((The word, "skelly," is hidden in this chapter. Can you find it?))
I put my bags down on the bed and take everything out; the clothes, I put in the dresser after changing into a fresh set, including a new hoodie. It was a big baggier than I was used to, though I had bought the same size. This time I bought pants made up of a tougher fabric; though they were a bit pricier than I was used to, they breathed a lot nicer than the cheap jeans I had bought four or five years back when I last had a job. I want to go out again; get back into the fight, but I have a feeling that as soon as I go out there I'd be bombarded with questions, and I'm not sure if I could stomach that at the moment.
There are some crackers among the bags that I brought in, I take out a sleeve and begin munching on them. Ah, how I missed actual food. The first thing I'm doing once the property is done is to make something hot and fresh. I didn't know what, but I could always look that up on the internet. Even the smell of grease began to make my stomach churn, and the salt crystals on these crackers felt like shrapnel on my tongue.
Starting up the laptop, I take a seat on the edge of the mattress. Killing time was something that I hadn't had to do in a while, so even though I had decided on doing just that until I was sure that I could sneak out without much hassle.
"Eh, what should I do, Clio?" I put the laptop on the bed beside me as it starts up.
Lithely, Clio's belly crawls across the bed and licks me across the face. Lately, there hadn't been much time for the two of us to bond; I scratch her on the top of her favorite spot just behind her right ear where she had once gotten a fox tail stuck when she was a puppy.
"You're so cute," I say.
Master going again?
"Not yet," I tell her as I push myself back into a sitting position. "Later tonight."
"Safe?"
"Yeah, I'll stay safe," I tell her.
I pick her up and set her in my lap to pet her. I reach into the bag nearest the bed and dig through it before producing a small rawhide chew. She snatches it out of my hand before I have a chance to give it to her, and scurries off my lap to bury it inside the blanket for later. While she was doing that I grab the laptop and set it up. Five minutes later....right, no wifi here. I sigh and close it. Guess I'll have to wait until I have access to the property...
I set it down on the desk across the room and fetch my phone. I wonder if that website that Shawn had told me about was mobile-friendly? What was it? War-Efra.com?
It takes a bit for it to load, but when it does it looks...bare bones. Like the website of a guild in an MMO I had taken to playing a few years back. I click, "sign up," at the top of the page. It takes me to a questionnaire.
"What do you want to be known as?"
I hadn't really thought of that. Should I just go with the same nonsense I always put on online personas? No. People who knew that persona also knew me. I want to keep the old me and the emerging me as separate as possible. I drum my finger on the screen before deciding on a name: Mage? No special character. Tsk. MageQuestionMark. That username was already taken. Really? Who chooses that as their username unironically? Well, I suppose I was about to.
After plugging in another variety of things I finally find some variant of, "mage," or, "wizard," that wasn't taken — Magicien. The French word for Wizard. Oh, well. At least there was a good degree of separation between me and this identity. I cannot speak a word of French, after all. Thank you, Google Translate. I continue with the questionnaire.
"Shard-holder or Chosen?"
I click Shard-Holder.
"Who is your patron?"
I put down, 'don't know.'
"What is your fighting style?"
The options are, "front line– melee, tank, mage, healer, support," and, "not a fighter."
I click mage. The next section I could ignore as it had to do with the, 'not a fighter,' choice. It asked what role would best describe what you could do with a variety of choices like, 'tactician,' 'blacksmith,' 'medicine maker,' 'alchemist,' and a variety of other things. Poet was there as well? What unlucky soul got chosen by a poet? How would that be good for war...no, now that I thought about it didn't I create a spell with poetry? Perhaps it was unexpectedly useful. Hm.
Maybe I'll try again the next time I'm in a door. I glance out the window and see Dylan sitting outside of the office sitting backward in a chair staring at passing traffic. Shawn was also there; walking back to the motel. They chat for a brief time before he begins to cross the parking lot, holding his spear brashly in broad daylight. Shouldn't I be like that? I'll go out as soon as I take a look around the website, I tell myself. After all, in only a few days the world will change forever as the governments of a now united world would be issuing movement orders to what would become Megacities.
Ah, I wonder what normal people are thinking at the moment. I could guess... I really wanted to look at this site, but the temptation got the better of me. I finish up the questionnaire — mostly about age, level, and the like. They even asked questions about my stat build, though thankfully they had an option to not reveal it. That seems a bit...intrusive? I don't know if that's the best word for it. After, that I log into my social media accounts.
There are a few missed messages: my brother cursing me out, my father cursing me out, my mother cursing me out. Nothing new. The story of the Ghost of Gaines Street died down, at least. Now, however, there was another video blowing up on my town's page.
"MAN STOPS MASS SHOOTER. POLICE BRUTALITY?" Was the headline.
Naturally, someone had taken a video of the event at the store. The camera ducks out of the way once the revolver was shot, then comes into focus as soon as I slam my fist into his face. The cracking tile was visible even at that distance. It cuts off until the officer comes rushing through the door and running down the aisles and orders me to the floor. As the officer orders me to the ground and lifts up the hem of the tunic I was wearing I could see what the people gasped at. Several garish white lines; the stab marks from my first door, shone in the light emanating from the roof. I didn't know it still looked that bad. Perhaps I should get someone to heal them. Maybe I'll find something on the forum? I'll look later.
I scroll. There's a post about the President's speech. I see people reciting a variety of conspiracy theories. Something about Blue beams and New World Orders. I didn't take much interest in those before, and that continued now. I was bored. How had I lived my life like this before?