A software engineer, a team of magical bounty hunters, and the fantasy FBI walk into a bar.

Thankfully nothing happens, because that’s the kind of joke that ends with a crater full of flaming wreckage, court cases in six countries, and the local hospital’s physicians sweeping the best-paper awards at the next International Conference on Emergency Medicine and Critical Care.

Anyway, Caulfield’s single tavern is somehow both utterly pedestrian and wonderfully fantastical.

The clientele isn’t a mix of orcs and dwarves and elves and halflings. There isn’t a grizzled, one-eyed bartender growling at me about not starting any fights. I’m the only mysterious stranger here and I’m not giving out any quests. The only other patrons are a few men that look like farmers, all seated at the same table and chatting quietly over their drinks. It smells like bread, cheese, and just a bit of beer.

But those farmers are dressed in medieval-looking outfits that would put any renaissance fair outfitter to shame. Everything is made of expertly fitted wood, not a speck of metal or plastic or even paint to be seen, from the ceiling to the mugs. The meat is spiced with some herb I’m absolutely certain I’ve never even smelled before. And the room’s sole decorations are the stuffed head of an eagle the size of a Cessna and a curtain of feathers of equally awesome scale, covering the entire back wall of the tavern in a savage red-gold tapestry.

“Hey Alfwyn,” Anna chirps. “Grabbing lunch with the Isekai Affairs team before we head out.”

One of the men at the table hauls himself up out of his hair. He’s not particularly creaky or anything, but I certainly get the impression that he’s being careful about his joints. Between his joints, his wisps of silver hair, and the delicately wrinkled skin around his eyes and mouth, I can certainly believe that this man is substantially older than the Republic’s average of ninety years. “Welcome, welcome, have a seat, feel free to put some tables together,” he says jovially, waving us in. “The usual for you four?”

The Caulfield hunters chorus their agreements as Agnes and Yann do as suggested, moving chairs and tables around so all ten of us can sit down together.

“And for you fine folks? The stew is particularly good right now,” he advises while we all find seats, “I helped the Theudobolds butcher a hog just a couple days ago.” I wouldn’t be against a pork stew, hm. “All the usuals, bread, cheese, fresh greens, griddle cakes, eggs and roots any way. If you want something fancier,” he continues happily, “I can do savory fritters, various sausages and cured meats, or I still have some of that tanglehorn you brought in last hundred, it cured up a treat with some tiger vine and white pepper.”

While Liv orders some of the stew, Bob leans over to mutter advice at me. “Don’ eat too heavy,” he warns. “Y’need energy, but’a full stomach means yer harder ta fix up if y’get a hole in ya.”

…I’d managed to almost forget that I’d signed up to walk into a fight later today. Against someone scary enough that the magic FBI went and got combat-specialized backup. Even if I’m supposed to be on the outskirts, I have a feeling that I’m going to end up out in the open - or, as the case may be, cowering on the ground and trying not to freak out - while Things Happen just a few feet away. And now the party medic is doing the thing where the surgeon tells you to not eat for twelve hours before you show up at the hospital.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll keep that in mind,” I manage to say.

“Ye’ll do fine,” Bob reassures me. “Kept yer head great back in Calfort. Jus’ do that again.”

The rest of the party looks like it’s about half done ordering. Bob turns to Alfwyn and orders something that has the words “fried” and “cheese” in it, the hypocrite.

What am I feeling like? Well, I missed breakfast, for one, so slightly grumpy.

Once I get this magic thing under control I am going to develop a spell specifically to curse Truck-kun and his children and his children’s children, yea, unto the seventh generation will they regret that his tires ever touched pavement within a block of my croque monsieur.

I was really looking forward to breakfast today.

Horrible genealogical revenge aside. Lunch plan. Simple carbs for immediate energy because I can tell I missed breakfast. Fat and protein to optimize the ratio of calories to fullness. Police my appetite carefully so I don’t overeat. Stick to recognizable foods so I’m not laid out by an allergic reaction. That’s an entirely manageable set of constraints.

And it looks like it’s my turn. “I missed breakfast and, as you may be able to see, I’m not exactly from around here,” I say, trying to sound like the situation is nothing more than an amusing misadventure. A vague breath of laughter from around the table suggests I’ve hit the mark, so I forge ahead. “Two fried eggs with cheese and tomato, and what do you have in the way of sugary bread?”

“Hot honey wheels would be my pleasure,” Alfwyn offers, smiling. “What better way to welcome a Visitor to our grand Republic?”

Circular, presumably flat, and fried to a consistency suitable for absorbing honey? Sounds like tex-mex sopapillas, churros, or fairground fried dough, any of which would be perfect. “I don’t know exactly what those are but they already sound wonderful,” I say.

“Coming right up, then,” he says, and turns to take Ewald’s order.

“Ugh, now you have me wanting to order some of those too,” Liv says, complaining good-naturedly.

“I literally had breakfast on my fork and on my way to my mouth when I got hit,” I counter. “I figure I deserve a treat.” I frown. “Though I probably should have asked what our budget was like first; those sounded like they might’ve come off the fancy part of the menu.”

Heather inserts herself into the conversation from her seat across the table from me. “You’ll cover expenses during onboarding, but until then don’t worry about it,” she says, waving away my concern. “Getting a promising Visitor on their feet will justify just about any expense report.”

“Especially one so skilled as you, to be immediately snapped up by our leader,” laughs Agnes.

“Wow,” Anna says, surprise and respect coloring her voice as she looks at me, considering. “I had a feeling you were something special, BIA field agents that encounter brand-new Visitors usually just show them to the nearest government office, but they actually recruited you?”

“Um. Apparently?” I still haven’t figured out how to accept a compliment, ugh. Result of a lifetime of people just expecting me to stand out. “I can sort of tell already that you were right about the grimoire’s Gift agreeing with my skillset, but I still have trouble believing you called it after only hearing a few sentences out of my mouth,” I grumble.

I am forced to admit that the match seems good. It isn’t quite the dream scenario, like a chemist immediately developing a principled theory of fantasy alchemy or a metallurgist jumping the embattled Good Guys straight from wrought iron to HSLA steel. However, I have a definite feeling that my job here is going to look a lot like reverse-engineering an ancient computing monstrosity, documenting all its brain damage, kludging together a sane interface for the whole mess, convincing everyone to migrate to the new way, and then organizing the whole thing. And I’ve already done that a couple times. Of course, that could just be because almost everything looks like a software engineering problem to me these days…

“The Bureau of Isekai Affairs has almost seventy-five thousand days of records of Gifts and their users,” Ewald says. “For my three thousandth day my father took me to the nearest city, where we visited the BIA office’s archive and library and picked a Gift together.” He smiles as he reminisces. “Almost every time I have worked with the Bureau’s field agents they have proven themselves to be experts in the study and application of Gifts.”

“Admittedly, matching Gifts to Visitors is straightforward,” Heather demurs. “The more difficult criterion is performance under pressure. Visitors with noticeable skill are often unsuited to violence.”

“I can imagine,” I mutter unhappily. I still don’t know how I stayed even vaguely functional this morning, and that means I don’t trust that it’ll continue. “High skill comes with specialization and advancement of knowledge, which directly reduce instability, incidence of violence, and the need to develop effective coping strategies.”

“But sometimes you get someone whose specialization is violence and they’re terrifying,” Liv says, shuddering. “You ever met Bebinn? Lead Special Agent for teams seven, eight, and nine, Soft Magical Gift, tall woman with muscles everywhere and weird black veins on her arms?”

Only Ewald seems to have any idea who she’s talking about. “I may have seen her act,” he says. “Was she in command of the BIA teams supporting the Guard when we cleared the Undead Waste, back around eighty-six thousand? What is now the Neubel Plain?”

That sounds like a story I’ll have to remember to look at when I get my hands on a history book.

“That’s her,” Liv confirms. “She’s a Visitor from a non-magic high-tech setting, part of an elite special forces group before Visiting. Twice our population,” she leans forward and prods the table to emphasize the point, “and as far as I can tell they’d found the thirty people in the entire country that were least capable of giving up, slowing down, or caring about anything in their way.”

At this point she’s interrupted by Alfwyn, who brings out a pile of napkins, a bunch of mugs, and a big pitcher of water. He heads back in and quickly returns with the first part of our order: about half the group receives sandwiches, on what looks like a very nice sourdough and with the usual wide variety of fillings, and Liv gets a bread bowl full of stew. I’ve gotten my napkin set and my knife out, though it took me some effort to figure out how to get it out of the sheath without getting out of my chair, just in time for Alfwyn to return with my eggs, a huge grilled cheese sandwich for Bob, and plates of fried potatoes for Ewald and Anna.

I dig in.

Thankfully, even in another world, fried eggs with cheese and tomatoes are fried eggs with cheese and tomatoes.