26/ Farmer's (Too Nice For a Jacket)

Maintenance on the bounded field extending from the local Sephora all the way down the road to a local deli/bottle store took the better part of three hours. Equivalent exchange, am I right? Typically, the circumference of a bounded field delineates a natural boundary: a forest, a house, a body. Physical separations give the traveler the impression they might be wandering from a known world into an unknown.

If none of these are present, magi are known to use certain psychological tricks in architecture or cunning city planning to carve out an isolated area beforehand. That doesn't work when you're trying to detect overly hostile intentions mixed with magical energy threatening farmer's market shoppers on an already built street. Cherry ingeniously carved a series of sigils to extend the range of a single bounded field. She wouldn't explain the mystery, but each sigil is made of seven strokes. It might be ridiculous, but I think they look Mycenaean. The Matou originated from Russia, specifically Kiev before it was Ukranian.

To ensure some Master doesn't go around washing out the sigils with their magical energy, Cherry locked them within imaginary number space pockets fixed to the relative space they occupy. We might not be overseeing the Grail War, but the Mission still has control over our custom-built magical infrastructure. My magical energy unlocks the pockets, and I gave Mr. Kars a gemstone filled with my magical energy so he could activate the bounded field if I wasn't present. We first tested the system a month ago at the weekly Farmer's Market and have been fine-tuning exactly what 'hostile' meant since.

Checking the sigils and refilling them doesn't take too long; it's making sure the Executors that Father Phahn brought in haven't tried constructing their own bounded fields on top of ours. Never know what happens when magecraft mixes.

That must be why Cherry hasn't tried taking down those trees. My best guess? They're catalysts for a defined domain to activate a territory-based Noble Phantasm, possibly an otherworld bounded field equivalent to the ones elementals and Dead Apostles construct. That would mean Lancer was a magus or at least has enough knowledge to perform high-thaumaturgy. Yeah, that's why I said it was my best guess. Cherry would have a better idea since her element is [ruby=imaginary numbers]hollow[/ruby]. But I feel like the trees are hollow to the point of「」. Trees of emptiness? Internally shrugging to some crazy vernacular no one would even think of using, I enter Ahnenerbe.

"Hi Manager; the usual, please," I offhandedly say as I pull myself onto a bar stool.

Lowering a pair of shades in a dimly lit cafe is always striking. "House roast, Black, Japanese Iced on your tab?"

"Slightly offended you needed to ask."

We both politely laugh. Repeating the same little comedy routine is what it means to be regular at a cafe. That and having a tab.

"Farmer's tonight." I tell him as he puts the beans in the grinder. "Kayla's going to meet me here in a bit. Oh, Kayla's my girlfriend; I think you've met her before."

He smiles to humor a regular while blooming the coffee on top of a cup half-filled with ice. Watching makes me uneasy. It's not butterflies. I've been going to Farmer's with Kayla since the first semester. How audacious to continue holding a farmer's market during not only a Holy Grail War but with a Dead Apostle at large. Yes, I know the worst way to conceal mystery is to disturb routine. Surely, everyone in town can feel the tension in the air, but they choose to ignore it — to keep the hope that tomorrow will be better than today alive in their hearts. How resilient. No doubt the Church [ruby=destroying]managing[/ruby] the supernatural will make the world a better place.

I thank the Manager as he settles the glass on a square napkin in front of me. Freshly brewed, exactly one calorie for every three-point-five fluid ounces of beverage (give or take the density). Over ninety-nine percent of coffee is water. It has no nutritional benefits yet — I take a sip and let the aroma wash over me. The infinite branching products originating from a single ubiquitous chemical reaction in the pursuit of pure hedonism results in a drink that's become a lifestyle.「」in a tree? Don't make me laugh. If the magi idea of「」has any validity, it exists in every cup of coffee.

I do my best to swallow. I don't like coffee, it tastes like dirt and the caffeine does nothing for me. But drinking it is comforting because it demonstrates — well, I'm not sure what it demonstrates but you don't order a Coke at a cafe like Ahnenerbe.

"How is it?" the Manager asks.

Feigning depth, I try to snatch at whatever descriptor comes to mind, "Very smooth. Not acidic at all. A deep flavor, very deep. Maybe hints of grass and malt."

He scoffs a little. "Enjoy the coffee, Chris. If you have some time, there's someone in the kitchen who would like to meet you."

"No problem." I reflexively look at my phone after I say the words, "Yeah, I got a while."

He walks into the back room.

I wonder if it's Seven, the hooved girl the cafe sometimes babysits. The special salad they make for her is finally on the menu. What's that feeling of deja vu? She hasn't been to the cafe for three weeks, so why does it feel like I saw her this morning? A cat hell and my locker too?

The stray thoughts are swung out of my head like the cafe kitchen door, revealing an almost middle-aged, darkly tanned man who still pops his collar. His black sports jacket is draped behind his left shoulder and a cerulean flip phone that's always on the bar is squeezed to his right ear. As he walks to the bar, the somehow soft Ahnenerbe state-mandated fluorescent lights catch his showy rosary slow dancing across his collarbones. My hand almost unconsciously reaches out for my own.

"Yes, your Seventh, can you believe it? The Church is still monitoring his movements. No, no, there's no need for a response. I thought I'd just fill you in. . . for old times sake. Hello? Hung up. Twice in a day too."

He closes the flip phone and places it on the bar counter where it belongs, "Chris, the former overseer? Pleased to meet you, Lorenz, Lorenz Trendel — part of the delegation the Church sent to assist Father Phahn."

"Pleased to meet you, Father Trendel," I offer him my hand but instead of taking it, he slips a business card into my palm. "Very tasteful how the raised cross-hatching texturizes the off-white. The Pastor for our Mission loves looking at other clergy member's business cards. Do you mind if I show him?"

"Only if you call me Lorenz. Father Trendel's my father." He leans in and taps the line on the card which states his occupation. "I'm more of a specialist than clergy."

The Church has many of those, "Demons, demonic fiends, demonic aberrations, demonification, demonation or true demons?"

"Have you heard of the Pralalala?"

Everyone has. It was a heretical organization that sought to combine magecraft and sacrament to create monstrosities. The Pralalala purge was considered to be one of the modern Church's greatest victories against a heretical organization. Those are rare considering the tepid war we're currently fighting against the Association.

"Are there Pralalala remnants in the region drawn to the Grail War?"

That's the logical answer. The Grail is the holy vessel that exists in utopia. According to magi, the Holy Grail of our Lord is merely one variation of that myth. As Father Phahn said last night, this Grail War was constructed using a Grail stolen from the Church's treasury as the core. That is to say, covering one of our Grails with the shell of the 726th Grail system to summon Heroic Spirits. So it's natural that the cultish Pralalala would be drawn to this sacrilege — Wait. What if the opposite is true?

"You're quick. I can see why the Church cleared you to be the overseer, despite your age."

There's no doubt the Church would expunge records of Pralalala involvement in constructing this Grail. A Grail War due to a Cardinal's lapse in judgment sounds a lot better than a heretical organization we purged, abetting a Cardinal to create a Grail War. Father Kelsey would have a heart attack if he heard that. But, this is just baseless gossip between fellow off-duty Church agents, nothing more.

"Thank you for the interesting history lesson, Mr. Trendel. I'm not sure why you told me. I'm hunting the Dead Apostle threatening this town, not the Grail."

A gentle but toothy grin. "Every one of Phahn's Executors is too busy with Grail War logistical or administrative work and I'm just one person. You, on the other hand, are running all over town, turning over mystery upon mystery to find this vampire, or at least that's what I've been told. All I'm asking, one believer to another, is to keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear anything about the Pralalala, give me a call. You have my number. And Mr. Trendel? He's my father."

"Of course. . . Lorenz," I offer him my hand again. This time he takes it for a firm handshake. "Did someone from Parks and Rec let you know I'd be at Ahnenerbe?"

Of course, that's not the case; he came out from the kitchen.

"No, no, no. My daughter is friends with Chikagi and Hibiki. You might have seen her around, Harriet. Harriet Frise."

A pouting face under an oversized beret covering waves of gold, childishly chiding other patrons while stuffing her face with omurice.

"Oh, you're Harriet's father? Pleased to meet you, she's always taking care of me."

She might be the worst part-time waitress here, but she has a cult following. A few years ago some Tolosa High kids would come in trying to find iconography they could pose with for clout. But a trio of teenage boys is nothing against a tall, glamorous but hateful Nordic waitress. I wasn't there, but from what I've heard from other regulars, she literally kicked them out despite the Manager's protests. I can't help but imagine the surprise of the leader who came back the next day to apologize to her and implore her to let him do the dishes, just to find his bros also scrubbing plates in the three-compartment sink. And they kept coming back because they had assured themselves and each other that with enough proximity, she'd add them on Snapchat. Yes, that Harriet Frise.

There's only one thing that doesn't make sense. I'm sure Harriet Frise is a magus.

"I better be off. It was great meeting you, Chris. You're a promising young man who's going to do great things for the Church."

I smile, tell him he's too kind, shake his hand, and watch him leave.

Did Cherry or Dilo know about the Pralalala connection? The last sip of cold coffee finishes coating my throat. Even if they knew, they wouldn't tell me. My job's to keep Masters from destroying the town. Not mine, Father Phahn's.

"Psst, kid. Get your ass over here."

A very welcome distraction.

Pocketing the business card, I get off the barstool and slide myself into a booth to face an absolutely glowing Detective holding a lowball glass half-filled with amber liquid. There are two empty glasses beside him.

"Where's Curie?"

He takes a gulp before answering, "Ain't even her name. That troublesome woman. Kei. . . Kirara is too obvious." He imitates a high-pitched voice. "Doesn't she look cute, all meru-meru. After all, a comet is just —"

He finishes the drink instead of the sentence, slamming the empty glass onto the table, breath irregular and eyes unfocused. I don't allow myself to shrink. He's been drunk before, usually during a particularly difficult case. Regulars know to steer clear because the next day he'll triumphantly march into the cafe, shouting that the round's on him only to scoff, rebuking everyone who cheered because they should earn their own money, but tonight he'll buy the round anyway because they're all peasants.

No matter how unpleasant, sober or drunk, that little girl was always beside him, patiently waiting and asking obvious questions so he could tell her how stupid she sounded before answering with his signature quick-witted deductive reasoning.

"Are —"

"The fuck was that?"

"Pardon?"

"That! Wha twas, that?" He wildly gestures at the barstool I stood behind while talking to Lorenz.

"Sorry Detective, I don't think I'm allowed to talk about that. He's an associate."

He muttered something almost unintelligible underneath his breath about what sort of teenager has associates before, "One thing." He puts up his perfectly manicured index finger. "One fucking thing. Andyou. . . Doyou know hwat your problem is? Do you. Knowhat your problem is?"

"Should I call you an Uber?"

He scoffs. It's a harsh hacking originating from the back of his throat. "That. Exactly, fucking that. You really love sucking dick don't you? Whoever's in front of you, you just get down on your knees and slurp it all up. Gobble, gobble, gobble. Thank you, sir, can I fucking have some more?"

Excuse me?

"Fuck. It's the most dishgushting thing in this excuse of a cafe. You're the best detective in Japan, even better than the Refrain duo. Shurely you can get informashion on one little dead girl's family. Fuck."

The correct response would be 'Can I do anything to help?" But there's nothing I can do because I'm hunting a Dead Apostle and in the Detective's eyes I'm just a teenager who frequents the same cafe that he does.

Instead, a small smile, "I'm sorry you're going through this."

That sets off a barrage of abuses that start out muttered but reach a volume loud enough that other patrons look over to see what's happening. The waitresses try to get his attention, but without looking at them, the Detective puts his hand up silencing everyone who wasn't talking. "Igeddit. I geddit. I'llgo. I'llgo. But you, kid, fucker. Don't look at me like. Fuck! I had a friend once. Once. An idiot who didn't care if trash was trying to take advantage of him. Fuck. I can't believe I'm using her words. Aiming farther for other's sake, thinking of others before yourself, and hating the fuck out of yourself more than anyone else. That's called being broken. You, the way you suck dick, just so much dick. . . like there was nothing to break in the first place."

He wordlessly snarls at the table then stops short of crashing his fist into it. "Shit." He glares at me with the entire cafe watching. "Fuck. Why the fuck am I even trying? Fuck." He tries to throw his hands up in his drunken stupor but they just comically flop around. No one laughs.

"Sir, I think you should —"

He gets up so the waitress can't finish her sentence and stumbles to the door muttering. "Peasants, this is why peasants, just peasants, fucking peasants, fucking kid, fucking mafia, fucking Kuruoka, fucking Curie."

He almost collapses at the door but is able to grip the frame for support. He smashes it with his free fist. One more frustration filled "Fuck!" as he pulls himself outside, leaving us with the tense, awkward silence that grips the room when a teacher finishes shouting at a student. The shock and internal monologue of each person push all the oxygen out of the atmosphere to create a single shared moment of forever, floating in vacuum.

But that quickly collapses into conversation. It always does.

One waitress vehemently apologizes and asks me if there's anything that she can get me. It's on the house.

The cafe isn't at fault. The Detective was just having a bad night and I'm fine. Don't worry about me. It happens. It happens. My girlfriend should be arriving soon so no need to worry about me.

The waitress takes the empty glasses and leaves me to play my mobile game. While I wait for the hit Japanese arcade card game now billion-dollar, mobile hero collector Heroes of History: Grand Offensive to load, I can't help but dismiss what the Detective said about me. The thing I like about me is that I approach every interaction sincerely. I have to because that's what — Right, because each and every one of these experiences should be a precious bubble that adds to the foam which becomes the shape of his life. For him, the world must be beautiful. I am only here to give it meaning, to reaffirm what was. I'm doing a good job. The Detective sure has some weird friends. I better put my phone away since Kayla walked through the door. The paint on the frame is slightly chipped.

The drone of hundreds becomes a dull roar as we step out of the cafe into the brightly lit street with brightly painted wooden stalls advertising exotic honey, artisanal cheeses, and local olive oils sometimes all in the same booth. If we go further up the street we'd find milk crates filled with freshly picked vegetables onto cardboard-covered plastic tables, whereas the opposite direction has no displays, only menu items written on the booth or carts. None of that should matter right now.

"Yeah, I had a pretty great time. We rolled our characters and Papiyas, he's the character I made, is the cutest cinnamon roll, so yeah. He's like a really nervous baby demon with a flowing ponytail. But like, 'cept a nice kind of wild. And sticking out are baby horns and ummm can you guess what class he is?"

"You guys aren't playing D and D anymore, right?"

A head shake, "Not DnD but you can still guess. Errrr, I'll give you a clue. No wait. That would be too obvious. Ummm." She frowns, brow crinkled as we stand on this concrete riverbank because if we dip our toe into the stream, the current of people will wash us away.

A month or two after arriving at the school and propositioning me to start a pretend relationship, Kayla found some friends and they started playing a tabletop roleplaying game together. That's the cool thing to do these days. Her first character, named after a fruit, was a six-four, one hundred and eighty pound, flower crown manbaby who wore his cloak backwards and played the ukulele.

"Is he a bard who plays the ukulele?"

Her mouth slightly opens. "Howdidyou? But yeah. I think this is the one. You know like I've told you before that umm I've always wanted to make a DnD podcast. But like everyone just makes 'DnD' podcasts. But Evie, she's in the same Discord server as this guy from England who's running a Kickstarter. He was trying to fund a tabletop he was making with the help of a supercomputer with this state-of-the-art AI called Tri-Trimeow? It's crazy, right? Like of course no one believed him and everyone thought it was just some random meme so he reached the target in a week."

"You guys pitched in?"

"Ummm yeah, just like as a meme, you know." Half-way into mockingly rolling her eyes, they droop down, now fixed on her strappy shoes. "But when we got the sourcebook bundle in the mail, Evie said Iron Emblem, that's the name, nothing to do with Fire Emblem, was going to be the next big thing in TRPG. So yeah, I think this is going to make an awesomesauce podcast because you know there are so many DnD podcasts but this is like ummm disruptive. Is that dumb?"

My finger lightly jabs her bare upper arm to get her to stop looking down. "If you guys are having fun, there's no way it could be dumb." At least I think it should be true. "Aren't you cold though? Here. . ." I start to take off my jacket.

"Oh no!" she steps back. "No, sorry. Sorry. Thanks for the thought, but I'm good," and immediately starts faux-flexing her biceps while gwaffing in an overly dramatic manner. "Cold? Can't feel a thing with these guns hahahahaha."

Without saying a word, I zip up my jacket.

"Sorry. That was cringe wasn't it?"

"What do you mean cringe? I thought you couldn't feel anything with those."

She won't laugh. All I get is a nasal 'hmph.'

"You know," she says while shaking her head. "You know that feeling when you're talking to someone and you can't help but feel like they've already judged you. I don't. . . get that with you. Like you kind of just accept things as they are, no questions asked. That's ummm really cool."

I don't know the feeling, but thank you for the compliment.

The hand I held out to her is a weak excuse for a non-response. If we want to really convince people we're in a relationship we need to hold hands at these types of events. Practiced, she slips her hand into mine. The beads of sweat from her palm dampening mine and the little clockwise twist of her fingers so they fit more snuggly betray how she really feels and how I should feel. Like that, we're swept into the current of bodies.

"I ummm didn't see you at school today? I thought you weren't feeling so good but umm. . . here you are!"

"Oh, I might have mentioned it before. There's a private church conference in town with delegates from across the world attending. The Mission and the city have been planning it for years, and guess who's lucky enough to be allowed to help out?" I raise my eyebrow for emphasis.

"That's wow. Kind of like an internship. That sounds like a great opportunity! What sort of people have you met?"

"There was a former sailor who only had one arm. Yeah, he talked about how his former captain helped him find faith and the Lord. Oh, there's this fashion designer, a former supermodel. She might be around here. She gave a talk about how the church can incorporate itself in the sustainable fashion movement. And ummm, there was a priest from a different part of the country, I don't exactly remember where but he's sort of an antique collector, like Indiana Jones, so his talk was cool. A lot of inspirational stuff, 'cross the board."

As we're walking and talking, she intermittently makes sure she's making eye contact with me. Her eyes are almost too wide and she's slowly nodding, signaling that she's definitely paying attention. She wants me to know that. I think that's why I should like her.

The pull of Kayla's hand that I've been letting myself follow stops and I almost bump into her back. Her eye's on three booths with a variety of vegetables and fruits laid out. There are four or five browsers at each store weaving in and out, examining the bottom of a small basket of strawberries or juggling two heads of cabbage trying to grab a third. All aim to purchase the freshest product available at the best price possible without regard to what their fellow shoppers are left with. For that purpose so many esoteric methods of evaluation are created, shared, and transmitted. Everyone in that store narrates to themselves their way is the best. Those without a method? Next time. Next time I won't scroll past that lifehack video on my timeline.

All except a woman dressed almost like one of those Victorian nurses. What did they call them again? Sparrows, starlings, no — nightingales. Without looking at any of the produce, she marches up to the shopkeeper, bows, and asks "walnut. . . cake?"

The bewildered shopkeeper tells her to try the bakery or dessert sections down the street. She nods, thanks him, then moves to the next booth to repeat that cycle.

White strands of hair peeking out of her headpiece and sharp red eyes, that's an Einzbern homunculus. But even homunculi aren't that. . .

Kayla's hand fidgets as she unconsciously bites her lip while staring intently at the homunculus.

Don't call out. I open my mouth but can't shape the words because I want her to call out. Because those eyes almost wet from fear are smoldering — telling me that her tabletop character might be a nervous, precious, ukulele-playing bundle of anxiety but his character arc will be overcoming that carefully designed flaw through the enjoyable and exciting adventures he'll be having. And if my character can do it, the character I created then I — Like she always says, is that dumb?

Even if it is, I'll accept it, a bubble that burns. There's sincerity there that I can't fathom matching until I kill a —

So I don't say anything.

"Excuse me!" She calls out but the crowd drowns out her voice.

So I let go of her hand.

She half-runs to the homunculus, then taps her on the shoulder, "Excuse me."

"Are yo—? Um, sorry to bother you. Hahaha, yeah, this place can be really confusing. We can show you where the cakes are. O-only if you want to ofcourse." Kayla nods like a jackhammer with an almost tearful smile plastered on her face.

"Thank. . . Leysritt, but you call Leys." She pulls up her ankle-length skirt and curtsies.

"Oh. . ." Kayla tries to curtsey in reply.

I arrive as Kayla finishes trying to introduce a previously imaginary me. There's no time for more words. The frown on the shopkeeper's face tells us we're taking up too much space, so we quickly take our leave, dragging the homunculus, Leys, with us.

"So umm walnut cake. . . yeah the walnut cake here is really great."

Is this sharp unease what Cherry felt when I left to hunt the Dead Apostle?

"Ilya. . . father fun. Sella. . . common taste. Combine. Walnut. . . cake. Everyone happy."

"Oh yeah, definitely." She turns and looks at me.

First, I need to take Kayla's hand again. Pretending to be a couple means consistent public appearances. With that out of the way, what to ask a homunculus without giving away that I know what she is?

"Are you here with anyone else?" There we go, safe question. Nice. Smooth as anointing oil.

"Tuner. . . Archer . . ."

Change the subject. Change the subject. Right now!

"Turner and Arch—?" Kayla starts.

"Wow, these desserts really look great!"

"Someone's excited." Kayla pulls her neck back until a slight double chin pops out.

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for sweets."

She frowns, one eyebrow drooping lower than the other, "Wasabi Chris, sweets?"

Before the length of my silence became awkward, Leys strides up to the counter with a "walnut. . . cake?"

All the Tolosa Farmer's Market dessert section and no walnut cake. Walnut and date loaf, a staple. Homemade banana bread with walnuts in it, a crime if there wasn't. But Leys wouldn't budge, it was walnut cake or nothing. She did mention wing nut cake was fine too because wing nuts were actually a type of walnut or that had been what 'Ilya' had told her.

"Leys!" Has there been a name called out so cheerfully? "Thank you two so much for finding her. . ."

All three of us turn, Kayla blinks twice and then her eyes widen. My heart almost stops.

Forget the youthful blonde with green eyes that still sparkle underneath the dim, moth-infested stall lighting, freezing all of Kayla's face muscles like the first time she met Cherry. Behind him is a towering heroic mass of muscle over seven feet tall whose aura is as suffocating as the empyrean — dematerialized. Phew, that was close. Archer smiles at me. I die inside a little; not in the good way. I'm able to keep my mind mostly clear because he's in spirit form.

"Are you?" Kayla starts.

Leys said she was with Archer and the Tuner — the man looking at me. We've never met, but I know of him the same way he knows of me. Before he says something weird that makes Kayla suspicious or worse I need to. . .

"Mr. Rick! Good to see you!"

"Wrichmotifs from Youtube?

Wait, Kayla knows a magus and he's on Youtube?

"Chris, you know him?" She almost shrieks.

Quick thinking. Thinking quick.

"Ummm yeah. I was telling you about the convention the [ruby=Church]church[/ruby] and the town put on together. Mr. Rick is umm one of the keynote speakers, yeah."

There's something about his eyes when he talks. It's not magical; there's absolutely no magecraft involved but they're so gentle and caring without trying that it's hypnotic. Like he practiced that look every single morning for ten years trying to get it just right.

"Right! You were at the front desk helping oversee the convention. M. . . Mo. . ."

"Chris. Chris Frampton," I extend my hand.

He doesn't take it. Instead, he points at me while smiling, "Chris. Frampton. Of course you are."

"This is my girlfriend, Kayla."

"K-Kayla Day." She grabs the finger that was pointing at me and shakes it. "I really, umm, really loved your video on how the Undertale leitmotifs like were used to tell their own story. Yeah. Um, like most other content creators kind of only identify and play the tunes, but I love how your video really dissected like the musical arguments they made. I play the ukulele."

Heretics are getting shrewder with the decline of mystery and the rise of big data with how they present themselves to the world. But resorting to being a video game music content creator is something I still firmly believe is beneath any magus, let alone the Einzbern Tuner.

"Love the energy, Kayla! It's fans like you who inspire us to keep creating content about things we're passionate about instead of whatever's popular. But, how do I put this —" He looks down at her hand wrapped around his finger, "How about you let go of my finger, and we can take a selfie?"

She blushes and immediately lets go to dive into the purse she's carrying.

"Hope you're having a great time seeing what our town has to offer besides inspirational spiritual seminars, Mr. Rick." Because any good boyfriend knows how to fill the awkward gap when his girlfriend is rummaging through what has to be a training purse. Maybe one day, she'll carry a purse the size of one of Cherry's. When it's that big is it more a purse or a bag?

"No kidding, I love the rustic, Mediterranean vibe the Central Coast of California has going for it. I've been to a lot of places, but this one feels. . . like a home." Nice line. "Anyway, Chris, call me Rich."

"Sorry, Rich. You're German, right?"

"Genau. It would be pronounced 'ʁɪç' but my friends call me Rich."

With trembling fingers, Kayla fishes out her phone, Animal Crossing case and all. She hands it to Rich so he can take a picture of us and the forgotten Leys.

"Thank you so much! My friends are going to scream when they see this." Kayla says looking at the picture. "Oh, umm, Leys wanted some walnut cake."

"That's where she went. I turned around for a minute and she was gone. Don't worry Leys, we have walnut cake at home, where Sella is."

Kayla wants to ask whether Leys is his daughter, but Leys is definitely an adult. Rich? With his boyish face, mid-twenties, but considering the lengths some heretics go mid-fifties wouldn't surprise me.

"How do you and Leys know each other?" I ask for her.

"Have you two ever heard of savants?"

I nod because I know this is all a farce. Kayla nods because she doesn't want a Youtuber to know she doesn't know what a savant is.

"Leys is extremely talented at music, the strings, specifically. But she's never been outside of her home because of her gift. She has some relatives in the US who she's never had the chance to meet.

Hearing that I was visiting the US for this convention and to teach at the local university, her parents, old friends of mine asked if I could take her with me because I have experience with special education."

"Oh wow. . . " Kayla gasps.

Oh wow, this heretic is good at lying to kids.

"We should be going then." He takes Leys's hand. "It was really great to meet you. You're a cute couple. Chris, by the way, give my best to Matou, we're old family friends, after all."

With small shivers running down my spine, I manage to wave goodbye. Even if he was at last night's gathering he shouldn't know that Cherry is a Master, yet. So that's just a courtesy. As they leave, I think I saw Archer with arms crossed, raising his eyebrow at me like 'she's your mate?'

Starstruck, Kayla starts getting the photo ready to upload. "What should the caption be?!" Before I can answer, "His Insta is soooo inspirational. He was part of this campaign to reduce microplastics in the Rhine River and his dogs are so adorable! Linde, Gunde, and Floss."

Those aren't cute fluffies playing in a fairytale winter forest, Kayla. They're definitely wolves, magically enhanced wolves.

"How about errr, 'Guess who we heard tonight at Farmer's?' Heard because he does leitmotifs?"

"Perfect. What would I ever do without you."

How unlike her.

"Hey, all this looking around for desserts has got me hungry. What do you —"

"Tamales."

Good choice. They're made fresh.

"The line's pretty long, maybe a ten-minute wait." No matter how much heat she's generating typing furiously on her phone, the fine hairs on her arms are still standing. She's too nice to take your jacket, so she's freezing. "How about I wait in line and you get a table for us." I point to a side street where there's an array of white, plastic tables underneath heat lamps. "One chicken and one vege right?"

She looks up from the cinematic glow of her phone. "Oh it's full of families. . . oh wait, there's a girl eating ice-cream by herself. I'll ask if we can sit with her!"

As I slide into the tamales line behind a middle-aged white couple discussing whether they should invest some of their retirement money into that nice lady's fashion company, I watch Kayla almost skipping to the dining area.

I want that.

Tonight, she proved to herself that if she sincerely faced her fears, reaching for the person she wanted to be, the world would meet her with unexpected rewards.

I want to feel that.

So kill the Dead Apostle.

— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings.

Kill the Dead Apostle and [ruby=certainly][s]maybe[/s][/ruby], you'll feel the gratitude that forsaken boy who drowned should feel.