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Their departure time is set for sundown. Blade knows that Kafka wants him off the Luofu as soon as possible—there’s something here that can damage him, and her job is to keep him whole.
He obeys. There’s a beautiful simplicity in giving decision up to her, allowing himself to be nothing but the weapon of his name, deadly and mindless. Elio gives her the script, and she’ll point him in the right direction when he’s needed.
He heads towards their rendezvous point near the Alchemy Commission: there’s a map of the Luofu in his head, vast and minutely detailed, but it’s not even that; he finds himself moving on muscle memory, drifting in and out of shadow almost in a daze. His feet know the way.
…Or maybe they don’t. He’s pulled out of his reverie when the path he’s following breaks off and he realizes he’s somehow made his way to a dead-end cove along the artificial Luofu ocean, three wrong turns from the pick-up point where Sam is waiting to extract him.
Moreover, the cove is currently occupied.
“Oh,” says the occupant, staring up at Blade.
He’s perched on a rock, bare feet dipping into a shallow pool of seawater. His eyes are an unusual light amber, and they’re wide in recognition.
He’s probably matched Blade’s face to the slew of Wanted posters plastered all over the ship. Blade should dispose of him before he can sound an alarm.
But he’s tired, and they’re leaving soon. The stranger is dressed in civilian clothes—fine, expensive-looking robes, with discarded shoes and socks and a thick cloak and parasol laid carelessly beside him on the rocks—and appears fit but not particularly martial, pale from long hours indoors. Likely the son of some wealthy household here to indulge in a romantic afternoon of poetic fancy on the vagaries of the sea. Blade will be well away by the time he can scramble his way to a personage of authority.
He turns on his heel to leave.
“Wait.”
The stranger lacks self-preservation, apparently. He scrambles to his feet—his bare feet—and takes a few unsteady steps forward, as if he doesn’t know Blade is entirely capable of taking his head off at fifteen paces. Should be taking his head off.
“Keep your mouth shut if you value your life,” he says instead of drawing his sword.
He’s not sure why. Just that his instincts tell him that this stranger is no threat, maybe because of his resemblance to the fluffy white Persian mouser that forms Elio’s one weakness in life.
The stranger stops. Blade frowns—uncomfortable, for reasons he can’t vocalize. Something about the scene bothers him.
“I’ll keep quiet,” the stranger says, peering up through thick bangs, “if you do me a favor?”
Blade should kill him.
He should kill him, or he should turn and leave right now, so that he’s safely back aboard the ship before the Cloud Knights are alerted.
“Are you brain-damaged?” he finds himself saying instead.
“Ouch.” The stranger winces, but doesn’t back off like any non-suicidal person would do. “It’s been suggested before, possibly, but I assure you there’s nothing wrong with my mind. I’m very healthy and sane.” He sounds a little glum about it.
“Good for you.”
Blade’s not sure why he’s still talking. Being in Xianzhou territory always makes him strange—they can’t leave soon enough.
“I suppose.” The stranger’s tone dismisses health and sanity as mere trifles. “The thing is, I was supposed to meet a friend here.”
Blade prepares to have to dispose of two people instead of one.
“This is a friend I don’t see often, you understand,” the man continues. “I was looking forward to it. I even snuck out in disguise,” he waves at the parasol and the cloak on the ground, which Blade can see has a large, concealing hood.
It strengthens his impression that this is some scion of a noble family, kept in comfortably-appointed isolation for the continuation of the family line.
“Sounds like you shouldn’t get yourself killed before meeting him.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that—I’m quite difficult to kill.” There’s a quicksilver gleam in the stranger’s eyes, gone before Blade can identify it as anything other than danger. “But I was just informed by a mutual acquaintance that my friend forgot about our meeting.” And just like that, the danger is gone, morphing into quiet dejection. “He forgot all about me.”
The stranger’s friend is a dick.
Perhaps it’s the fact that the stranger seems like a sincere and well-mannered puppy that causes Blade to feel unaccountably incensed on his behalf. Perhaps it’s too many instances of being the last person informed whenever Elio dictates a change of plan. Whatever the case, he finds himself saying, “It just means he’s not worthy of the title you give him.”
“He had reason,” the stranger counters immediately, though the wry twist to his lips suggests that he realizes what a flimsy defense that is. “He’s not at fault. But it does mean that I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to get here and have no company to make it worthwhile.” He pauses, then gives Blade a sideways look from between his lashes. “You could change that.”
He is brain-damaged.
“You should be in a hospital,” Blade says.
“They won’t take me,” the stranger sighs. “They won’t even give me a doctor’s note so I can take off from work.”
That this man has a job contradicts Blade’s first impression that he’s an idle well-born aristocrat, but it could well be a cushy government job reliant on family connections. Blade knew someone who—
”They managed to arrange a position in the Realm-Keeping Commission, and now they keep pestering me to take it. I’ve told them a million times that I’m not leaving the Cloud Knights to spend my days passing out speeding tickets!”
—makes his head hurt. He shakes it, trying to clear his mind. His mara slaps him with a sleepy, questioning tendril.
“Are you all right?”
The stranger’s face appears suddenly, much closer in his field of vision that it was before. Blade just manages to keep his sword in its sheath.
“Don’t come near me.”
You almost got yourself decapitated, he doesn’t say.
“Sorry, sorry. You looked a little out of it.” The stranger backs away, and Blade notices once again his bare feet on the rocks, slipping precariously.
He realizes what was bothering him earlier. He just doesn’t understand why.
“Put your shoes on.”
The stranger blinks at him. “What?”
“Put your shoes on,” he repeats.
“But my feet are wet,” the stranger says.
It’s a reasonable response. It’s a reasonable excuse. It’s unreasonable that Blade is getting worked up about this, but that only stokes his irritation.
“Then get back on your rock,” he snaps, and when the stranger just stares at him, he steps forward to—he’s not sure what. Pick the man up and fling him onto the rock?
Fortunately, he’s not put to the test. The stranger scrambles backward obediently, hoisting himself back atop the rock on which Blade first found him perched, though Blade doesn’t like the smile on his face.
“Were you worried? You don’t have to be, I have tough old feet.”
He gives them a little kick in demonstration. They’re shapely and pearl-white in the sunlight, with high, elegant arches. A pampered lordling’s feet. They contrast sharply against the darkness of the rocky shore.
Blade turns his head away. He doesn’t understand why it feels like a transgression to be caught looking.
“You could keep me company,” the stranger suggests. “Just for a bit.”
When Blade doesn’t respond, he adds, “So I won’t be tempted to go chasing down the beach after you. With no shoes on.”
Blade feels his mara begin to agitate out of sheer mundane annoyance. “Why would you think that’s worth bargaining with?”
“I don’t have much else to work with,” the man points out. He tilts his head. “Is it working?”
The preposterous answer is yes.
Blade wonders if Kafka messed something up when she was poking around in his head earlier.
“I’m leaving before sundown,” he concedes with ill grace.
He has a few hours to kill anyway.
The stranger is wise enough not to dwell on his own victory. Instead he says, brightly, “Would you like a sandwich? I prepared a picnic lunch.”
“No.”
There’s no poison that can harm him, but it would still be idiotic to accept food from a stranger. He’s already hit and surpassed his monthly allowance of foolishness today.
“More for me,” the stranger accepts easily. He stretches out to tug at the cloak by the rock, unveiling a jumbo-sized wicker hamper underneath, and flips it open to reveal…a feast. Sandwiches, pastries, beverages in huge canteens. Blade wonders how he hauled it all here.
“You and your friend have large appetites.”
“He’s not staying for long,” the stranger explains, digging unselfconsciously through the contents of the basket. “I wanted to give him a big, fancy send-off. And picnics are fun.”
They’re…not terrible. On the odd occasion where Elio needs them to stay on a planet after their formal business is done Sam likes to plan healthy outdoor outings, although they generally just buy prepared foods because Kafka is Kafka, Sam can’t cook with his huge gauntlet fists, Blade has no sense of taste, and Silver Wolf’s idea of food starts with chips and ends with bubblegum. (Nobody ever asks Elio.)
They’ll spread out a blanket in a deserted field, Kafka will whip out her huge wide-brimmed hat to hide from the sun, Silver Wolf will complain about mosquitoes and spotty Internet access, and Sam will portion out the food, beaming.
He finds the stranger looking at him oddly. “What?” he bristles.
“Oh, nothing.” The man turns away to return to his voluminous basket—honestly, Blade should have inspected it; it looks fully capable of stowing away a discreet arsenal of weapons—and emerges with a single sandwich. “You looked like you were remembering something nice, that’s all.”
“Keep your imagination to yourself.”
The stranger unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite out of it obediently. When he finishes chewing, he says, “There’s nothing wrong with good memories. It’s important to have them.”
“I’m sure you have an abundance.” He looks the type to have a profusion of family photos, arranged into a gallery wall. Maybe a wife and child at home to carry on the family name. Blade can see him sitting by a fireplace in furry slippers, flanked by loving family and an adoring pet.
“A few,” the stranger acknowledges. Blade can’t see his expression in between his thick bangs and the sandwich he’s only lightly grazed. “It’s just getting harder to find the people who share them. And that can be important, too.”
That’s not a problem Blade can relate to. He’s been with his team for well over five centuries.
He remembers the stranger’s asshole of a friend. “Maybe you should make new memories with people who stick around,” he says.
That makes the stranger flinch, and Blade feels unaccountably irked that he’s so attached to a schmuck.
After a second, though, the stranger smiles at him. He has a nice smile, warm and wistful, like a light breeze on a summery day. “That’s very good advice. I’ll try to follow it.”
**
It takes the stranger almost half an hour to finish his sandwich. In the meantime, Blade finds a large, flat rock of his own to occupy and fetches the sharpening stone he keeps stashed away to start honing his sword: he hasn’t found the opportunity to do so since boarding the Luofu, and since he’s lost his mind and decided to waste his afternoon entertaining a fellow lunatic, he might as well get some use out of it.
The stranger eats slowly and carefully, as though he’s relishing each bite. He peers at Blade over the top of the sandwich all the while, like Blade will disappear if he takes his eyes away.
It should be uncomfortable. It should be intolerable.
Blade honestly has no explanation for what he’s doing here.
Perhaps it’s just the man’s aura, as placid and relaxed as a boddhisatva. Songbirds quite literally land on his hair and shoulders to steal crumbs here and there and the man takes it in easy stride, as if it’s an everyday occurrence.
Blade wonders if he’ll remain so blasé once the birds start shitting on his head, but so far, miraculously, it hasn’t happened, like even the birds have been charmed. The man is a walking contradiction of good sense yet still manages to get his own way.
The image of the precious heir growing up in an isolated bower is falling apart. The man is too composed to be unfamiliar with command. Perhaps he’s gifted with powers of enchantment, something akin to Kafka’s Dominance: Blade certainly feels enchanted, off-balance and drawn in despite himself.
Being on the Luofu messes with his judgment. He’ll chalk it up to that.
“We still have a bit of time before sundown,” says the stranger, breaking into Blade’s thoughts. He’s finished his sandwich—finally—and is folding the wrapper into a neat square. “What would you like to do?”
He’s blithely ignoring the sword in Blade’s lap, even though the writhing golden veins of mara are obvious on sheath and blade. Either he’s ignorant or he knows too much; in any case he’s not someone to be associating with.
What Blade says is, “Up to you.”
“I came unprepared,” the stranger admits. “I should have brought a Xiangqi set. Or maybe an instrument. I’ve been taking lute lessons.” He turns to Blade. “What about a poetry contest?”
“Anyone who starts mooning on about the ocean deserves to be dunked in it.” Blade’s patience for verse runs as thin as tissue paper.
“Not a man of culture, I see,” the stranger sighs, but his eyes are laughing. “What do you do with your friends when you hang out?”
‘Hanging out’ isn’t a term he’s ever used for what the Stellaron Hunters do in between missions, but Blade doesn’t correct the man. He suspects that the question was rhetorical, but the fact of the matter is that being part of Silver Wolf’s gaggle of guardians means he’s well-prepared for this scenario.
“I know some road trip games,” he says evenly.
The stranger stares at him. He appears to be having a little trouble with his expression. “You’ll…have to teach me, then. I’m afraid I have little experience in that area. I don’t go on trips very often,” he adds ruefully.
It’s a small thing, but Blade likes the idea that he gets to teach this person something new.
“Have you ever heard of 20 Questions?” he says.
**
They get through 20 Questions.
Blade chooses his sword, which the stranger nails in three guesses, while the stranger chooses the precise hue of the tip of a wave crest, which Blade tells him is cheating and should get his throat slit, and also that they’re not playing 20 Questions again.
Name That Tune goes slightly better, although Blade is only passingly familiar with the Galaxy’s Top 100 that Silver Wolf likes to keep playing on their radio while the stranger seems mostly acquainted with Xianzhou airs, so it really only goes better in the sense that they both perform miserably.
They finally land on Would You Rather. It’s one of Blade’s preferred games because he usually has no trouble answering, which means he gets to mind his own business while Sam spends half an hour agonizing over whether he would marry the most attractive person he’s ever met or the best cook he’s ever met.
“Would you rather always be 10 minutes late or always be 20 minutes early?”
Blade snorts. “Early. What a pointless question.”
“I don’t know…wouldn’t you rather waste other people’s time than your own?”
“If it’s my time that you’re wasting,” Blade tells him levelly, “you’re only doing it once.”
The stranger raises both hands in surrender. “I would never,” he says meekly. And then, “Your turn.”
Blade glances down at the app. “Would you rather find a rat in your kitchen or a roach in your bed?”
The stranger stares at him, eyes wide. “How sadistic. I think…it wouldn’t matter, because either way I’d have to move.”
Blade’s spent days at a stretch among rats, insects, all sorts of vermin. “Wimp,” he says without heat.
“Guilty as charged,” the stranger admits easily. “My turn, let’s see. Oh.” He glances up. “Would you rather be in the history books for something terrible or be forgotten completely after you die?”
“Forgotten.” He keeps getting the simple ones. Blade has no interest at all in what people think about him.
“I don’t think that will happen, though,” the stranger says, tapping one finger against his chin.
“True, I’ve already opened Door Number One.”
The stranger shoots him a reproving look, like reminding people that he’s an intergalactically wanted criminal is in bad taste. “I just meant that your friends would remember you.”
“Hm,” Blade hums without interest. The Stellaron Hunters are tied together by the threads of common interest, and once he’s dead his will be cut. Destiny marches on, and he’d be disappointed if his teammates looked back.
There’s no point in saying this to a man he’ll never see again.
“In any case, I’ll remember,” the man continues, ignorant of Blade’s inner musings. “This is a memorable afternoon, don’t you think? I’ll keep it as a story to tell the grandchildren.”
He has a very faint dimple when he smiles, only along his right cheek, as if to balance out the beauty mark under his left eye. It looks like the imprint of a gentle finger. Somehow the man gives the impression of someone who should be gently treated.
They play through a few more rounds before the sky begins to blush and the light wanes, the sun flirting its way back into the horizon. Blade shifts, tracking the time.
The stranger catches him. “One more?” he suggests. “There’s still a little bit of time.”
Blade hesitates, but he’s right. It can’t hurt. “One more.”
The stranger fiddles with the app, frowning at whatever he finds, then places his phone face down on the rock beside him to face Blade fully. His arms are braced on either side of his body. He makes a tableau against sea and rose-colored sky.
“Tell me, please. Would you rather let go entirely of the past or be forced to come across the worst parts of it?” he asks, and there’s no hint of a dimple now.
It’s not an unusual question. It fits perfectly into the formula. But it’s one he hasn’t heard before, and he’s played this game with his teammates dozens, hundreds, countless times over the years.
Then again, it could just be the holes in his memory playing tricks again. Blade’s past is a torn and tattered page.
In any case the question is valid, and the answer comes to him almost instantaneously. He doesn’t pause to give it.
“I would remember,” he says.
“Really?” The stranger sounds surprised, as if that wasn’t the answer he’d expected.
Blade is a little surprised himself, but in the end, it’s not a matter of decision. This is a choice he’s made, that he continues to make again and again and again. It’s the reason why Kafka has to keep wiping his memories, to the point where she accuses him of deliberately upping her workload.
He doesn’t remember his past right now, and he doesn’t remember why he needs to forget. But he understands how Kafka’s ability works.
If he truly wished to let it go, it would be gone.
“You’re sure?” The stranger still sounds doubtful, peering at him askance. “Absolutely? 100%?”
Blade frowns at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Of course. Of course. Don’t mind me.” The stranger laughs, the kind of laugh that Silver Wolf gives when she‘s trying to distract from the fact that she’s stolen his phone to send prank messages. “Sorry. It’s just that sometimes I worry that I’m selfish with the decisions I make.”
He doesn’t elaborate; instead, he climbs off his rock and begins to put on his socks. Blade watches him slip them on, wiggle his toes, then repeat the process with his shoes. He ends by donning the cloak, leaving the hood down, and picking up his parasol. In his fine robes, he looks ready to attend a lantern festival.
He turns to Blade and says, hopefully, “Will you walk me down the pier, at least?”
Blade doesn’t say yes. He just gestures forward, and the stranger takes the hint, taking the lead while Blade follows behind.
He chatters cheerfully about nothing as they walk, seemingly satisfied with Blade’s grunts or silences in response. His parasol bobs behind him, an amateur brush painting of a fat little finch filling Blade’s view: a surprising accessory for one in such expensive dress otherwise.
There’s a risk in this. By the time they reach the end of the pier, there may well be Cloud Knights patrolling within earshot. All the man has to do is raise the alarm.
The Cloud Knights won’t be able to hold Blade, but they can cause him inconvenience, and Blade doesn’t like to be inconvenienced, all evidence of this afternoon to the contrary.
He follows along.
It’s a fairly long stretch of road but it feels like they cover it in no time. Before they round the corner that will take them back onto the main plaza, the man stops and turns.
“I have to be getting back now,” he says, “but thank you for keeping me company today. I truly, truly appreciate it,” and before Blade can say anything or react in any way, he steps forward and gives Blade a tight, lightning-quick hug.
“You ass—“
“Bye bye!” The stranger turns tail as Blade splutters, tripping away merrily like he’s just won a prize.
Blade should run him down. Blade should drag him back and beat him up for initiating unwanted physical contact.
Instead (because he’s clearly lost his mind today) he takes his phone out and snaps a photo right as the stranger turns the corner, before he disappears entirely from sight.
It’s blurry and doesn’t show the stranger’s face: just the flare of his cloak, a cloud of white hair, and the incongruous, childishly painted parasol.
I’ll remember this afternoon, the stranger had said.
He can make promises like that, because he’s an ordinary person who doesn’t have Swiss cheese in place of a memory. Blade isn’t. He won’t remember this afternoon. Sooner or later it will either fade or be excised, as all his less deep-seated memories eventually do.
But the photo will stay on his phone, and maybe he can ask Silver Wolf how to place it somewhere it can’t be lost, a souvenir of a pleasant, ordinary day, a reminder that they exist.
As if on cue, his phone chimes.
u lost????
He types back: Coming
…
kafka says bring takoyaki balls
Ok
He slips his phone into his pocket, and goes off in search of a takoyaki stall.
Art commissioned from the absolutely INCREDIBLE @snowleart