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A Gamer's Guide 169
🕑 Added 2023-08-10 11:15:51 +0000 UTCThe shower wasn’t exactly a shower, but it was warm water that fell onto me, so I had no reason to complain. I took my first proper shower in… two years, technically speaking? Then again, I wasn’t much of a shower-goer even before that, so it could have been longer.
It was nice. I had soap to use that smelled herbal and a little weird. I even got to dry off with a towel, and when I exited, Moleman had left me a change of clothes. Nothing extravagant, just a pair of dark pants and a white cotton shirt, but it felt like an armani suit with gold buttons. Moleman didn’t mind me keeping them, but I swore on my life that I would return them before the next battle tomorrow. Otherwise, I’d no doubt ruin them beyond repair.
He made dinner for us both to eat. I had almost expected us to go out to find a restaurant to eat at, but with our shared experience of trying to find lunch fresh in our minds, we agreed to eat something simpler.
Meatballs. Meatballs with potatoes and brown sauce. No lingonberry sauce, but we survived. I didn’t entirely catch onto what meat was used, but I was reasonably certain it was neither beef nor pork. Still good, though that might just have been thanks to Moleman’s methods.
I wasn’t sure if this counted as a fulfillment of our promise to get dinner, but according to Moleman, that only counted when his mother made the food. Not him. Well, if he said so.
Nevertheless, after a good dinner, we decided to head out on the town to celebrate my win with a drink or two.
There was no shortage of pubs to choose from in the city, some smaller, some larger, some fancy, others less so. Drinks were bought with points. Depending on the place, so were the reservations. At first, Moleman had wanted to go to a nicer place, but I had succeeded in convincing him to instead enter a smaller, more typical pub.
Funnily enough, when we went inside, I had actually sort of expected that wild west trope to happen, with the music abruptly stopping and for everyone to turn to me, silent and staring. But, no. People didn’t even glance my way, too occupied with drinks and food and company to stare at… a guy who looks completely normal. I’ve got a shirt, I’ve got pants, and my hair isn’t as greasy as a knot of rats. I refused socks and shoes, but other than that, for once, I actually look… normal.
The only people who pay attention to our arrival is a small group I don’t recognize who notice Moleman—not me—and wave at him. Moleman waves back at them, and then we go over to the counter.
We sit down, and I notice with a smidge of interest that the bartender isn’t one of several dozen copies of the goddess of compassion, but is, in fact, a dude. Just a man. A man with an intense, powerful look in his eye that leaves me almost wanting to kowtow. Instead, I sit down at the counter, Moleman taking the seat next to me. “Two beers,” Moleman says. “Anything light you’ve got on tap.”
The bartender nods and pours us both a glass each. I take a sip, and remember only once the brew touches the back of my throat that I don’t like the taste of beer.
Moleman chuckles at the face I make. “It’s alright, nobody actually likes the taste. We all just pretend we do.” He lifts up his glass towards me. “Anyways, congratulations on winning the all-skirmish!”
I clink my glass against his. “Thanks,” I say. In accordance with the laws that govern toasting, I take a swig, forcing it down even though it tastes like monkey butt. I kind of want to slam the beer mug onto the counter like they do in the pictures, but I don’t want to break it, so I set it down normally. “So,” I say to Moleman, “when’s your skirmish?”
He swallows down a mouthful of beer, brows furrowing as he turns to me. “Didn’t I tell you? My party is alone on floor sixty-six, so we’ll pass straight from the preliminaries into the semi-finals.”
“You’re alone? Does that mean all the other cool parties are above you?”
He shakes his head. “No, we’re actually the only party to have reached this far. It won’t be long until we’re dethroned though, since I’ll be staying in Purgatory for a while on foreign relations business, at least until Bach arrives to take over.”
Oh. Oh? Wait.
—Oh?!
“Y—you’re the best player in the entire damn tutorial?!”
He laughs at me. “Well, best might be a bit of an overstatement. We simply happen to be the group that’s cleared the most quests. If anything, we’re the luckiest,” he says modestly. Grrr, Moleman and his dumb humbleness…! I’d be more upset had his humbleness not been completely genuine. “No,” he continues absently, “if we’re only talking best, I’d put my money on you over me anyday.”
I do a comedy spit-take of the beer, successfully covering the front part of the bartender’s apron. “Oh, shoot, sorry—”
Before I can register it properly, the stain is gone, and the bartender turns a heavy eye to Moleman. “I wouldn’t be so certain.” His voice is as weighty as his gaze.
“And why’s that, Will?” Moleman asks.
The bartender’s eyes narrow. Piercing. “I don’t need to explain what you already know.”
The impromptu staring-match that followed only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like minutes. I couldn’t tell who the winner was, but afterwards, Moleman turns to me and shrugs. I, confused, shrug back on instinct.
And then someone stumbles up next to me, drunkenly slamming his hand onto the counter for support while a friend of his, less obviously drunk but equally noxious to the nose, holds on to his shoulders to keep him from falling. The clearly drunker of the two eyes me up and down. “What the hell…” he mumbles groggily and pulls a rolled up piece of parchment from inside his coat. It’s stained with beer and several other kinds of alcohol, the stickiness granting it a sound like unrolling tape when he opens it up. He looks at me, back at the parchment, and then down at my chest. He reaches out and I let him fumble my shirt open, with him tearing it open just enough to see the brand on my chest.
“You motherfuc—” he roars and a clenched fist flies my way, knuckles aimed for my eye. I let him hit, but moved my face enough to make it hit my cheek instead of my eye. The punch is powerful and sends me crashing to the floor, head banging against the wood like a gavel and the stool I was sitting on clattering down right next to me, only barely avoiding my head. The same can’t be said for the drunk himself who either leaps or stumbles atop me, one hand powerfully gripping my collar to hold my head up and the other, clenched, going at my face, getting in one, two, three solid hits before his friend grabs him, trying futility to pull him off.
“Tyre, come on, stop, it’s not going to bring him back—”
“Shaddap!” the drunk slurs, his upper body swaying back and forth even while sitting. “This—this asshole got Dave killed! This fucking douche—all because he had to go and—and burn some fucking city, kill some fucking kids, eat babies—all because of him…!” Spittle and stuff that smells like bile flies out of his wide open maw. “This—this fucking guy—!”
Angry roars give way to equally uncontrolled sobbing and all of a sudden my face is covered in not just spit, but also tears. A fist is thrown at me but the impact is soft and he breaks down into a mess of heaving sobs and hiccuping gasps atop me. “It’s his fault, all his fault…!”
I look at him, and I look up at his friend, now also sobbing, one hand on his friend’s back, and then I look up at Moleman. He’s half slid-off the chair, fingers almost formed into a point, halfway to acting, but stopped before it got there. He meets my eyes. There’s a brief indiscernible emotion in there, soon replaced by confusion and worry, the latter not for me.
The grip on my collar is loosened. Still, I remain where I lie. Only once the friend picks up the drunk atop me, pulling him high enough to drape him onto the counter do I stand up as well, dusting off the front and back of my borrowed clothes. Leaning down, I pick up the stool and retake my seat at the counter. I grab my beer and take a sip. Eugh, still gross.
The drunk has now started pulling himself together, just a little. “Oh, God, Dave, I can’t—we can’t…” Sorrows are soon replaced by rage and he turns a flaming eye my way. “Bastard… bastard…! I hope they kill you, I hope the goblins get you, and kill you like they did Dave…!”
I don’t respond. He makes a guttural, growling sound and then something wet hits my face. I touch my finger to it, the liquid viscous enough to form strings of slime. He spat in my face.
“Come on, Tyre, let’s go, come on,” the friend urges, doing so with great difficulty, all the while the drunk swears loudly at me. But, in the end, they do leave me alone. Suddenly, the bar feels much quieter, much colder. I pull my handkerchief from my inventory and wipe off the spit. Next to me, Moleman slides back onto his seat.
I take another sip of my beer. I can feel his gaze on me. “...Why didn’t you do anything?”
Another sip, and a little look his way. Foul taste, but it fills the time. “It wouldn’t look good for my trial if I killed someone while it was still proceeding.”
Words measured, voice low, Moleman says, “One more or less wouldn’t make any difference.”
“It would make a difference to you,” I say. “In how you see me.”
“Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “It would. I just…” He shakes his head, and I can tell he doesn’t know what to say, either. “A guy attacked you. A year ago—no, even two years ago, you would’ve…” I know, and he knows. “But now, you don’t even seem to care. At all. You’ve… changed.”
“For better or worse?”
He gives a hesitant smile; a sad one. “I don’t know yet.” Turning away from me, he takes a sip of his beer. “But I do know,” he says mellowly, “that you’re still my friend.”
I smile, lift my glass, and clink it against his.
Right now, that’s all I need.
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Pletter
We haven't heard him complain about his family for a while now. The drive to prove himself is still there, but it's not aimed at them, toxic gaming, Simel or the abusive gods. None of them are mentors after all.
