Surveying the camp was like gazing at the aftermath of a tornado’s high school rave. Shit was scattered everywhere, the previously…sorta neat camp looking like a toddler's playroom. Dead spiders were strewn about like fucked up Christmas decorations, and the smell… goddamn, the smell was like someone had taken a giant dump on a pile of rotting fish and then set it on fire.

“Lovely,” I muttered.

On the brighter side of things, the big fucking spider was dead. Bully for me. Its gargantuan, lifeless body now served as a badass trophy of my victory. I wondered briefly if we could keep it as a statue—kind of a 'don't fuck with us' lawn ornament, you know? A message to the others. Though, based on how utterly fucking stupid the battle had been, I didn’t think that would work. Still, though—heavy intimidation tactic for the right audience.

Saban led me to a section that wasn’t currently occupied by a toiling body and slapped me on the back.

“I just wanted to say…Great work, Ga—uh, Loon,” he said. “You really saved our butts back there.”

He paused, seeming to consider me for a moment, and I had to tamp down the sudden anger that gave me. I fucking hated someone judging me. Even an old friend casting a curious, discerning gaze on me was enough to pinch the metaphorical back-of-my-arm fat and push me toward a tizzy. But, being a calm, rational, practical individual, I acted appropriately.

“What the fuck are you staring at?”

Saban just laughed.

“Man, you never change, do you?”

“The fuck I don’t! I change plenty—do I look like the same fucking guy I was when—”

“It’s a good thing, Loon—Jesus,” Saban chuckled. “I’m saying that, despite everything we’ve all been through, it’s good to know that you’re still you.”

His tone grew a little morose and his tone more somber.

“Not everyone has retained their sense of self like that,” he continued, staring out in the distance at…something. I wasn’t sure who he was talking about, but, I guess I also didn’t really care that much. Most of the kids from before were pretty insufferable, so any modifications to their personal brand of them was—in my mind—a fuckin’ boon.

“Yeah, well…” I said, shrugging. “This dumbass world has another thing coming if it’s trying to change the way I interact with it. I’ve become ungovernable.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Saban laughed. “Hey, do you remember that time we snuck out and saw Joker?”

“You’re fuckin’ yankin’ my chain, hombre,” I said. “I based like ninety-percent of my personality on that movie for the next three months—of course I remember it.”

I didn’t mention the fact that I also specifically remembered it because it was the last time he and I had ever hung out. We’d been inseparable since we were seven, but something had changed during that summer—probably the fact that I’d started staying with Aunt Ella and Uncle Luke semi-permanently after my mom went to live “away” for a little while—AKA the…mental health facility. I’d bopped around with them for months at a time before, but it had seemed that this time it was going to stick. Because of that, I’d been a little preoccupied—obviously. Me and my former best friend had started to grow apart during that rough transitional period, and it fucking sucked, but I didn’t realize at the time how much of an extra special type of asshole I had been.

However, Saban had shot me a message seeing if I’d wanted to go to the movie—and he knew I was precisely the sort of edgelord shit-for-brains that thought he needed to see it, and so we’d gone. After that, though, it was like we’d never been friends at all. Thinking about that actually started to make me a little angry. Why would he—

Saban beamed.

“Man, I miss those days,” he said, shaking his head. “...That was also the night your pant leg got stuck in your bike chain.”

He gave me a knowing look.

“Oh, fuck you!” I shot, offended that he’d brought up such a painful and hilarious memory.

“You were screaming so loud,” he laughed, hardly able to control himself. “I kept telling you to backpedal and you kept making it worse.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “I thought I was going to die.”

“Then you…you h-h-h-h-had to walk all…bow-legged back to your house so we could…c-cut your jeans out of the chain!”

He was full-on hysterical now.

“Yeah…” I said, laughing. “Good times.”

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, amusement still in his voice, but much more muted.

“For laughing? Well…good, ya fuckin’ dick,” I said.

“No…” he said, his lopsided grin fading. “For…you know, kinda…ghostin’ you. It wasn’t cool.”

“Oh?” I said, pretending I didn’t have the foggiest recollection and doing a terrible job of it. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Saban who?”

“But seriously,” he said, resting a hand on the haft of the warhammer hanging by his hip. “I wasn’t around when…”

He was, probably for the first time in a long time, unable to find the words to speak his mind.

“It’s fine,” I protested, perhaps too strongly. “You couldn’t have done anything anyway, it’s not like—”

“I wouldn’t have been able to change anything, you’re right,” he said. “But I could have at least been there for you. That couldn’t have been easy, man.”

I didn’t say anything, just simply trying to will myself not to think about it. Lately, I’d been using it as fuel to unlock my ultimate weapon—and while I didn’t know if that was a healthy medium for dealing with this sort of thing—I definitely didn’t want to have to experience it without my own express, written say-so. However, despite how I thought it might make me feel, I was surprised to find that Saban’s words…actually lifted my spirits a little. It was weird. Normally anyone bringing that to my brain’s attention would have sent me spiraling into a dark plane of no return. But in this case…I was mildly comforted. Huh. Weird.

“I said it’s fine,” I continued. “Listen, I appreciate you saying that, but I’m alright. I’ve been dealing with things in my own way. Don’t worry about it…”

I adopted a smirk.

“...just glad to know you’re aware of how much of a fucking asshole you are.”

Saban laughed.

“Yeah…” he said. “I’m sorry about that too.”

“Well, well, well,” I said, waving my hand around at the wreck surrounding us. “Glad to know you’re apologizing for everything except for forcing me into hard, back-breaking labor.”

“Yeah, I’m not sorry about that,” he mused dismissively. “You break it, you buy it.”

“I’ll remember this the next time you guys need help with…I dunno, a giant frost cockroach infestation or something. You’ll be all like, ‘Loon! Please, lend us your mighty strength! You’re the only one who can save us!’ And I’ll be like, ‘quiet, peasant! I have no time for the likes of your douchey Stardew Valley shenanigans. I’m too busy with hero shit.’”

“Wow,” he said in mock offense. “I take it back. Power has changed you.”

“And don’t you forget it, bub,” I said. “Now, let’s get to cleanin’ up this crack house crime scene. It looks like it's going to take for-fuckin’-ever, but I’m sure that between the two of us—”

“Unfortunately,” Saban began, slapping me on the shoulder in apology. “I leave that to you. I’ve got some other peasant matters to deal with.”

“Oh, you bitch,” I grumbled.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he said. “I’ll leave the hero shit to the heroes.”

“Yeah…” I said, nodding glumly. “I deserve that.”

—

The rest of the camp was picking through the wreckage, salvaging anything that might be of use. I spotted Edwig off to one side, gingerly lifting a boot from beneath a squashed spider, his face somehow wrinkling in disgust. I let out a short laugh, shaking my head as I moved to join him.

“How’s the pickin’s, Viggo?” I called out, kicking a dead spider out of the way. It skidded across the ground with a crunch, leaving a trail of charred goo in its wake. Edwig looked up like he’d just been sucking on a lemon.

“It’s...it’s...interesting,” he muttered.

I raised a brow, grinning at his clear discomfort.

“Aw, come on, baby. Don't tell me you're gettin’ the squeamies from a little guts and gore?” I teased, nudging a piece of mangled armor with my toe.

Edwig shot me a glare that could have curdled milk.

“Pah! As if I’d be so easily disgusted, orc! I look at your face all the time! I’m just looking for valuable materials.”

“Easy, there,” I said. “What kind of materials are you searching for?”

“Anything that could be classified as ingredients,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m a—”

“A researcher, yeah, I know,” I said. “We all know. You’ve told the whole damn neighborhood. Wait, is that why you wanted false goblin ears?”

Edwig looked suddenly like he wanted to crawl away into a hole, but I held up my hands.

“Listen. Considering the, uh…” I paused, gesturing around at the carnage. “...circumstances, I’ll offer a truce on my demands for you to pay me the money you still owe. It doesn't seem right to twist the knife at the moment—especially after all this bullshit. But, I’m going to be annoying as fuck about it again tomorrow. Deal?”

Edwig sighed.

“Deal,” he said.

“So…what did you want those ears for? I feel like there’s a story there. What, do they turn you back into whatever you were before you were horribly maimed in that freak personality accident?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a rude orc?” Edwig asked.

“Oh, all the time,” I said. “It’s like, one of my ten best features. So, what was the dealio?”

“Well—”

“Goblin jam,” Rexen said, suddenly appearing next to us.

I swatted at him.

“You’re showing up crazier than usual,” I said. “Making no sense. Nobody’s out here eatin’ monster jelly, Arjee, you dimbus. And if they are—well, then, fuck—I dunno. They’re probably already on God’s hitlist so we should just leave ‘em be.”

“Yeah…goblin jam,” Edwig agreed.

“Wait, what?!” I exclaimed, wheeling on Edwig. “For real? You eat that stuff?”

“Pah! It’s not what you think, orc,” he said.

“Bullshit,” I said. “That’s exactly what everybody says when they get caught…doin’ the thing they say they aren’t doin.’”

Edwig blinked at me.

“What?”

Rexen floated over to me.

“Yes, I too am confused, pupil.”

“Nevermind!” I said. “It would take too long to explain—speaking of explaining: what’s this lip noise about monster preserves?”

“Goblin jam,” Edwig and Rexen both said simultaneously.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s, uh, what I meant.”

Edwig cleared his throat.

“Goblin jam—a natural process that false goblins are able to produce. Something to do with frequencies.”

“So…it’s more like a music kind o’ jam, then?” I said, envisioning a bunch of little fairy tale creatures playing banjos and line dancing. “Hm. A good ol’ fashioned hoedown, eh? I can get behind that.”

“What?” Edwig asked.

Rexen appeared next to my fucking face, his eyes lighting up like a giddy child.

“Yes, pupil—except, no, pupil! It’s a hum of misaligned Arcana frequencies! As much a symphony—but if all were tone-deaf and the instruments off key!”

I stared at him blankly.

"Well, that’s just about the worst hoedown I've ever heard of."

“Exactly!" Rexen continued, unabashed by my mockery, "False goblins! Wonderful!

“Not exactly,” Edwig said, taking over. “This guy’s confusing the point with his usual nonsense.”

“I am not,” Rexen declared, suddenly glaring. “I refuse to recognize the badge of ‘nonsense’ from a beer-hating hat thief!”

“Pah!” Edwig exclaimed, then seemed to think better of arguing with an actual lunatic and turned back to me. “Where was I? Ah, yeah. False goblins—they've got this ability. Some strange...byproduct of their existence where they can 'jam' resonance. And it's believed to be tied to their ears.”

“That sounds like something from my world," I said, "But, non-magi—uh, Arcane. So, you're saying it ain’t a spreadable muck of some kind—but messing with Spells and junk?”

“Yeah,” Edwig breathed, clearly relieved. “It's a term coined by us—researchers, that is. They don't actually make jam, and it's not even real goblins who do this, it's false goblins.”

“Wait, so what’s the difference?” I asked.

“Night and day,” Rexen nodded.

“Yeah, that technically isn’t how you respond to that question,” I said. “Gra…gr-grammaric…ly…”

“Actually…” Edwig said, shrugging. “He’s weird, but it sort of does make a bit of sense. Your standard goblins typically only dwell in the night. Skulking about. Real nefarious sorts, you know?”

He shivered.

“Gods, I hate goblins,” he continued. “But, I judge not in the pursuit of knowledge. Conversely, false goblins do their dirt in the day. Still, they don’t belong to the same category of creature, not really. They just look similar.”

“So…” I said. “What’s the big difference, then?”

“False goblins are copycats!” Rexen announced, gleefully.

“They’re a type of mimic,” Edwig clarified helpfully. “Except rather than turning into a whole fat lot of other stuff, they just latched on to goblin culture, and mirror that.”

This was reminding me a lot of a certain horror-sci-fi movie I’d seen as a kid.

I held up a hand.

“Hold up. So, we’re dealing with doppelgangers? So, you wanted ears from goddamn goblin body-snatchers?”

“Pah! You’re not listening, orc,” Edwig corrected. “They’re not doppelgangers—that’s a whole different Fels game. They’re goblin-like…just...different. But yes, essentially. The ears could potentially help us understand how this ‘jamming’ works. Only one person—Bahlgus—has managed to crack this riddle, but the bastard keeps his secrets tighter than a dwarf's cask.”

“That guy again…” I mused, touching the little bit of throat jewelry that had assured my ultimate cool fucking victory during the battle. “But what if Bahlgus just had some bad goblin jam and lost his mind?”

Rexen's eyes lit up.

“That's... an interesting theory. Unproven, but intriguing! We should explore—”

“Pah! You numpt,” Edwig interjected, “he was joking, ghost.”

“Joke? Ah. Yes. Humor. Ha-ha-ha,” Rexen laughed—quite believably. “That’s my apprentice—so clever with his on-the-nose commentary.”

I groaned, rubbing my temples.

“By fuck, you two are a pair. You’re going to drive me to drink—”

“Beer!” Rexen exclaimed.

I scowled.

“You wish, Arjee. No—fuckin,’ I dunno…turpentine or a cup of glass or something less painful than listening to you.”

Edwig shook his head sadly, looking at Rexen.

“Somebody buy this guy a beer…”

“I want it hot!” Rexen demanded.

I smirked at them, then turned back toward the settlement, placing a hand on Edwig’s…shoulder? As I passed.

“Well, keep hunting for your ear jam, boys. Just don't invite me for toast when you figure it out. Now, if you’ll excuse me: I gotta see a man about a horse.”

As I walked away I heard Edwig mutter, “...what’s a horse?”

“Iunno.”

—

I spent the next couple of hours sifting through the wreckage, helping where I could. It was time to roll up my sleeves and dive in, though thankfully not into any arachnid viscera. Everyone got to work with their separately assigned duties. Even the poor schmucks who reincarnated after being murderized had to help. Well, after they recovered from their pesky resurrection hangover.

I caught sight of Rua in the corner of the camp, elbows-deep in bandages and vials. She had convinced Edwig and anyone with skills resembling healing or alchemy-ing to put their heads together fixing up the injured. They worked with assembly-line precision—well, as much as a bunch of non-medics could. I shot her a thumb's up. In return, she gave me a thumbs up, then immediately turned back to scold Edwig for trying to steal a Health potion from a bird guy with a broken ankle.

Meanwhile, Saban was overseeing the fighter-types in fortifying the camp. As always, the guy with the 'kiss me, I'm the hero' tattoo was keeping people calm, and had somehow managed to talk Alpha into being useful. The dwarf—with a face only a mother could love if she were blind and heavily sedated—was smarmily screaming at people to ‘secure the perimeter’ like he thought he was some kinda soldier king. But they listened.

Man, that guy fucking sucks.

Me? I got stuck helping the laborers.

"Time to put my secret weapon to use," I muttered to myself…every single time I used Eye of the Saboteur.

One good thing about being me—of which there are many—was that Ability. With it, I could see the hidden potential in just about anything—like spotting a glint of gold in a puddle of piss. Which meant it worked equally well for removing puddles of piss from gold. I summoned it and immediately felt the world shift, seeing everything through a blueprint-like lens. The wreckage was still there, but I could easily spot what did and did not spark joy.

I got to work, pulling out materials that still had some life in them, dodging Rexen's excited jabbering and the weird demon lady’s methodical inventory count. Veruca—a woman I came to realize was the gun-toting badass on the train—was an oddball. She spoke in a monotone and her sharp gaze didn't miss a fucking thing. She apparently had an Ability called Catalog, which allowed her perfect recall of a range of items. It seemed like it could be useful in a lot of situations, until I learned that it only counted for physical objects and not obscure pro-wrestling stats. Boring. Rexen was way more interested in it than I was, and I had to imagine he was cultivating some insane scheme to get her to figure out which thingamabobs were most deserving of his covetous, creepily loving gaze.

However, as far as the camp was concerned—net positive, I guess. Between Veruca’s doodad Dewey decimal talent and my Eye of Saboteur, we sorted through the wreckage pretty fuckin’ handily, pulling out anything that could be reused or restored.

But there was a lot of busted shit. Like, deal-breakingly destroyed. Really, though, it’s not like there was a lot to work with at the outset. I mean, the camp was formed around a literal train wreck, so…not a huge loss. Still, I begrudgingly did my due diligence to help, even recruiting Edwig to use his Unseen Hand for the greater good and rescue some of my own belongings from within a monstrous pile of carcasses.

Hours passed and we continued to work into the evening. Someone made a pot of some kind of stew, and while it tasted like bat blood, I didn’t care. My back ached, my muscles screamed, and my nose was constantly assaulted by the smell of burnt spider corpses. However, as I sat and…enjoyed the meal, I cast a glance at the bits of the place I could see in the shadows and nodded approvingly. While still a fucking shit sty, the camp was already starting to look less like the aftermath of a particularly wild after-hours Beni Hana employee potluck and more like a place where people could live.

After dinner, while strolling around and making a mental note to never go into manual labor, I spotted a towering figure hunched in the distance—the hulking silhouette making even the wreckage look small. Sighing, I decided to abandon my current venture of trying to do nothing and lumbered toward the familiar figure.

“What adventure are we off to now?” Rexen, floating beside me, asked excitedly.

“Wellness check,” I said, pointing at the huge individual ahead.

“Yes,” Rexen whispered nefariously. “We must decide if he is weak enough to vanquish in one go. Oh, but he’s quite big. It might take two goes.”

Tartarus, the guy who'd spent his past life trying to teach me the ins and outs of American History, had somehow managed to smuggle a copy of the same book in this cancerous urinal cake of a world that we’d been reading in class right before we left on our ill-fated field trip. He was sitting on his oversized ogre ass next to a small campfire, his gargantuan finger tracing over the tiny letters on the page. How a beast like him managed to hold the book without crushing it, I'll never know.

"Didn't take you for the nostalgic type, teach" I said, eyeing him skeptically.

Tartarus looked up from his book, eyes glinting with what I could only assume was annoyance. But then again, the guy always looked annoyed, like he was perpetually on the brink of a sneeze he couldn't quite get out.

"Hm," he grumbled. "You seem eager to distract me."

I shrugged, planting my hands on my hips.

"Just trying to understand why you're burying your snout in a book when we're knee-deep in...whatever this is."

I motioned to the wreckage around us.

“Besides, I wanted to say what you did during that battle was baller as fuck. You’re like the John Petrucci of beating spider ass. Didn’t know you had it in you. You can probably ditch the books forever now—let sleeping dogs die or whatever.”

I paused.

“Which, now that I’m thinking about it, is a super fucked up thing to let a dog do. How you just gonna stand by while a dog is dying? Shouldn’t you try to perform CPR or something? Wait—can you give a dog mouth-to-mouth? That seems unwise, actually. They could, I dunno, bite the fuck out of your face if they came to in a panic—or worse, if someone didn’t know what you were doing, they’d probably think you were trying to get your jollies. Then you get labeled the pooch smoocher, or…dog snogger, and that’s not a nickname anybody wants. Although…I guess if they’ve gotta go, it’s really the most peaceful way. This kid I went to middle school with left his dog outside during a heatwave for fifteen hours while he was inside playing Call of Duty. That’s a fucking terrible way to go. Anyway…”

I snapped my fingers a few times trying to jog my own memory.

“Where was I? Oh, right. History is stupid and you pummeling the brick-iron bejesus outta those monsters is the coolest thing you’ve ever done.”

The ogre barely acknowledged my presence, merely letting out a distracted grunt. When he finally spoke, his deep voice tumbleweeded out, lazy and unhurried.

“Well," he began, "understanding the past, that's a crucial piece of the puzzle, isn’t it? An essential cog in the workings of our existence. Even here.”

With the sort of absent-minded look that I'd seen on him countless times in our previous life, back in the classrooms full of bored teenagers struggling to stay awake, he fucking began. I could already sense that this was going to be one of those rambling rants that he’d been infamous for. His penchant for verbosity had a way of turning simple statements into sprawling dissertations that made even the most patient student's eyes glaze over or hopeful for an asteroid strike. It was almost comforting, in a weird, fucked up way, to see him stay true to his character despite the dramatic shift in our realities.

"Now, you might wonder, why do I care about the past, especially one that seems to have slipped through our fingers, vanishing into a realm that we might never have access to again?"

“Not really,” I said. “I was always more of a—”

"The answer," he continued, "is simple."

He paused, his gaze lost somewhere in the pages of his book, a peculiar expression of reverence on his monstrous, inexplicably mustachioed face.

"You see, the past, even if it's irretrievable, even if it's locked away in the vaults of time and space, separated from us by an insurmountable chasm, is still integral to our existence."

He set his book aside for a moment, turning his massive head towards me.

"History," he said, his words hanging in the air like a heavy cloud of fog, "is a mirror. A mirror reflecting who we were, who we could've been, and most importantly, who we are today. It's like a beacon guiding us, an invaluable manual to decipher our present."

With a sigh, he turned back to his book.

"So, understanding the past, even an irretrievable one, can help shape the present."

I was left standing there, confused. Man, was this guy for real? Even stuck in an alternate world, he wouldn't let go of his long-windedness. If this was a strategy to get me to walk away, it was working.

“This guy is kooky,” Rexen muttered to me. “The past is not to learn from, it is to be from. Strike him down now, pupil, before his insanity infects us.”

I ignored the spectral deviant, and instead, waved at my former teacher.

"Fine, Professor Ogre, you have fun with your dusty ol’ history kink. I'm going back to my glamorous life of junk-sorting and corpse-exploring."

“It’s quite interesting, actually,” he continued, completely ignoring me. “The histories of our world and this one share a surprising amount of similarities.”

“Yeah?” I wondered. “You learnin’ a lot about Regaia sitting on your duff in a forest for the last two weeks?”

“Yes,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then he paused, seeming to realize I was there for the first time. “I’m sorry, were you one of my students, or are you one of the others?”

I shrugged.

“Yeah, actually…” I said with a smirk. “Cluedo McScrabble. Remember me? I was the kid that always brought his, uh, lizard to class? We used to let it ride around on the shop vac wearing sunglasses.”

He frowned.

“No?” I wondered, continuing to lie. “You came to my birthday party, ate most of my cake, and then had to leave early because you said your ‘mustache hurt.’ Not ringin’ any bells?”

“No, I can’t say that it does—which is strange, I’m usually fairly good with names.”

Well, that was a fucking fib. He spent the entirety of the last year calling both of the Ward twins ‘Paul,’ despite that not being either of their names.

“And you?” he said to Rexen.

“I am but a simple student of the world…” the ghost said wistfully. “A world that I have since bent before my mighty—”

“In any case,” Tartarus said. “Good to see you made it through to the other side, Cluedo.”

“Yeah, right back atcha, Tartar Sauce,” I said. “But…now, I might regret asking this—actually, scratch that, I’m definitely gonna regret it…but, how do you know about Regaia’s history?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said the histories of both places have a lot in common—or, I guess, was that all just you being fas…fasee—faseeshul? F-frivolishious? F—”

“Ferocious!” Rexen offered.

“Nice assist, but no. I don’t think so. Nevermind,” I groaned. “Tell me what you meant by that.”

“Oh,” Tartarus said. “My Class.”

“Like, what you chose when you got here? Or are you talking about some kind of continuing education course?”

“My chosen Class,” he said. “I’m an Archivist.”

“You design buildings? Well, gee-wizz, brother, you got your work cut out for you here, huh? I mean, have you seen this fucking place?”

“No,” he said simply. “What I chose has to do with understanding the accounts of this world. It seemed like something I was well-suited for.”

“Can you translate?” I asked Rexen.

“An Archivist uses Arcana to divine and retain the details of the world around them—by looking at its origins,” he said…suspiciously helpfully.

“Kind of like how I use Eye of the Saboteur to learn the makeup of stuff so I can better hit people with it?”

“Iunno,” Rexen shrugged, suddenly unhelpful again. “The illisinaf would know more than I. He’s a researcher. They are likely similar.”

“It lets me know the history of a lot of different things,” Tartarus agreed. “The knowledge has been largely acquired through inspection of documents and snippets of conversation—Though, I imagine it will give me more information once I get stronger. I already picked up a few new Abilities after that fight prompted me to Level up. Which begs the question of the merits of a world that would reward me more for participating in combat than in the actual execution of what my Class is designed to do.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” I exclaimed. “The System is fucking stupid, right? Get this—it said my Intelligence was low! Which, as anyone who has met me can attest to, my highly cunning nature and world famous wit are—”

“So, I’ve mostly been reading and cataloging the information I’ve received from my initial codex.”

I thought about that.

“Codex, eh? Like…a manual?”

“Sure,” Tartarus said with a nod. “Though, at this stage, it’s more of an instructional pamphlet than a primer. But, I’ll be honest, the features seemed like they would be more robust when I selected it.”

“Oh…” I said. “So…you came to a new world, and your first thought was to become, what? A librarian? Jesus, man, and I thought Rua was nerdy. If that’s the case, though, how did you get so fucking strong? You were kicking the shit out of those things.”

Tartarus shrugged.

“Ogres have an inborn trait of incredible Strength, but lower Intelligence, it seems,” he continued. “Reminded me a bit of when I used to play tabletop games. I saw a lot of similarities, and wanted to be well-rounded. So I picked something more physically vigorous for the Race, and bolstered my mental capabilities by choosing a Class with more acumen.”

Christ, did everyone know more about how this shit worked than I did? Seems unfair to offload me into this world with a train full of geeks.

“He chose better than you did, pupil,” Rexen said gleefully. “My disciple is…learning as he goes. But poorly.”

I scowled.

“Hey, Tartarus,” I said. “Did you know Arjee, here, is actually super fucking old? He’s practically prehistoric. He’s seen a whole mess of shit in this world. I’ll bet he’d be more than happy to allow you to pick his brain on every little detail you’d want to know.”

“Pupil…” Rexen began, suddenly sounding serious. “What do you think—”

“Ah, that would be a fine treat indeed,” Tartarus said, looking delighted for the first time in…well, I didn’t think I’d ever seen him elated in either life.

“Disciple-mine,” Rexen continued. “Do not leave me with—”

“Great!” I interrupted, flashing every tooth I had at the both of them. “You guys can start right now. And don’t worry Arjee…”

I winked at him.

“I’ll stay close enough that you don’t suddenly drift away. Can’t have Tartarus missing out on anything.”

With that, I chose a spot about fifty feet from them—still within the one-hundred foot radius he was required to keep with me—and sat down. Then I removed the indestructible orb and began tossing it in the air to myself, chuckling.

—

Over the next while, I was able to identify a lot of my old school chums, all spruced up like some freaky avant-garde performance piece that took a detour through a Pathfinder handbook. The camp, in the ass-crack of dawn, was a surreal soup of sleepy-eyed bedheads and hardy early birds. Made your typical morning commute look like a Walt-fucking-Disney parade.

The peasant-looking guy from when we first arrived turned out to be Matt Marshall. He’d been one of Saban’s close homies for the last couple of years, and was quite the popular Polly in our school. I was surprised that he’d decided to keep his name, and had also, strangely, chosen the Merchant Class. He’d apparently taken to the idea of what he called “classic isekai” when we’d been sent here, and thought he’d make a sweep if he focused on something built around gaining money as quickly as possible. Which, I’ll admit, was a pretty good plan. However, Matt hadn’t expected to get plopped down in a fuckin’ forest, days away from the nearest town—and by default, the nearest iota of mercantile mischief. As such, he’d felt largely useless since his arrival, save for his “Auditing” Skill, which he explained allowed him to track all of the coins of anyone he was linked with. He’d begrudgingly partied up with Alpha, simply because, as Settlement Leader, Alpha would amplify the effect, and Matt’s Skill would spread to the whole of the camp. This made knowing what the unofficially treasury tallies were much easier. It was still, apparently, a paltry sum, but, like, knowledge is power—or whatever.

Moving through the throng of folks, I caught a glimpse of something in my peripheral that made me do a double-take. A peachy, tail-wagging hurricane of furry gusto that was unmistakably the same dog-person who’d been firing terribly into the fray during the kerfluffle with the pyronids. However, I couldn’t hold it against him, because as I learned, it was also Mason Peterson. Scratch that, just "Mase" now. In a bout of savant-like inventiveness, he’d ditched the end cap on his original name along with his opposable thumbs.

The dude had gone the canine route, having chosen something called a K’niss, which looked like if the Teen Wolf and Rin Tin Tin hooked up and their love-child became really fucking sassy. The transformation was wild, but undeniably rad.

So, there he was, wrangling with some wayward lumber like it had personally insulted his mama, and after speaking with him, I learned that for some inexplicable reason, he’d chosen a Class called “Builder.” Super boring, but I couldn’t not chuckle at the irony of someone originally named Mason becoming a guy who did construction. Though, now that I thought about it—in the old world, Mase’s dad had owned a pretty well-known contracting and masonry company. Had he…been named after his dad’s line of work? I’d never thought about that until that moment, and I could not believe I’d never before connected the dots. Or maybe it was just a coincidence? Either way, it didn’t matter, and it seemed like Mase was taking to his new career with endless enthusiasm. Every wag of that furry appendage, every eager twitch of his ears was loaded with the same high-octane flamboyance that used to make our old high school feel less like a prison and more like a goddamn improv class.

I hung back, taking in the sight of him wrestling with his slab of wood, a grin tugging at my lips. Same ol' Mase, just sporting a new, hairy look. He was still stirring up smiles, still turning the mundane into a stand-up routine as he loudly complained about the quality of trees in this stretch of woodland, one stubborn timber at a time. His flair for aggressive, hilarious oversimplification still shone through, proof that no matter how wild the world around us got, some things never changed.

Nestled between a scatter of makeshift dwellings, half-hewn from the alien wilderness and half-engineered from scavenged materials, I found a small gathering around a sputtering fire pit. It was here, in this communal heart of our camp, where I stumbled upon Jando—formerly Alejandro Guerrera—who’d decided to use his nickname full-time as his moniker here in Regaia.

The guy had seriously embraced his new life, trading in his skateboard for the arcane strings of an otherworldly lute. He had chosen the path of an entwick Bard, which honestly was as surprising as finding out that water was wet. Jando had always had that chill vibe, the kind that rode the rhythm of life without breaking a sweat, so it seemed fitting.

Jando’s new form was the same as Tanner’s, the overly-bothered mope I’d met during the climactic battle, though Jando’s version was a lot more…floral. Gone was the short, scrawny stoner of our past, replaced now by a tall and slender figure adorned in plant-like flesh. His skin was a rich earthy brown, traced with delicate veins of vibrant green. It seemed that his body was a living, growing part of nature. His face was chiseled and noble, a pair of antler-like horns extending upwards from his forehead. His fingers, now long and nimble, danced effortlessly on the lute's strings, teasing out notes that filled the air with a hauntingly beautiful melody.

The music he coaxed from that enchanted lute wound its way through the camp, carrying with it a palpable sense of melancholy. It was a tune that echoed the collective longing in all our hearts—a yearning for home, for the mundane simplicity of our old lives. I couldn't help but pause, drawn in by the familiar figure lost in the throes of his new-found art.

His eyes were shut tight, a serene expression painted across his face, so much so that it seemed almost sacrilegious to interrupt him. There was a focus, a depth to Jando that I'd never noticed before. Back in the old world, the guy was a stoner legend—half-pipe shenanigans, epic pranks, and blazing it up in the deserted corners of every available scratch of scholastic property. 'Pipe and a pipe,' they used to say, but now, the dude was playing a whole different tune.

A fleeting image flashed before my eyes, of sun-soaked afternoons watching Jando and Molly dominating the pavement with their skateboards. Their infectious laughter, their seamless companionship, two rebels carving joy into the gray concrete. They were the embodiment of freedom, untouched by the mundanity we all felt trapped in.

Now, here we were, in an unfamiliar world filled with fucked up horrors beyond any reasonable necessity. Yet, they still stood by each other's side, their bond unbroken, even if their forms had drastically changed.

Just a stone's throw away, Tallulah—formerly Molly—lounged by the fire. Her new form was as different from Jando's as chalk and cheese, yet just as striking. Instead of choosing a more usual form, she'd gone the way of the…skylaiths, which, at best, could be described as a group of…celestial…birds? Feathered wings sprawled lazily at her back, their opalescent sheen catching the firelight. Her face held the delicate features of a bird of prey, eyes as bright and sharp as the turquoise sky, framed by a short crop of silvery feathers that passed for hair in her new Race. As different as she looked, there was an undeniable hint of her old self in her nonchalant posture, the way she watched Jando with a familiar, companionable smirk.

Jando's melody gently receded, the last note hanging in the air like a wisp of smoke. His eyes slowly fluttered open, meeting mine with a slight upward twitch of his leaf-green eyebrows—a silent 'hey.' I offered him a small nod of acknowledgment, the corners of my lips curling up in a half-hearted smile. It was a small exchange, but it held a certain comfort, a thread of familiarity in this tangle of fresh, bizarre hell.

Tallulah, catching the subtle exchange between us, cocked her bird-like head to the side and let out a low, melodic whistle, a sound that sounded eerily like a laugh. Our eyes met and, for a brief second, I saw the skateboarder chick I'd known, her smoky eyes crinkled at the corners in mischief. Then the moment was gone, her gaze shifting back to Jando as he began another soft melody.

I lingered for a while longer, the atmosphere around the fire pit offering a strange sense of nostalgia for…I dunno. A time and place I’d never experienced. Jando's fingers moved with a fluid grace over the lute's strings, the soft tones pulling at something deep within me. Beside him, Tallulah seemed to sway slightly, her hawkish form elegant, feathers shimmering with every movement. It reminded me of the way Jes had performed for our group in the Crypt, and I suddenly got a little sad. Man, I really wish I’d had some fuckin’ brutal-ass beats to pump into my ears right now and drown out…whatever I was feeling.

The morning grew older, the mist dissipating as the sun continued its ascent, and I found myself meandering over to the…uh, food…area. Chowing down on some sort of gruel that was reminiscent of oatmeal—except for its slight violet hue—I watched as the others trickled in, gathering their own early sustenance.

Among the new arrivals was Hannah Rentz—or rather, Pricipita, as she was known now. Swapping her sunny disposition and bouncing blonde curls for an aloof aura, hair as black as night, and a bone-white skeleton that shone in the light of dawn, she was now a something called a Bone elf. As far as her Class—I wasn’t sure. It seemed to be something particularly inclined for sneaking, but…well, that was fuckin’ cool, I supposed. Twinsies. She moved with an ethereal grace, every step seeming planned, practiced. Gone was the girl who giggled in the back row of chemistry, replaced by this creature of terrifying mystery. She was still her, I knew that, but she also wasn’t. It was a strange dichotomy.

Sitting next to her was Alexis Weber—or just Lex, now. Like Pricipita, she was a Bone elf—though the two could not have been more dissimilar in their presentation. Where Pricipita was delicate and ethereal, Lex was an imposing figure, a stark contrast. While she shared the porcelain skin and long, pointed ears, her form bore markings in deep red, running in intricate patterns along her arms and legs, crossing over her chest, and adorning her bare skull in a dazzlingly intricate design. These were no random tattoos, but signs of her chosen Class—the metal-as-fuck-ly named Blood Knight. That was the path she'd chosen in this world, which was, what I’d learned, only available to her Race. What a fucking jackpot that had turned out to be for her.

In likely the most surprising transformation of anyone so far, Lex had traded her former “Social Influencer” persona for a warrior's might, her days of being the most subscribed and coveted Snap and Insta Queen a distant memory. Now, she held a double-bladed blood-red-ax, its crimson edge gleaming. If you squinted, you could still see the traces of that sparkling smile, but it was now a grin that promised death to anyone foolish enough to cross her. She looked goddamn awesome.

Madison Edwards, still Madison, apparently—look, I’m noticing a strong pattern here amongst my former classmates, and that was one of severe deficiencies in the imagination department concerning naming conventions. Anyway, Madison was one of those folks who seemed to have changed the least, as far as on the outside. She’d kept a Human form, and had apparently been successful enough in selecting an exterior that matched her original one pretty closely—though she’d adopted the Class of Brawler. Even from across the makeshift dining area, I could see the lean muscle she'd developed, her body now a temple of punishing power.

Madison had always been athletic, but now she seemed...more. More focused, more fierce, more formidable. I watched as she engaged in friendly banter with Pricipita and Lex, her laughter ringing out and her fists playfully landing on the shoulder of Mase who’d taken a break to join them. The girl was making the best out of this shitshow, adapting in a way that I couldn’t help but admire.

And then there was, Starlily, formerly Abbie Carlson, the girl who haunted the edges of my high school dreams, with her cascade of fiery red hair and that infectious laughter that could brighten even the darkest of days. Her name, while unsurprisingly hippie-ish, was at least a modicum more interesting that just keeping your one from before—but hey, different strokes, or whatever. She’d chosen to become an aetherling Mystic. The transformation had given her an ethereal quality—soft, luminescent skin, eyes glowing with a mystical energy, and ears that seemed to have a mind of their own, expressive in their movements. Moreso, she seemed almost formed of some unfathomable element, with vague intimations of mist trailing off of her body wherever she went.

I found my gaze lingering on her a bit longer than necessary, drawn by a mixture of “the good ol’ days” and curiosity. She was mesmerizing, her new form only enhancing her natural charisma. Seeing her now, I couldn’t help but wonder what that high school boy I used to be would think. Hell, I wasn’t sure what the man I was now thought.

One thing was for sure—I didn’t know shit about women, because—as Frida had said it best: "Not all lasses yearn for frills and sparkles. Sometimes, they fancy bein,’ to use a technical term, utterly fuckin’ terrifying."