C+2

  Your rage has increased by 1.

  Alastair woke uncertainly. He sat up fast. Where am I!? The surroundings were unfamiliar. It wasn’t home, he had certainly never been in this bed, and it certainly wasn’t the hay mat he had fallen asleep on at the Farm. Was there still a fire?

  Even waking up on a boat heading to the island would have been more familiar.

  The stone structure came into focus, and he recognized sparse settings and an empty desk that reminded him of his abandoned time in a college dorm.

  “Dammit, I’m in a school dream. {He was not in a school dream.} Seems lucid, though. Let’s go see what things I can uncover in the dream world.”

  He stood, walked to the desk, which was too dark to make anything out, and then realized he only had a step to the hallway without a closing door. So he walked through that. It was still dark in the space, generally, although light was shown from a few of the other arches. Alastair peeked in one and saw a scribe working by candlelight at a mostly empty desk, then withdrew his head quickly.

  He wandered the hall until he found the loo, relieved himself, and then blinked himself into awareness.

  “This is not a dream. I’m in the Scribe’s quarters at the University. I should leave before I get forced into chores.”

  There was nothing he needed from his room that would help or distract him from his journey.

  Lesson one. A lowly individual with empty hands was primed for extra duties. A lowly individual carrying paperwork was likely carrying it somewhere important.

  So he snuck into the first dark room he saw, felt around for something innocuous, and left with a folio in his hands. He then practiced his speech, “I’m delivering this to Mida, but I need to stop at administration before I do so.” It would justify his early aboutness and hopefully prevent further rerouting. {Do we want to see Alastair get schooled by a senior Scribe here? It happened but is inconsequential to the story. He’s cowed by it for a few minutes, though.}

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The administrator at the gate gave him a look as he approached.

  “You’re not supposed to leave with a folio. Did they promote you to Scribe One as a promise to your Ma?”

  “No, this folio is for Scribe Mida. But when I delivered it, she demanded a bagel before she accepted it. Said it was a bet with Scribe Sithembile.” The administrator waved him by.

  Lesson two. Name-dropping is awful but sometimes useful.

  Such as in cases where you are social engineering yourself out of a free bed for the night. Alastair continued onward, realizing it was too early for much of anything, even breakfast for the day. All he had on him was a folio, which he looked at and realized was empty inside, and his general scribe gear.

  He wandered south, wondering if he could justify stopping in at the prison tavern, but expected that boat had sailed when he fully switched to Scribe. He could stop at the temple but didn’t think he wanted to decrease his disposition with Amets further, at least not right now. He thought about knocking out a couple of automatons at the carillon, selling the loot for coin, and then buying something from the market, but realized he wasn’t hungry. Perhaps a diet rich in beans from the farm was enough to last him through the morning.

  In answer, his stomach rumbled.

  He went to the market and sold a crafted timepiece for three coins, which was a coin less than it was worth, to a vendor who wasn’t yet open. Then Alastair bought a couple of street skewers and a juice and sat on the ground to enjoy them.

  How different this is? If Flor could see me now, she’d know I wasn’t precious.

  But really, I don’t know what she expects of me. We both just want to get out of this game right? Although she said she’s happy here because it isn’t the stress of the normal world. Maybe she’s frustrated with work? Or traveling away from home constantly? Does she…is she wanting children? Yikes. I’m not ready for that. The world isn’t ready for that.

  I don’t know what we’re aiming for. Mere existence? Is that a thing? Togetherness?

  Alastair finished his skewers and went toward the gate. He didn’t feel like heading to the farm again. Despite how nice he was, Farmer One was kinda simple. It had been pleasant spending the day with what was probably just a game drone. The work Alastair helped Farmer One with was probably more productive than those two stoners had accomplished in the entirety of their time here. However, that toke had given him a gentle feeling for several hours and seemed like it might even affect his mood now. At least, he felt more contemplative than he had in days past.

  Maybe they’d let me stick around if they weren’t such ugly people. Ugly wasn’t the word. Insular? But they had let him participate, for even a moment, so maybe they weren’t all insular.