:Author's Note:

Hi there! It's me, the author. This is my first story published here on ! *confetti* It's a parade! I can't say it was the one I was expecting to put up first, and yet, here it is. Ja-jaaan 3

I wrote this one while in a bit of a depressive mood, after playing RF3 quite a bit. The last line of this story wouldn't get out of my head, and the rest of the musing just fell into place. Truly, these people are two-dimensional because they are video game characters, but what if they were real? What sort of life would that mean? That's what this story is largely about; you may interpret as it suits you. I think this one can mean different things to different people.

It's meandering and cerebral and a pure musing, but I hope you enjoy. Reviews are very much appreciated!

~ Loreley

The town is quiet; it is a good town, a kindhearted town, a simple town. Travelers stop to put their feet up and wonder at the breath of utopia they had stumbled upon.

Some of them stay—Micah stayed.

Little choice had been granted to him on the matter, considering his situation, but nonetheless, he still had weary travelers' eyes. He still marveled at the quiet of the town, the good of the town, the simplicity of the town. He was charmed by the people, the scenery, became intoxicated on the air.

The morning of his hangover took months to come, but when it did, he knew he could not have another night like the one he had been living in.

He wondered of the town and its simple people, with his clearer mind, seeing for the first time how it was like a dream. How travelers want for a release from the realities of the road, but how those who live in it are trapped.

Micah thought of Gaius, the smith. He did just what his heart desired, living his simple life, forging until the sun sank to sleep. How charming, they say, how sweet! One devoting his life to his craft without want for riches or respect, who sells little but spends much in his sweat and his blood, how he is to be admired! Micah was close enough to him to know how happy Gaius was, in his simple dream-world. Working, working. The heat of the fires painting his cheekbones orange, then pink when he stepped away. Every day was the same, every day. Micah wondered of the smith's utopia. He wondered when he would wake from this deep slumber, when his life would throw him—carelessly, as life so often did—into another reality.

But did the town change? No, no, it never did. Micah wondered of his neighbors, having the same recurring dream every day. He wondered of himself, if he dreamed the same dream every day. How charming. How sweet.

No one understood when he asked, no one listened when he told, no one responded when he pleaded. This dream would end someday, this dream of a simple town where everyone had their role and deviance meant social manslaughter. One day Gaius would wake to find his hands withered by age, years lost while he was busy in the forge, to the point he could no longer work. His simple life would mean nothing then, Micah knew with vulgar clarity. But would Gaius wake from his dream, then? Or would he go to the fire all the same, still living in his simple fantasy, where life meant nothing else?

But life in this town was a utopia, they would say to Micah, its simplicity is the touch of beauty travelers walk their feet bloody for. Simple. Kind. Heaven, in a word.

Micah wondered of all they did not know, of what existed in his own hazy memory, just beyond his fingertips' reach. There were words that would never be spoken because they did not exist in the town's simple language. No one could wake from their dreams, for they were not sleeping but comatose, sealed in their utopia forever. Only Micah could still escape, but for how long could he retain his clarity of complexity? How long until he was swallowed by his own simple dream, doomed to the same, every day, without knowing if things were changing or if even he was changing? From time to time, he still wondered of Gaius, if he knew how his life was defined by one thing. If he knew of what could be happening as the days went by without notice—but Micah could not remember it, he was sinking, closing his eyes for the night.

The town is quiet; it is a good town, a kindhearted town, a simple town. There is no cause for worry, foolish traveler-

-For the town has no word for disease. People just die.