A cold breeze woke him up, gently running up his nose, down his neck and finally stopping under his blood-stained cape, just chilly enough to feel nice. It was quite a pleasant wake-up call. He gradually sat up to see the sky's fire-red and copper-green ribbons, spirally intertwined as the sun was getting ready to set behind the endless ocean of houses.
– How long was I out?
He scratched his head, only to realize his fingers were back. The wound from his leg also disappeared and he felt better than ever before.
Shortly after, the cabin arrived behind him. It was empty, but still operated nonetheless. Ibsen stood up and cautiously approached the door. Catching a glimpse of something rolling on the floor, he quickly stepped away from the vehicle. Seeing it twice was enough already. His stomach felt weird just from the thought of looking at it once more.
When Eunostus got carried away by the girl, a map fell from his pocket. The wind did not blow it away, as the weight of blood was too much for the small zephyr. It was still wet, when Ibsen got to it.
He felt letdown at first. From the cableway, just one tiny part of the city seemed like a never-ending ocean of gargantuan structures, yet the map was so tiny, it fit in his palms.
As he began unfolding the tiny paper, his disappointment quickly vanished. Like everything unexplainable, this map too was magical. Unfolding once, twice, thrice and many more times, it kept the same thinness as before touched. When nothing more remained to be revealed, Ibsen had a map bigger than hi, head to toe.
– This city is way bigger than I ever could've imagined! Just how exactly does something so huge exist?! Mountains, valleys, lakes and even a coastline with the ocean, is this really just a city or an entire country? Even the shape of this place, it's not a circle, nor a square like most. It's something unconceivable. Just by looking at it, just by trying to understand it, I'm feeling this… confluence of… divine outlandishness and frightening chaos…
An illness creeped up his spine. Seeing his actual whereabouts, the feeling of invitation left his body. Only a kind of terror remained he never felt before. Tiny and alone, he was nothing but a fly in the dark. Each corner could've meant the end for him, as the darkness hid nightmares unimaginable.
– Wait, there's something on the back… holy shit!
The back of the map contained underground sectors and flying islands, everything nonvisible on a ground-level. They were big enough to qualify as their own villages and as such had their unique names. Most of the subterranean bore dwarfish wordplays, but the sky islands and miscellaneous parts had names unrecognizable.
Flipping the page, trying to make sense of it, Ibsen caught a glimpse of the Purgatory. It was in his close vicinity, just a few streets away. Oddly enough, its name stood out, being written brown. Few names had this color.
Dusting off his cape, he began walking. The tunnel outward was just as dirty, as the one on the other side. Yellow lamps showed him the way forward. This city had electricity, unlike his village. Up there, they used candles and magic to illuminate the darkness. Ibsen hated it. Reading besides candlelight does not do good for the eyes.
Outside the tunnel, the houses were unlike before. They looked normal, at least to him. Small buildings, connected to each other, but with upstairs living spaces. Average city houses.
Walking down the streets, he felt uneasy. The colorful people posed as more of a threat, than an interesting sight. The wagons, rushing up and down the streets were nothing more, than predators, waiting for someone clumsy enough to fall in front of them. He did not hear the city's noise anymore, but that of a jungle's, with its dangers waiting for the right moment to strike. His paranoia calmed down only when crossing a bridge. The sound of rushing water made him remember a much safer place, his home.
He felt alone, unlike ever before.
Carefully observing the now folded map, he stopped on a small bridge. A rash stream ran below, separated from the houses only by a wide road, to which stairs led down to. It was the street, where Purgatory once made its fame.
Walking by a few blank houses, he reached an empty playground. A lonely swing stood beside green monkey bars and two wooden horses, attached to black springs. A cherry tree's pinkish leaves shielded the place and the lonely bench, just besides it.
The cheerful sight was uncanny. Ibsen quickly left the place, only to realize he reached the Purgatory bar.
Next to the playground stood a tall building made out of dark oak wood. It seemed to have an upstairs section, as two rows of yellow windows brought the light into its otherwise dark interior.
He finally felt relief. No one was on the streets and his new home was finally almost in his grasp. Short stairs led up to a small terrace, where the double door entrance long-awaited him. After a deep breath, he put both of his arms on the doors and with a huge push, opened them.
– Ring the bells, lay the tables! The rightful heir of Purgatory, Henrik Ibsen has arrived!
– Oh great, I was just getting bored.
Screaming like a bitch, he rushed out of the building and fell down the stairs onto the cobblestone road.
– Don't come any closer or I'll stab ya!
– Even your accent is legitimate. – a middle-aged man stepped out of the bar. – Sorry for scaring you. I know your journey wasn't the calmest.
– Who are you? – he still had the tanto pointed towards the mysterious man.
– My name is Kafka. I'm working for the Magic Intelligence Agency and I'm here to give you the keys to the Purgatory. Pleasure to meet you.
He had the mannerisms of a well-taught aristocrat, but wore the clothes of an office worker. His hair was dyed black, the same color his small glasses were. A golden watch was ticking on his right arm.
Slightly confused, Ibsen did not fear to ask questions.
– Magic Intelligence? The heck do I got to do with anything magical?
– My faith is equilibrium.
– ...What the fuck?
– A question from you means an answer from me. Now I need to ask you a question, so the number of questions asked and answers given is balanced out. Without this, the conversation would easily turn one-sided.
– I see, then go ahead!
– Where did you get your weapon from?
– Some necrophiliac tried to stab me, but gifted me her panties instead.
– You're joking, right?
– Wish I was.
– Interesting. – leaning to the fence separating the terrace from the road, he lit up a cigarette. – May I?
– It's your poison, do as you please.
– Yeah, but I tried to be nice and ask the place's owner before doing so. But don't mind me! – and as such, inhaled a huge smoke cloud.
– Now that I answered your two questions, it's time for you to do the same! First, what's the Magic Intelligence Agency?
– We, the MIA, use magic to gather information. Our job is to oversee the city and deliver the necessary information to the right people. The police, other ministries, even rulers… we're their suppliers. The reason why we were expecting you is the answer to why you have a rich woman's weapon or why your clothes are all bloody.
– Wait, so you know about those crazy fucks?
– Yes. While I wasn't sure how you got that tanto of yours, I was curious whether you'd try to lie your way out. But it seems our suspicions against Eunostus and her maid were appropriate.
– Those guys tried to murder me for no reason! They must get locked up! They are already behind bars, right?
– Equilibrium, Henrik Ibsen. It's my time to ask a question.
– Then do it already!
– Let's see… what do you know about the previous owner of the bar?
– Nothing, besides he's dead. I have his will in my bag, he wrote something about an early sickness, but that's about it. Forgive me, I don't know much.
– It's alright. Wasn't waiting for much from a fake.
– Excuse me?
– Oh, it's nothing! – he smiled, flicking off ash onto the road. – Whether Eunostus is guilty for attacking you or not, he won't face consequences. He's part of the Anthedon family, one of the capital's richest families.
– Yeah? Well, I don't care! No amount of money can buy my silence! I'll go to the police right after we finish here!
Kafka was baffled by his answer. Throughout his years, working in this profession, he never saw anyone react to such information like that. He smiled.
– I might have been prejudicial. I'm sorry about that. Alright, Henrik Ibsen! You're an honorary knight of justice, it seems. I recommend you visit the law enforcement tomorrow. The police station is not near and by the look of it, you should take a rest before throwing a tantrum.
– What do you mean by that? I'm completely fine!
He could hardly keep his balance, standing completely still. His clothes stank of blood and sweat and his hands were dirty, which made him look like a bum.
– Sure, tiger! – Kafka threw him a bunch of keys. – There you go! Checked the place out already, except the bedroom. The sinks work downstairs, so you can take a nice bath; the rats in the toiler are fighting a war with the cockroaches in the wall… oh, and before I forget! There's a door next to the stairs leading upstairs. Don't open that!
– What, why?
– It leads down to the basement.
– Okay, what's in the basement?
– A wine cellar.
– Cool, I just wanted to get drunk!
– Yeah, drunk of carbon dioxide, the toxic gas formed during alcoholic fermentation. The moment you open that door, decades old poison fills up the bar, causing everyone to fall unconscious and die.
– Didn't know that's a thing. I was never one to drink alcohol. I'm more of an apple-juice guy.
– And you almost just became a dead guy. If you wish to run a bar, learn these things.
– Yeah, totally! Sorry for wasting your time.
– I'm more concerned about the equilibrium, but oh well, what can I do.
– If that would make you feel any better, we can sit down and you can ask me some questions! Not sure if I can give you any answers though, but I can try!
– Heh, you're a nice kid. Fortunately for you, I don't have more questions to ask. I'll return tomorrow with the necessary papers. Go, take a bath and get a good sleep. Tomorrow begins your new life… and our paperwork.
– Thank you, Mister Kafka!
– My pleasure!
Satisfied by this exchange, Kafka left towards the setting sun, humming an old song. Ibsen was once again left alone. Turning towards his new home, a slight discomfort ran through his body.
The definition of a home varies by person. Most houses are built around the same formula, yet we view ours different, as if it's somehow special. When visiting a friend or a family member, we don't view their houses as our home. Even though those places are safe and welcoming, we'll eventually start to feel homesick. It's… not home.
Home is a patch of dirt, made special by our love and memories. The reason it differs by each is because we're all unique. We don't share the same memories and thoughts thus we cannot share the same idea of home, as it's a unique part of us.
– I should just be grateful to have a roof above my head. Others are not so lucky. Besides, if today has proved anything, it's that I should stop bitching so much. – and with a changed attitude, he entered his new home.