Something nibbled my thigh. Like little kisses. Then my arm. And my back. My entire body shivered with tiny lips nipping at my metal skin, and I shook alive.

The air was somehow... thick and wavy. I was... underwater. Reeds sort of dangled upward. Fish swam around me. Some pecked at my body.

I shooed them away and looked around. I didn't feel dead, and this didn't look like any sort of afterlife I had heard of, so that concern was put to rest. It was a bit murky here, the water dim and cloudy, but I could make out long shafts of wood shooting upward, and between them, freshly destroyed sections of the dock. Or at least, the pieces that would sink.

I checked myself. My body had reformed back, but I was covered in scorch marks and dents. My tabard and cloak were entirely shredded when I transformed, and what wasn't ruined then was burned away from the blast by the tank.

That did happen, right? Did it happen? Did I miss? I was certain that my power shot would've gone clean through it. There was no way it could've survived that. Right?

I took a step toward the shore. The water resistance was really something down here. It took considerable effort, and even then, my feet nearly sank in the ocean sand. I struggled to find balance, but I took another step, and another, and soon I found my feet moving up an incline. Further, the ceiling of water getting lower, and--

The noise of fire fled through my metal ears.

The ship was on fire. The wood crackled, pieces would drop off the hull and splash into the water, the fire hanging on to it hissing out. I looked around. Did Vil even survive that?

It took a minute of standing on the shore for all the water to pour out from my cracks, and when I felt drained, I shook out the last bit from my legs.

"Oh," Vil said. "So you did survive."

I looked over. He was wrapped up in what was left of his cloak, sitting by a little campfire he had made. His hair was a bit of a mess, his face cut in spots, but he seemed fine.

I crossed my arms and surveyed the damage to the town. For all intents and purposes, there was no more town. And the ships? No ship. No dock either. No sign of the enemy tank, but I could tell in the light of the fires that the treads took it elsewhere. West, I think. Right in the direction where we were headed.

I'd get my revenge. I just needed more power.

"Now what?" I asked.

He chuckled with an air of defeat. "You might have just fucked our chances of ever making it in time. The rebels' plan was to arrive at the ancient shipyard in four days, and if you hadn't noticed, it's a ten-day march."

"How would you know?" I asked.

"Lara told me."

I scoffed and shook my head. Of course, that idiot woman would tell an enemy prisoner the rebels' intentions. Hell, there was not even a guarantee that the intel she had known was accurate. For all we knew, the rebel leaders might have spread false rumors to her, hoping it would reach him, hoping he would get free and lead the imperial army into some great ambush.

Time had somehow passed since I was knocked out and flung into the water, and the light of dawn seemed just an hour or two beneath the horizon. The faint glow of it hid just behind the forests.

"Then, let's get a move on," I said. "If we hurry--"

"I'm tired, Redrim," said Vil. "I haven't slept in days, and I haven't had much to eat, either."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, mostly an instinctual habit because I was, after all, a trash can with a mecha body and could not have headaches. It felt odd, seeing that I was still wearing that fake human face over my own face.

Hmmmm-click.

+1 Ham Sandwich (Common)

"Here." I tossed it over to him. It was wrapped up nice and tight with a paper wrapper. Just a regular sandwich one would find in a back alley vending machine. "Anything to keep you from bitching," I said.

He fingered the edges of the wrapper to open it, and he stared with suspicion at me.

"It's not poison," I said.

"But will it kill me just the same?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes.

He took a bite. Chewed. Paused. Chewed again. His eyes narrowed and slid over in thought. Then, he nodded. "I'm not a fan of tomatoes," he said. "But overall, not bad. A 6 out of 10."

Hmmmm-click-click.

+1 Hooded Cloak, Olive Drab (Uncommon)

+1 Hooded Cloak, Olive Drab (Uncommon)

I tossed him one--his old one was shredded beyond repair--and I started to undress out of my now-tattered human skin outfit.

Hooves. I heard hooves pounding up the road. A horse or two? Maybe several. They were headed right for us.

I kicked off the last leg of the outfit, and I knelt down to listen. As I studied the sound, I started shoving debris into my mouth for resources. My mouth was smaller now, so I could only do a handful at a time.

+1.5kg Wood

+0.9kg Stone

+1.1kg Dirt

Hmmmm-Hmmmm-click.

+1 Rifle

I drew it out and hid behind a fallen roof. Vil, deciding not to be a dumbass, hid across the street with his own looted gun so that we could manage a crossfire.

Once the mounted whatever-the-fuck rounded the corner, we'd blast 'em.

The hooves pounded closer. Something creaked along with the noise, something heavy. A wagon?

"Redrim," Vil hushed. "Hold your fire. I think they're civilians."

Through the smoke of the still-burning tavern and through the underbrush of trees, I saw movement. It looked... wagon-shaped. After the run-in with that fuckin' tank, I wasn't about to let my guard down.

I slung my rifle over and rested it on the fallen roof.

"Redrim," Vil hushed again. "Don't. Shoot." He made that calming gesture that people do when they don't want someone to shoot. What is it? Downward waving? He did that.

Vil shouldered his gun and ran out to the street.

I covered the rear.

The wagon--it was actually a carriage--slowed to a stop.

It looked like a merchant's carriage, a real boxy shape, and there at the reins sat an old farmer-type of guy. Wide-brimmed hat, overalls, smoking pipe.

With the gun still in my hands, I stepped over.

Vil talked to him. I could tell by their body language that Vil was explaining the whole... trading-post-not-being-here-anymore thing.

I pulled my hood over my head and walked closer.

"So if you don't mind," Vil said. "We would very much like a ride Westward. At least to Eurusia City."

I groaned. I hated that fuckin' place. We both talked about heading there, and honestly, that was our destination until we had learned of this trading outpost. Now that it was missing, the capital of Eurusia would be our best bet.

The old wagon driver narrowed his eyes and rubbed his fingertips and thumb together.

"Of course," Vil said. He turned to search for me but found me already standing there. "He needs money."

I tilted my head at him. "You know I can't just make money, right?"

It was true. I got bored one night back in the rebel village and wanted to make a gold coin to, uh, entertain myself with, but I had soon learned that recyclers were unable to recreate currency. I made sense once I thought about it. Any person who owned a recycler outside his or her establishment might as well just feed it dirt and have it print money.

Vil searched his own pockets.

"Wait," I said. "Will he take a trade?"

"Will you take a trade?" Vil asked.

The driver shook his head.

Vil looked at me, and me at him, and in that instance between us, the same idea sparked. Our eyes looked over toward the burning tavern. The bodies of sailors were strewn about, some burned beyond recognition, but certainly, by-the-gods certainly, they would have some pocket change on them.

"Pardon me," Vil said. "I forgot I had some money over there."

We watched as Vil stepped over to the yard of the tavern, over to the body of that one poor bastard who got blasted by the tank, and rifled his hands through the pockets. Sure enough, a coin purse. He raised it up at us. "Two hundred gold or so?"

The wagon driver moved his head around, over-dramatically entertaining the idea, then nodded. He gestured us to the back.

Vil paid, and we walked to the back of the covered wagon.

Ripping open the canvas door, we found nearly a dozen smelly peasants all huddled together, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty, but none with the courage or want to speak.

"Refugees," Vil whispered. He stepped up into the carriage and found a seat in the corner.

I did the same. As soon as I put my entire weight on it, the wagon shifted hard and creaked so bad that I feared it would snap apart, but it held.

Outside, the reins snapped, and slowly, the horses trotted off again.

The city was about 15 kilometers West, so the trip only took about an hour and some change. By then, the sun had come up and shone through the slit of the fabric door.

The peasants here all looked their part--downtrodden refugees from bumfuck wherever, trying to sneak their way into the Eurusian capital, certainly. Maybe to find a better life within those massive city walls, or maybe fleeing from some distant war. Who was to say? Most were dressed in torn rags and shawls of different colors and designs, none of which were fashionable at the least. More like second or third-hand clothes they stole out of a bargain bin.

I won't lie, though. The thought did come to churn out some clothes for these dozen and a half people so that they may look and feel a bit better in this cold climate, but I didn't have the resources to spare.

One of the refugees had fallen asleep and leaned on Vil's shoulder. Vil had also fallen asleep, and I somehow expected him to be the snoring type, but he didn't. He was just dead silent, and part of me expected him to just not wake up. That maybe he just somehow died in that spot, but no, he breathed. Strangely slower than a normal human would, but maybe military officers of his kind were trained to sleep silently like this.

The wagon traveled over hills and through forests--I could tell by the chirping of birds and the tilting of the carriage with my weight--and we flattened out for a while. That's how I knew we were close.

I had been here countless times in my younger years. My golden paladin days, back when I actively pursued my Main Quest. This place was the hub for all that sort of thing. A sort of hard-liner religious land filled with stuck-up priests and inquisitors and try-hard paladins and squires and just the entire vibe of it all--ugh.

Looking back, it made me cringe like nothing else. The sheer colorlessness of it all. The strict dress codes, the anti-smile laws, the chanting monks and mandatory prayer days and everything else.

Maybe that's why I never went back. Maybe it's a shame I never did. Who was to say?

We approached the city, and I could tell by the noise of the crowds. The usual city sounds--foot traffic, conversations, construction work--but something else stood out: distant cheering. It sounded like a huge crowd gathered at something, probably having another heretic burning as they like to do.

The carriage eased to a crawl, then stopped, then started again in a slow turn. Through the slit of the canvas door, I could tell we had just crossed the gates, and the soldiers there stood with short muskets and full plate mail.

We creaked forward again, then a voice ordered, "Halt!" We stopped.

There were whispers outside, too quiet to hear, but I could tell from the tone that the wagon driver might've known the guy. Footsteps crunched in the gravel beside us, over to the back--

And the fabric door yanked open.

The face of a guard peered in. A younger guy, stubble on his face, and a fabric camouflage hat. On it, a shiny emblem of his rank. He narrowed his eyes at us--the refugees recoiled and shivered out of fear--and he wordlessly counted each one.

The wagon driver stood beside him. The officer whispered, "You have fifteen. It'll be fifteen hundred unless they have papers."

The driver looked around--the officer did the same--and he handed him a rattly sack of coins. The officer took it, looked around for anyone watching, and stuck it in his uniform jacket. Then, he spoke loudly. "All clear, merchant. Unload your goods at Dock 14."

The driver smiled and returned to his seat.

The wagon dipped and creaked a bit when he sat, the reins snapped, and we pulled away again.

"Vil, wake up," I said. The crackle of my machine voice startled some of the other passengers, but I paid them no mind.

Vil shook awake. "Hm? Have we arrived?"

"Yes," I said. "What's the plan?"

He looked around. The refugees stared. Some were getting antsy about finally disembarking, but for the most part, they seemed relieved. "We'll talk after I stretch out first."

After a moment, the wagon finally came to rest.

The fabric doors yanked open.

The wagon driver looked around at us, smiled, and nodded. The refugees collectively sighed and smiled at one another, and one-by-one, they stepped out and into the sunlight.

In the distance, the crowds cheered again. Something was happening elsewhere in the city.

Once everyone else was out, Vil and I jumped off and into the light of a crisp sunny morning. The sky as blue and clean as can be, the morning sunlight golden, and around us, a world vivid with color and life and smiling faces and loud outfits and not a priest or inquisitor to be seen.

Was this really Eurusia?

The buildings here were nicer than I remembered, with colorful awnings--a red one, the next blue, the next pink, the next yellow, and so on--with little garden plots and cute little families laughing while tending them. In the center of the city stood a huge coliseum, and as if on cue, a flock of pink and gold and yellow balloons rose skyward as if released all at once. Hundreds, probably.

"Where are we?" I asked.

Vil shared the same sight. "Eurusia." He wiped the sleep from his eyes. "Have you never been?"

"It looks different than how I remembered."

He eyes me with suspicion. "When was the last time you've been here?"

"Years, at least."

He stared; I could see him staring in the corner of my eye, but I wasn't worried about him. My eyes were locked with wonder at how... fun this place seemed to be. Why didn't we just come here first?

"I suppose if you won't answer," he said, "I'd say at least twenty years."

"What?"

"It's been at least two decades since you've been here."

I took a deep breath. The annoying air about this guy had returned, and I looked back down at him. "And what makes you think that?"

"Because there was a coup twenty years ago."