a few more eons.
Then again, that didn't track. Figment's mutations or mine weren't affected by the cycle of day and night. And how could I be a werehog if I wasn't a hedgehog in the first place? Would I be a werewolf? Or a were… man? Is that even a thing?
I took a deep, deep sigh.
You know what? No more thinking, when I can do the rhyme of it.
The food was nice. Great, even. It's just that this was what I was looking forward to all night. Moving around the mass of mobians who were loitering in one spot of this liminal fairgrounds or another, I made my way to a congregation that had formed around the base of the tree. Several wooden barrels were rolled out and stacked together with faucets on tap; the centerpiece of an improvised outdoor pub, stocked with what everyone could scavenge from a kingdom's worth of abandoned cellars and hidden distilleries. I sat down at the counter and waited to be served.
And waited. I rapped my fingers against the table, which went from a tapping to a rhythmic series of clacks.
And waited. The sloth tending the bar was slowly, very slowly, serving everyone. I appeared to be at the bottom of the list. If I was even on the list.
"Barkeep! Three more sarsaparillas for our adventuring party!" Bean shouted, causing the sloth to slowly turn around again before he could hand me a drink. Any kind of drink.
So much for an open bar.
It was time to take matters into my own hands. Still seated, I stretched my arm around the counter and helped myself to a bottle of genuine Highlands whiskey on the other side of the pub. It was sitting on a table next to several other whiskeys and several bottles of Villa Stellan vintage wine, the lot of which were the subject of a heated debate between Finella and Chat as to which beverage was superior. The whiskey tasted like warm, malty ambrosia burning a path down my throat. I made sure to replace the bottle with a low-shelf beer; the two of them could bond over how much they both hated it.
I went back and replaced a bottle of wine, too, because I didn't want to look biased.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see David Dormouse nursing an ale next to Gilbert Woolhand and Arthur Boar. Arthur gave me a dirty look, but didn't say anything. Probably because he'd have to grab his crutches and brave the snow if he wanted to confront me. I doubted whatever he'd say to me would be about the alcohol.
It's a party. Just. Drink. And try to be happy for a night.
I liked the Not Scotch, but it needed something more. I reached to where someone laid out the sodas in the snow to cool off, ignoring the cries of alarm as my arm sailed high over the crowd to reach the bottles. I wasn't sure if the ultra-sugary drinks would take off on their own here. Which was probably the best for Mercia's long-term health, but tonight I wasn't worrying about the long term anything. Or whether or not this Whiskey and Coke was actually a Whiskey and Chaos Cola with the label ripped off. I just needed to sit down and pour myself an easy cocktail on the rocks.
"Was it three fingers Jack, or three fingers Coke?" I asked myself, before erring on the side of more Jack than Coke. Not exactly a highball anymore. The horn shape of my drinking horn also skewed the numbers a bit. Who's to say if I poured too much whiskey on the first go, and had to drink it back down so I could get the measurements right?
Once I got it down, I drank. The smokiness now had a complement of sweetness to it.
I could've used one of these months ago.
It's a shame we didn't have anyone here to represent the virtues of rum. Then I could put together a Hurricane or Mai Tai. Or a Mercia Libre!
Heh. Now it really was like a vacation. Being trapped in another world, depending on how you thought about it, was just a permanent kind of vacation. Severed all of the old problems, since no one ever came back from these kinds of things. My Earth felt like it was one bad day away from destroying myself anyway. I made my escape, and I was free!!
For all of its problems, Mobius was a clean break. This was a place where I had power. Actual power. I'm more important now than I'd ever been as a cog in a machine. People needed me here. Genuinely so. Even if they didn't always give me the respect I deserved.
Who cared? I was free now. No old job, no old money woes, no old family keeping me down.
But no old friends, either.
I wonder if they still thought about me.
Are they still wondering where I went, after I never logged back in again?
Do they miss me?
I'd… hoped I'd be the happy kind of drunk, too thoroughly hammered to think long before these thoughts came back to haunt me.
The best I could hope for was that they kept their health, and I kept mine.
…
I refilled the glass and took another drink.
Feeling relaxed enough to slide back into old habits, I pulled out my communicator to check my messages. It didn't take Ruby energy for me to draw small things like that from Null Space anymore, though the biggest thing I could bring out like this was Morglay.
There were a couple of unread emails on the device. A timetable for the training of Doberman's armored regimen, which was coming together nicely. They said they were happy with the crates of beer being deployed to their location. A reply back to the warning I sent Hector and the Dire Wolves about the extra scrutiny in the North Central Sea, mentioning they were staying in the south until things died down. An RSVP for when the Cult of the Ruby Flame planned to ritually consume my flesh next week.
The only video message was a holographic recording, a few hours old, sent by Wes--
Who plans to do what??
I reopened that email chain from the hyena biker gang, catching up on a trickle of messages that this discount communicator I got from Wes Weasley erroneously marked as spam. I like to think I would've noticed that I had a cult sooner otherwise!
The first one was only a couple of days old. An introductory statement peppered with awe of my divine power, sent with devotional regards from my high priestess. The hyena in the picture bore a resemblance to the forewoman assigned to manage the motorpool, Benzina. No, scratch that. It was Benzina. The image was grainy, but I could see that she now sported a fierce, magenta mohawk that was dyed the same hue as the Phantom Ruby. Benzina wanted me to rest well in the knowledge that she made sure none of my adherents were slacking on the job. They were all really excited by the opportunity to bask in my glory, and would stick around for at least a month to fight in my honor after I 'departed'.
It'd be commendable, if it wasn't for the whole 'they want to eat me' part. I tried to pinch the bridge of my nose, only to poke my eyes with the new claws.
"Ow!"
The other messages were updates on the process of the Ruby Flame changing their leather jacket patches and paraphernalia from the generic spikes and bleached skulls I found them with to things that more strongly invoked the imagery of Figment and I. Pink, red, and purple accessories. Even new tattoos, which took the form of bizarre, geometric shapes.
The most recent email was the invite to the upcoming feast, with a diagram for seating arrangement around the altar. The upcoming event was why they declined to participate in this one. They had to abstain from certain foods or drinks for religious reasons in the lead-up to the ceremony, and the Crimson Flame didn't want to spoil their appetites.
How pious of them. I poured myself another one and dialed up Weasley. After a few rings, I was taken to his answering machine.
"Wes Weasley here! I'm busy with another client at the moment, but if you can leave a message, I'm sure I can--"
"Pick up the phone, Weasley," I harshly whispered into the mic. "Or I have the hyenas serve you as an appetizer when they take me out to dinner. As the main course."
The voicemail abruptly cut off, replaced with a live feed of Wes Weasley, who was still scrambling to switch out his night cap for his fedora.
"In my defense, I thought they only did that to their kings! And that the rest of their mobian-eating talk was a scare tactic! You must've made a great first impression on them for them to go to all the effort of doing it for real!"
"Do I have to worry about them getting rowdy if I refuse?" A dark thought occurred to me. "Did they already get started?"
He waved his hands furiously.
"No siree, sir! No need to worry about that second one! Look, palsy! Am I right to say they've gone and made themselves up as your new fan club?"
I haven't exactly pushed it, but they have been following my commands when I asked them to do things. How was I supposed to know they'd take it this far? I officially regretted bemoaning that no one appreciated me. This was easily too much in the opposite direction.
"Of a sort."
"Then what's the big problem? Just tell them you don't want to be a served man! And besides, I saw how you handled those super mercs and the sandcrawler. They did, too! Do you really think a mere pack of hyenas could cook your goose unless you wanted them to?"
He… actually had a point. Besides, I probably shouldn't do anything rash while I was in the middle of attempting to make myself blackout drunk.
"You're right. This is… manageable."
"Exactly! You just sit back and let old Wes handle the business side of things."
"Any word on a chaos emerald?" I asked, unsubtly changing the subject.
He cringed.
"I've got good news and bad news. Good news first?" He didn't stop to receive an answer, instead turning his communicator's camera to a gray, angular tank. It almost looked like an Abrams, with a pair of Browning M2 machine guns mounted on top of the turret hatches. "We're getting this bad boy gift wrapped for you to pick up. A prize gift for a valued customer! On the house!"
I smiled.
"Oh, the places we could go with more of these. I'll let you know when I'm back in Casabana."
"Unfortunately, I ran into a bit of a snag trying to find you one of those, ah, aoschay emeraldsyay." He was pretty cautious about those, preferring if I didn't mention them in calls any more than I had to. "His Egg-cellency has the distribution chain for those things under lock and key. And by the way I hear it on the Krudzu vine, Robotnik hasn't had much luck in finding any new ones since Nack dropped the ball on his last contract."
"That's a shame. No other clues for where I might find one?"
"Your best bet would be to go fishing around in a pocket zone for a stone of your own, or to try and settle for a power gem. I could probably make that happen with some capital up front! But if a you-know-what were to, say, fall off the back of a hovertruck? You'd keep your rights to first refusal, no butts about it!"
"Ees this seat taken?" a voice to my side asked.
I turned to face Fifi the Poodle. I only knew two people with that accent, and the only way Sir Bruin was getting buzzed these days was with an electromagnet.
"I'll talk to you later," I said to Weasley.
"Ta ta for now!"
I snapped the hologram phone shut and turned back to face my friend. By this point, I was feeling especially lightheaded, and a lot more conversational. I wasn't gonna let a little bad news get me down!
"Heya, Fifi! Sit on down!"
She took a seat next to me, and gave a sigh of relief.
"Merci. Now zat Le Duck fellow might take ze hint." Looking at my back, I could see that a tipsy William Le Duck was giving her the goo-goo eyes until he tipped over. I doubted he'd be deemed airworthy come tomorrow morning. "He ees friendly, bus let us just say that he ees not my type."
"How'd the battle go after I left? I heard you took out, like, fifty SWATbots on your own!"
"Eet was only twenty five at ze most!" she said bashfully. "Much of ze hard work was done by ze bombs, and by Monsieur Chat's bravery and skills with ze sword. And zen you took out both of ze super badniks! And without ze shields, we would have been--"
"Details, details!" I pulled out two glass flutes from behind the counter. "How about a toast to the best sniper in the kingdom?"
"I would be honaired, but I was hoping you could help moi with something first? A little thing, before ze night gets too late."
"Sure! What can the resident wizard do for you?"
"Not too loud!" she whispered. She did a sniff. "Sacre bleu, are you drunk already?"
"Nah," I gestured to the whiskey. "I've only had…"
When I looked, the whiskey bottle was knocked over by my hand and completely empty.
Whoops.
Fifi shuffled out of her chair.
"Maybe zis was a mistake. Sorry for ze bother. Good evening, Monsieur Scarlet."
I held out a hand.
"Hold on! If you came to me, you definitely need some magic done. Is anyone else offering magical consultation that I don't know about?" She shook her head. "For free, even?" She shook her head again. "Didn't think so. From that angle, what do you have to lose?"
Whatever it was, I hoped I could fake it without actually having magic. And significantly drunker than I thought I was moments ago.
No sweat!
"V-Very well. Do you have a spell that can make me more…" She struggled to get the next words out. "Valorous? I have a, erm, thing I must do tonight. I need to be very brave, or I will not do eet. Een fact, I would put eet off another day! And zen another! FOREVER!"
I glanced back at Chat and Finella. They were both holding the cheap beer bottles, pointing and yelling at each other to figure out which one of them sullied their table with it. Taking another look back at Fifi, I could see that she was still staring wistfully at her debonair hero, her heart aflutter.
I was probably intoxicated enough that Figment would feel it in the morning, sure, but I could've manually blinded myself earlier and still see the torch Fifi was holding for that behatted cat. At this point, I was confident enough that it went both ways, and neither of them had noticed enough to act on it.
Let's see if I can fix that.
"Finally working up the nerve to tell him, huh?"
"H-Him?" she stammered. "Oh! I mean, um. Whoever could you mean?"
I gave her a look. She was blushing furiously.
"Your poker face? It's garbage. Get a new one."
She sighed.
"Fine, fine! It ees Chat. Will you do eet or not?"
My eyes went back to the flutes.
"I'm all out of spells for the night," I said honestly. Fifi's ears and tail drooped, until I followed that truth with a massive lie. "But I have just enough magic left to brew a potion."
"Y-You do?" Her eyes narrowed. "It ees not a trick to make me as drunk as a lord, non?"
While I was curious about how alcohol would affect mobians, given the difference of average body weight, that wasn't my intent.
"Not at all. I don't know how long you guys live, but if you're anything like me, then you've only got one life to live it. So I'm gonna do you a solid."
Doing a spin of my wrist to make what I was doing seem more impressive than it really was, I exorcized a gin off the shelf and poured the spirit into a metal mug. Next, I took a lemon from an opened crate and crushed it, the fresh juice going into the mug with the gin. Then I started to shake.
"What ees zat concoction you are brewing?"
It was a classic cocktail. Since cocktails didn't really take off back home until the 1800s, it might as well be a new artifice. With some humorism mixed in to make the bluff stick.
"A little bit of alchemy I picked up on a trip to New Orleans. An elixir to… boot your sanguine and choleric humors! They call it a French 75."
"Soixante Quinze?" she asked. "Why would you need so many Frenches? What even ees a French?"
I laughed off her question and poured the mixture into one of the flutes, before topping it off with the Outlands white wine. I made a gesture of sprinkling an infinitesimally fine powder into the cup. The only reason she couldn't see it was because it didn't exist.
"Ta da! Gin, lemon juice, and champagne. Plus a pinch of fairy dust."
"Zat does not sound so bad. Except for ze poor fairies." I sliced a bit of lemon rind to hang atop the glass for extra flair. "D-Did you always have those claws?"
I slid the glass to her.
"Come on, drink it! Before the magic wears off." She stared at the glass, not drinking it. My mood darkened a tinge, and I frowned. "Remember what I said a second ago about only having one life to live?"
"Yes?" she fielded cautiously.
"You're a freedom fighter. Chat's a freedom fighter. Dangerous line of work. There might not be another chance like this one, and you know exactly what I mean by that."
I slid my thumb across my neck. Ignoring the facts that people died and that this celebration was half a memorial for those lost didn't change the fact that Fifi might not get another shot. Better to do it now, failure or not.
"But what if I am rejected? What if I ruin what we already have?"
"Won't happen."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Experience. And not the magic kind. You're in love, so stop making yourself miserable second-guessing it!"
It's a sad day for romance when I'm the one who has to speak on it's behalf. She considered my words of wisdom and, with some reluctance, took a test sip. Then her eyes opened wide.
"Ooh! Eet has a kick! Like ze recoil of a cannon!"
Fifi drank the rest without further prodding.
"Took you long enough. Can you feel the elixir fortifying your soul?"
"I think I feel eet!" she exclaimed. "I feel incroyable!"
I picked her up out of her chair and gave Fifi an encouraging push in the right direction.
"Then go over there and follow your heart, girl!"
She took the cue, running straight towards her knight. Chat turned towards her, holding one of the beer bottles in his hand.
"Fifi, can you believe one of these blackguards would be so uncivilized as to place this swill next to the pride of our--"
Chat was interrupted by Fifi embracing him to deliver a passionate, film-worthy kiss. He seemed confused and shocked at first, only now being shocked out of the phase where he didn't know they were already an item yet. Once he figured out what was going on, he was quick to reciprocate the unspoken declaration of love.
He also did the leg-raise-up thing after they started making out. If this doesn't get Chat off my case, I don't know what will.
Lady Finella looked at the young lovers with a joyous, if wistful, twinkle in her eye… until her eyes landed on the empty bottles next to me. Not wanting to disturb them, Finella started stomping towards me with a rolled-up sleeve and a spoon.
Where'd the spoon come from?!
"Scarlet! No one dares take a drop of Highlands whiskey without tryin' my haggis first!"
Seeing that my good deed for the night was done, I started walking in the other direction at a fairly upright gait. This had to be a power thing, because I didn't feel like I'd trip or fall over if I got into a serious situation.
Then again, I was very, very drunk. I extended my arms up to the treetops, flung myself onto the walkway, and then tumbled straight over the railing I installed to prevent that sort of thing from happening. When I landed back on the ground, entangled in my own limbs, it was Lady Finella who dragged me up by the ears and forced me to finish a plate of haggis in front of her. I managed the feat, made my leave, and threw up only after I was absolutely, positively certain that she wasn't around to misconstrue the act as an indictment on her cooking.
Once the last trial of the evening was complete, I started making my way back to my hut. It was probably a good idea to call it quits while I was ahead.
"Hey Wizard," Fiona Fox said, leaning on the side of the rail I overshot. "Heading to bed already?"
The red fox was sitting on top of the railing I put along the walkway, in the way that people do when they've never fallen several flights before.
"Yeah?" I said. "That was the plan, yes."
"I've got an offer to make."
I waved her off.
"You and your team did good out there. Just eat, drink, and be merry for the night."
"They won't let me drink!"
What, really?
"How… old are you, again?"
She crossed her arms.
"Thirteen and a half," she grumbled.
Huh. I guess I needed to remember that Tails could fly a plane with a machine gun on it at like, eight? I almost forgot that, with how relatively normal Amy behaves. Mobian kids could be way more competent than their ages would suggest.
"Whatever. I'm sure your offer can wait for tomorrow."
"That depends. Will your blue rock there change back to pink in the morning on its own?"
I frowned. Clearly, she had a hunch it wouldn't.
"It's not any of your concern, Fiona. You're a merc."
She made a falsely innocent face.
"Not any of my concern, huh? Then I guess you aren't interested in finding out where you can get a chaos emerald."
"You know where I can find a chaos emerald?"
She shrugged.
"I might. But if you wanna hit the hay now and get some shut-eye, old timer, then it's like you said. I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow."
I rolled my eyes.
"Alright, fine. Start talking."
"Good wizard. Here's my offer."
At some point after Fiona Fox started talking, my hippocampus stopped recording. It tended to happen when you drank far too much than any doctor would find advisable.
When I next woke up, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a biplane over Angel Island.
- - -
Chapter 20: After Dark
The planet Mobius, which was likely Earth before some catastrophe or another, had thus far thrown a lot of challenges at me. I fell from space. I've fought hordes of evil robots who would gleefully shoot me down or ram me through if given the chance, and they got more than a few licks in. I've learned enough black magic to violate moral and ethical barriers that were previously unthinkable. I wasn't sure if I was processing the fact I might be the only human on the continent, but I was at the point where I could deal with it enough that I could keep on living. Keep on surviving.
That being said, I wasn't expecting Friar Buck to invite me to help with catering for our post-battle soiree. There was more than enough food to go around now, so why not do something special to celebrate a solid win against the High Sheriff's forces? A party was good for our morale. The Friar asked if there were any good recipes I knew from my homeland, and I did the best I could with what we had.
"How's it taste? Does it need anything else?"
Friar Buck lowered the ladle into one of the stainless steel pots that was warming on the canister stove. He deftly manipulated the utensil past the strips of salt pork to scoop up some mixed beans to sample. I understood that the Friar was still considered a pacifist because he laid nonlethal traps, bolstered spirits, and didn't directly dirty his hands in combat, but his declared status as a vegetarian was a lot more iffy. I was pretty sure that eating beans boiled in the same pot with meat was cheating.
"I say! The legumes taste splendid!" he said.
"Thanks. I was worried I made a bad call."
Since I didn't have too much time to decide what to make, and whatever I made needed to feed more people than I could spread a pizza or two, feijoada was what I ended up going with. A hearty stew of beans and pork. The national dish of Brazil. Simple enough that I could make it from memory. The recipe normally called for black beans, but I had to work with the kidney and pinto beans that were included with some of the meal rations. I was also able to secure some turmeric for the yellow rice that went with the feijoada during my trip to Casabana, giving my contribution a bit of a Cuban flair.
When it was done, it should almost taste like home. It was nice to do something that didn't involve inflicting large quantities of violence. Maybe I could cook more often? I'd have to try making café con leche or a pressed sub another time.
"Nay. I'd say the dish fares well, John."
If Friar Buck's response told me anything, the feijoada should be received decently enough. He wished me good tidings and stepped away to observe -- as well as subtly taste test -- what everyone else was cooking. The villagers that had been at or around Hideaway were going to be bringing roast mutton, custard tarts, boiled vegetables, cooked haddock, sweet rolls, and meat pies. The Mercians of the Highlands and Outlands were invited as well, which meant we could expect French and Scottish dishes at this potluck. Cuisine that wouldn't be out of line for the Middle Ages… until someone brought out a tray of black pudding on whole wheat smothered in a paste of minced beef, cheese, and vegetables.
I did a double take when I saw that last one being prepared on a tray. Was that a local attempt at a chili dog? It looked like a certain blue hedgehog's influence spread further than his direct contributions to the freedom fight.
Once the preparations were completed, the feast began in earnest. I hadn't seen this many mobians in one place since… ever, really. Except maybe when we got Clan Argyle loose from that landship. Each of the disparate levels of Hideaway, from the treetops to the forest floor, was flush with people enjoying a bit of happiness in an otherwise miserable situation. Rob o' the Hedge was at the center of the festivities, being hoisted up in a makeshift throne for everyone to see. I knew he got flustered in regards to the whole 'king' part of being a king, but he was being a good sport about all of the extra attention. I doubted I'd be seeing much of him one-on-one. Amy followed her cousin's palanquin in a Ren Fair princess costume and chucked confetti until she had to be tucked away for bed.
I was happy for them all, sure. I was enjoying the food, too. It just took some reacclimating to the extra noise and people. In all directions. With the only respite from the buzzing atmosphere being wherever Figment went after he snagged a whole pig and flew away to eat in peace.
Good food or not, I already knew tonight was gonna be a hard one for my nerves.
"🎶~Singing too-ral-li, oo-ral-li, addity,
Singing too-ral-li, oo-ral-li, ay,
Singing too-ral-li, oo-ral-li, addity,
And we'll see you in Priscilla Bay!"
Presto and Cadence, being minstrels by trade, went all-out with putting together a show, whipping up a band from a few villagers who could play instruments and carry a tune. The civilians initially gave the two of them the cold shoulder. There was a general stigma around the entertainers' profession of choice, and people were scared of the mechanical parts they were stuck with, but the two of them gradually won over the crowd with their regular service to the king and their ability to lift anyones' spirits.
They both bowed to the audience.
"Thank ye, thank ye!" Presto said.
"We haven't had this warm a' reception since we played at Scarburrow!" Cadence added.
When the applause died down, Presto cleared his throat.
"Now, we'd like ta play this next song as a tribute to our fightin' wizard!" Presto pointed me out, as though I was possible to miss in a sea of munchkins. "Give it up fer Sir Scarlet!"
The response was tepid, with a few claps and huzzahs sent my way out of obligation. I appreciated the gesture, and I could tell the bards were trying to help sway the opinion of the common folk in my favor, but I didn't expect it to work for me as it did for them.
At the end of the day, the cyborgs were still mostly mobian. I wasn't, and never was. Seeing that I wasn't quite getting the reception they were hoping for, the two salvaged the festive mood with a rendition of their newest fighting song, Come Out Ye Metal Mans.
If I still had a charge of magic, I'd have used them to walk off and rejoin the party with a new face. Blend in with the rest. Instead, I've had to come as I was.
A human. An overlander.
♦ 0
Pushing myself past my limits and going further than that meant I was officially out of juice. The Phantom Ruby's pink hue was replaced with a dull blue. It left me feeling weak and sluggish, not having a constant flow of magic keeping me vertical, but it was preferable to instant death. Dying when the Ruby went dry was a dumb thing to worry about, in hindsight, but I had a lot of dumb worries mixed in with the real ones.
I gave a grateful nod to Presto and Cadence for the tribute and disengaged from the crowd, making my way down one of the spiral staircases around a tall tree to the snowy ground. When I put a hand on the thick bark of the olden oak to hold myself steady, a set of thick spikes popped through my gloves to strengthen my grip.
Not again.
It was one of those worries of mine that was finally coming to roost: That the Phantom Ruby had made me as much a mutant as Figment. I'd noticed one of the most recent modifications to my body, two feral sets of claws, shortly after that last badnik skirmish. They were on my hands when I grabbed onto that tree to stop my fall, and they lingered, independent of whether the gem was powered or not. Shortly afterward, I discovered a new set of fangs that had grown in to replace my incisors or canines. I wasn't a dentist, but my tongue certainly felt the new additions when I nearly lost it while eating. While they weren't retractable like the claws, the fangs were less visible when I kept my mouth shut.
Any one of those changes, several of them in tandem, or some specific alterations wrought to my vocal chords, could've accounted for my voice being rougher and raspier than before all of this. Assuming it wasn't, of course, from all of the screaming.
That cinched it. The Phantom Ruby was turning me into a damn werehog.
There was a pattern of cause and effect to these accumulated changes. The more I was hurt, the more Phantom Ruby energy I burned up, and the more monstrous I became after it healed the damage. What didn't kill me made me stranger.
Fine. Fine! I guess I'm not human anymore, either!
My claws carved a bit too deep into the wood, leaving thick gashes through the bark. With a force of effort, I willed them to recede back into my skin. Now they only looked like unusually sharpened nails. Barely visible through the holes in my gloves.
Why was it happening? Was it a reaction to my desire to be stronger? To not be hurt? Were the energies inside this thing on the same wavelength as Dark Gaia?
Ah, yes. Dark Gaia. The apocalyptic force of destruction that would burst out of the mantle like an egg and end the world. Not exactly something I was looking forward to. With any luck, it wouldn't be a problem for a few more eons.
Then again, that didn't track. Figment's mutations or mine weren't affected by the cycle of day and night. And how could I be a werehog if I wasn't a hedgehog in the first place? Would I be a werewolf? Or a were… man? Is that even a thing?
I took a deep, deep sigh.
You know what? No more thinking, when I can do the rhyme of it.
The food was nice. Great, even. It's just that this was what I was looking forward to all night. Moving around the mass of mobians who were loitering in one spot of this liminal fairgrounds or another, I made my way to a congregation that had formed around the base of the tree. Several wooden barrels were rolled out and stacked together with faucets on tap; the centerpiece of an improvised outdoor pub, stocked with what everyone could scavenge from a kingdom's worth of abandoned cellars and hidden distilleries. I sat down at the counter and waited to be served.
And waited. I rapped my fingers against the table, which went from a tapping to a rhythmic series of clacks.
And waited. The sloth tending the bar was slowly, very slowly, serving everyone. I appeared to be at the bottom of the list. If I was even on the list.
"Barkeep! Three more sarsaparillas for our adventuring party!" Bean shouted, causing the sloth to slowly turn around again before he could hand me a drink. Any kind of drink.
So much for an open bar.
It was time to take matters into my own hands. Still seated, I stretched my arm around the counter and helped myself to a bottle of genuine Highlands whiskey on the other side of the pub. It was sitting on a table next to several other whiskeys and several bottles of Villa Stellan vintage wine, the lot of which were the subject of a heated debate between Finella and Chat as to which beverage was superior. The whiskey tasted like warm, malty ambrosia burning a path down my throat. I made sure to replace the bottle with a low-shelf beer; the two of them could bond over how much they both hated it.
I went back and replaced a bottle of wine, too, because I didn't want to look biased.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see David Dormouse nursing an ale next to Gilbert Woolhand and Arthur Boar. Arthur gave me a dirty look, but didn't say anything. Probably because he'd have to grab his crutches and brave the snow if he wanted to confront me. I doubted whatever he'd say to me would be about the alcohol.
It's a party. Just. Drink. And try to be happy for a night.
I liked the Not Scotch, but it needed something more. I reached to where someone laid out the sodas in the snow to cool off, ignoring the cries of alarm as my arm sailed high over the crowd to reach the bottles. I wasn't sure if the ultra-sugary drinks would take off on their own here. Which was probably the best for Mercia's long-term health, but tonight I wasn't worrying about the long term anything. Or whether or not this Whiskey and Coke was actually a Whiskey and Chaos Cola with the label ripped off. I just needed to sit down and pour myself an easy cocktail on the rocks.
"Was it three fingers Jack, or three fingers Coke?" I asked myself, before erring on the side of more Jack than Coke. Not exactly a highball anymore. The horn shape of my drinking horn also skewed the numbers a bit. Who's to say if I poured too much whiskey on the first go, and had to drink it back down so I could get the measurements right?
Once I got it down, I drank. The smokiness now had a complement of sweetness to it.
I could've used one of these months ago.
It's a shame we didn't have anyone here to represent the virtues of rum. Then I could put together a Hurricane or Mai Tai. Or a Mercia Libre!
Heh. Now it really was like a vacation. Being trapped in another world, depending on how you thought about it, was just a permanent kind of vacation. Severed all of the old problems, since no one ever came back from these kinds of things. My Earth felt like it was one bad day away from destroying myself anyway. I made my escape, and I was free!!
For all of its problems, Mobius was a clean break. This was a place where I had power. Actual power. I'm more important now than I'd ever been as a cog in a machine. People needed me here. Genuinely so. Even if they didn't always give me the respect I deserved.
Who cared? I was free now. No old job, no old money woes, no old family keeping me down.
But no old friends, either.
I wonder if they still thought about me.
Are they still wondering where I went, after I never logged back in again?
Do they miss me?
I'd… hoped I'd be the happy kind of drunk, too thoroughly hammered to think long before these thoughts came back to haunt me.
The best I could hope for was that they kept their health, and I kept mine.
…
I refilled the glass and took another drink.
Feeling relaxed enough to slide back into old habits, I pulled out my communicator to check my messages. It didn't take Ruby energy for me to draw small things like that from Null Space anymore, though the biggest thing I could bring out like this was Morglay.
There were a couple of unread emails on the device. A timetable for the training of Doberman's armored regimen, which was coming together nicely. They said they were happy with the crates of beer being deployed to their location. A reply back to the warning I sent Hector and the Dire Wolves about the extra scrutiny in the North Central Sea, mentioning they were staying in the south until things died down. An RSVP for when the Cult of the Ruby Flame planned to ritually consume my flesh next week.
The only video message was a holographic recording, a few hours old, sent by Wes--
Who plans to do what??
I reopened that email chain from the hyena biker gang, catching up on a trickle of messages that this discount communicator I got from Wes Weasley erroneously marked as spam. I like to think I would've noticed that I had a cult sooner otherwise!
The first one was only a couple of days old. An introductory statement peppered with awe of my divine power, sent with devotional regards from my high priestess. The hyena in the picture bore a resemblance to the forewoman assigned to manage the motorpool, Benzina. No, scratch that. It was Benzina. The image was grainy, but I could see that she now sported a fierce, magenta mohawk that was dyed the same hue as the Phantom Ruby. Benzina wanted me to rest well in the knowledge that she made sure none of my adherents were slacking on the job. They were all really excited by the opportunity to bask in my glory, and would stick around for at least a month to fight in my honor after I 'departed'.
It'd be commendable, if it wasn't for the whole 'they want to eat me' part. I tried to pinch the bridge of my nose, only to poke my eyes with the new claws.
"Ow!"
The other messages were updates on the process of the Ruby Flame changing their leather jacket patches and paraphernalia from the generic spikes and bleached skulls I found them with to things that more strongly invoked the imagery of Figment and I. Pink, red, and purple accessories. Even new tattoos, which took the form of bizarre, geometric shapes.
The most recent email was the invite to the upcoming feast, with a diagram for seating arrangement around the altar. The upcoming event was why they declined to participate in this one. They had to abstain from certain foods or drinks for religious reasons in the lead-up to the ceremony, and the Crimson Flame didn't want to spoil their appetites.
How pious of them. I poured myself another one and dialed up Weasley. After a few rings, I was taken to his answering machine.
"Wes Weasley here! I'm busy with another client at the moment, but if you can leave a message, I'm sure I can--"
"Pick up the phone, Weasley," I harshly whispered into the mic. "Or I have the hyenas serve you as an appetizer when they take me out to dinner. As the main course."
The voicemail abruptly cut off, replaced with a live feed of Wes Weasley, who was still scrambling to switch out his night cap for his fedora.
"In my defense, I thought they only did that to their kings! And that the rest of their mobian-eating talk was a scare tactic! You must've made a great first impression on them for them to go to all the effort of doing it for real!"
"Do I have to worry about them getting rowdy if I refuse?" A dark thought occurred to me. "Did they already get started?"
He waved his hands furiously.
"No siree, sir! No need to worry about that second one! Look, palsy! Am I right to say they've gone and made themselves up as your new fan club?"
I haven't exactly pushed it, but they have been following my commands when I asked them to do things. How was I supposed to know they'd take it this far? I officially regretted bemoaning that no one appreciated me. This was easily too much in the opposite direction.
"Of a sort."
"Then what's the big problem? Just tell them you don't want to be a served man! And besides, I saw how you handled those super mercs and the sandcrawler. They did, too! Do you really think a mere pack of hyenas could cook your goose unless you wanted them to?"
He… actually had a point. Besides, I probably shouldn't do anything rash while I was in the middle of attempting to make myself blackout drunk.
"You're right. This is… manageable."
"Exactly! You just sit back and let old Wes handle the business side of things."
"Any word on a chaos emerald?" I asked, unsubtly changing the subject.
He cringed.
"I've got good news and bad news. Good news first?" He didn't stop to receive an answer, instead turning his communicator's camera to a gray, angular tank. It almost looked like an Abrams, with a pair of Browning M2 machine guns mounted on top of the turret hatches. "We're getting this bad boy gift wrapped for you to pick up. A prize gift for a valued customer! On the house!"
I smiled.
"Oh, the places we could go with more of these. I'll let you know when I'm back in Casabana."
"Unfortunately, I ran into a bit of a snag trying to find you one of those, ah, aoschay emeraldsyay." He was pretty cautious about those, preferring if I didn't mention them in calls any more than I had to. "His Egg-cellency has the distribution chain for those things under lock and key. And by the way I hear it on the Krudzu vine, Robotnik hasn't had much luck in finding any new ones since Nack dropped the ball on his last contract."
"That's a shame. No other clues for where I might find one?"
"Your best bet would be to go fishing around in a pocket zone for a stone of your own, or to try and settle for a power gem. I could probably make that happen with some capital up front! But if a you-know-what were to, say, fall off the back of a hovertruck? You'd keep your rights to first refusal, no butts about it!"
"Ees this seat taken?" a voice to my side asked.
I turned to face Fifi the Poodle. I only knew two people with that accent, and the only way Sir Bruin was getting buzzed these days was with an electromagnet.
"I'll talk to you later," I said to Weasley.
"Ta ta for now!"
I snapped the hologram phone shut and turned back to face my friend. By this point, I was feeling especially lightheaded, and a lot more conversational. I wasn't gonna let a little bad news get me down!
"Heya, Fifi! Sit on down!"
She took a seat next to me, and gave a sigh of relief.
"Merci. Now zat Le Duck fellow might take ze hint." Looking at my back, I could see that a tipsy William Le Duck was giving her the goo-goo eyes until he tipped over. I doubted he'd be deemed airworthy come tomorrow morning. "He ees friendly, bus let us just say that he ees not my type."
"How'd the battle go after I left? I heard you took out, like, fifty SWATbots on your own!"
"Eet was only twenty five at ze most!" she said bashfully. "Much of ze hard work was done by ze bombs, and by Monsieur Chat's bravery and skills with ze sword. And zen you took out both of ze super badniks! And without ze shields, we would have been--"
"Details, details!" I pulled out two glass flutes from behind the counter. "How about a toast to the best sniper in the kingdom?"
"I would be honaired, but I was hoping you could help moi with something first? A little thing, before ze night gets too late."
"Sure! What can the resident wizard do for you?"
"Not too loud!" she whispered. She did a sniff. "Sacre bleu, are you drunk already?"
"Nah," I gestured to the whiskey. "I've only had…"
When I looked, the whiskey bottle was knocked over by my hand and completely empty.
Whoops.
Fifi shuffled out of her chair.
"Maybe zis was a mistake. Sorry for ze bother. Good evening, Monsieur Scarlet."
I held out a hand.
"Hold on! If you came to me, you definitely need some magic done. Is anyone else offering magical consultation that I don't know about?" She shook her head. "For free, even?" She shook her head again. "Didn't think so. From that angle, what do you have to lose?"
Whatever it was, I hoped I could fake it without actually having magic. And significantly drunker than I thought I was moments ago.
No sweat!
"V-Very well. Do you have a spell that can make me more…" She struggled to get the next words out. "Valorous? I have a, erm, thing I must do tonight. I need to be very brave, or I will not do eet. Een fact, I would put eet off another day! And zen another! FOREVER!"
I glanced back at Chat and Finella. They were both holding the cheap beer bottles, pointing and yelling at each other to figure out which one of them sullied their table with it. Taking another look back at Fifi, I could see that she was still staring wistfully at her debonair hero, her heart aflutter.
I was probably intoxicated enough that Figment would feel it in the morning, sure, but I could've manually blinded myself earlier and still see the torch Fifi was holding for that behatted cat. At this point, I was confident enough that it went both ways, and neither of them had noticed enough to act on it.
Let's see if I can fix that.
"Finally working up the nerve to tell him, huh?"
"H-Him?" she stammered. "Oh! I mean, um. Whoever could you mean?"
I gave her a look. She was blushing furiously.
"Your poker face? It's garbage. Get a new one."
She sighed.
"Fine, fine! It ees Chat. Will you do eet or not?"
My eyes went back to the flutes.
"I'm all out of spells for the night," I said honestly. Fifi's ears and tail drooped, until I followed that truth with a massive lie. "But I have just enough magic left to brew a potion."
"Y-You do?" Her eyes narrowed. "It ees not a trick to make me as drunk as a lord, non?"
While I was curious about how alcohol would affect mobians, given the difference of average body weight, that wasn't my intent.
"Not at all. I don't know how long you guys live, but if you're anything like me, then you've only got one life to live it. So I'm gonna do you a solid."
Doing a spin of my wrist to make what I was doing seem more impressive than it really was, I exorcized a gin off the shelf and poured the spirit into a metal mug. Next, I took a lemon from an opened crate and crushed it, the fresh juice going into the mug with the gin. Then I started to shake.
"What ees zat concoction you are brewing?"
It was a classic cocktail. Since cocktails didn't really take off back home until the 1800s, it might as well be a new artifice. With some humorism mixed in to make the bluff stick.
"A little bit of alchemy I picked up on a trip to New Orleans. An elixir to… boot your sanguine and choleric humors! They call it a French 75."
"Soixante Quinze?" she asked. "Why would you need so many Frenches? What even ees a French?"
I laughed off her question and poured the mixture into one of the flutes, before topping it off with the Outlands white wine. I made a gesture of sprinkling an infinitesimally fine powder into the cup. The only reason she couldn't see it was because it didn't exist.
"Ta da! Gin, lemon juice, and champagne. Plus a pinch of fairy dust."
"Zat does not sound so bad. Except for ze poor fairies." I sliced a bit of lemon rind to hang atop the glass for extra flair. "D-Did you always have those claws?"
I slid the glass to her.
"Come on, drink it! Before the magic wears off." She stared at the glass, not drinking it. My mood darkened a tinge, and I frowned. "Remember what I said a second ago about only having one life to live?"
"Yes?" she fielded cautiously.
"You're a freedom fighter. Chat's a freedom fighter. Dangerous line of work. There might not be another chance like this one, and you know exactly what I mean by that."
I slid my thumb across my neck. Ignoring the facts that people died and that this celebration was half a memorial for those lost didn't change the fact that Fifi might not get another shot. Better to do it now, failure or not.
"But what if I am rejected? What if I ruin what we already have?"
"Won't happen."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Experience. And not the magic kind. You're in love, so stop making yourself miserable second-guessing it!"
It's a sad day for romance when I'm the one who has to speak on it's behalf. She considered my words of wisdom and, with some reluctance, took a test sip. Then her eyes opened wide.
"Ooh! Eet has a kick! Like ze recoil of a cannon!"
Fifi drank the rest without further prodding.
"Took you long enough. Can you feel the elixir fortifying your soul?"
"I think I feel eet!" she exclaimed. "I feel incroyable!"
I picked her up out of her chair and gave Fifi an encouraging push in the right direction.
"Then go over there and follow your heart, girl!"
She took the cue, running straight towards her knight. Chat turned towards her, holding one of the beer bottles in his hand.
"Fifi, can you believe one of these blackguards would be so uncivilized as to place this swill next to the pride of our--"
Chat was interrupted by Fifi embracing him to deliver a passionate, film-worthy kiss. He seemed confused and shocked at first, only now being shocked out of the phase where he didn't know they were already an item yet. Once he figured out what was going on, he was quick to reciprocate the unspoken declaration of love.
He also did the leg-raise-up thing after they started making out. If this doesn't get Chat off my case, I don't know what will.
Lady Finella looked at the young lovers with a joyous, if wistful, twinkle in her eye… until her eyes landed on the empty bottles next to me. Not wanting to disturb them, Finella started stomping towards me with a rolled-up sleeve and a spoon.
Where'd the spoon come from?!
"Scarlet! No one dares take a drop of Highlands whiskey without tryin' my haggis first!"
Seeing that my good deed for the night was done, I started walking in the other direction at a fairly upright gait. This had to be a power thing, because I didn't feel like I'd trip or fall over if I got into a serious situation.
Then again, I was very, very drunk. I extended my arms up to the treetops, flung myself onto the walkway, and then tumbled straight over the railing I installed to prevent that sort of thing from happening. When I landed back on the ground, entangled in my own limbs, it was Lady Finella who dragged me up by the ears and forced me to finish a plate of haggis in front of her. I managed the feat, made my leave, and threw up only after I was absolutely, positively certain that she wasn't around to misconstrue the act as an indictment on her cooking.
Once the last trial of the evening was complete, I started making my way back to my hut. It was probably a good idea to call it quits while I was ahead.
"Hey Wizard," Fiona Fox said, leaning on the side of the rail I overshot. "Heading to bed already?"
The red fox was sitting on top of the railing I put along the walkway, in the way that people do when they've never fallen several flights before.
"Yeah?" I said. "That was the plan, yes."
"I've got an offer to make."
I waved her off.
"You and your team did good out there. Just eat, drink, and be merry for the night."
"They won't let me drink!"
What, really?
"How… old are you, again?"
She crossed her arms.
"Thirteen and a half," she grumbled.
Huh. I guess I needed to remember that Tails could fly a plane with a machine gun on it at like, eight? I almost forgot that, with how relatively normal Amy behaves. Mobian kids could be way more competent than their ages would suggest.
"Whatever. I'm sure your offer can wait for tomorrow."
"That depends. Will your blue rock there change back to pink in the morning on its own?"
I frowned. Clearly, she had a hunch it wouldn't.
"It's not any of your concern, Fiona. You're a merc."
She made a falsely innocent face.
"Not any of my concern, huh? Then I guess you aren't interested in finding out where you can get a chaos emerald."
"You know where I can find a chaos emerald?"
She shrugged.
"I might. But if you wanna hit the hay now and get some shut-eye, old timer, then it's like you said. I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow."
I rolled my eyes.
"Alright, fine. Start talking."
"Good wizard. Here's my offer."
At some point after Fiona Fox started talking, my hippocampus stopped recording. It tended to happen when you drank far too much than any doctor would find advisable.
When I next woke up, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a biplane over Angel Island.
- - -
Not much to say this time, really, save that every time I tried to finish the chapter, it got a little longer instead! I had to chase it down and nail it to the wall so that it was postable.
At his request, I include here a credit for the chili dogs, inspired by a comment from @Storyteller222. I also didn't explicitly mention beans in this version of the chili dogs for the sake of @N'Oni, because there's a lot of contention as to whether or not beans belong in chili at all. I don't want to spark a firestorm of a debate about it here.
The next chapter will be the non-canon bonus: All Along the Space Colony!
At his request, I include here a credit for the chili dogs, inspired by a comment from @Storyteller222. I also didn't explicitly mention beans in this version of the chili dogs for the sake of @N'Oni, because there's a lot of contention as to whether or not beans belong in chili at all. I don't want to spark a firestorm of a debate about it here.
The next chapter will be the non-canon bonus: All Along the Space Colony!
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