"Ooh, see the fire is sweepin' our very street today."
The human had to admit, for a ghost town whose population had disappeared to a hidden kingdom underneath a well, Dirtmouth was in good shape.
That's not to say it was pristine, far from it. A fair number of the odd buildings had collapsed, and plenty of the remaining structures featured shattered or boarded-up windows. Some of the buildings' stone and wood walls were cracked and could use a lick of paint, but they seemed stable. The gradual decay of the town only added to the eeriness it exuded; the inky darkness choked the village, with only the sickly glow of the lamps to drive it away. The shadows that remained huddled from the light didn't help the mood.
He had been walking over the rough, cobbled road that wound through the small village, hands firmly planted in his pockets. It was something better to do than just sit on that cold metal bench under the dim lamp. The physical exertion kept him somewhat warm, and he could gather his thoughts while familiarizing himself with this old place. There was a lot to think about, and what little time he had at the moment would be dedicated to it. The conundrums he poured over were simple, yet vital. Such as who he was. Or how to get home. Or where the hell he was.
His mind wasn't currently on those topics, however. Rather, he had moved onto pondering what exactly the Elder and Knight were.
The two of them were obviously not human, that much was certain to him. Their proportions were all off, bodies composed of some odd dark substance, the Knight surviving that fall… and their masks, they hadn't taken them off once. At least the Elder was capable of speech. Overall, they were strange, to put it mildly.
Scratch that, this whole society was strange. Well, whatever "society" was left. Even their architecture was bizarre; the houses were much less traditional boxes with roofs, but instead an odd spiral shell shape, not unlike the carved rocks up on those cliffs.
That train of thought brought him back to one of his current problems; shelter. Seeing that their previous owners were gone and probably to never return, there shouldn't be anything wrong with "borrowing" a home for himself whilst staying in Dirtmouth. Unfortunately, most of their doors and windows were locked, and the few that weren't had either been ransacked or become the nests of unknown fauna. If there wasn't anywhere good to stay that was unlocked, he may have to resort to breaking in a window or two. Granted, that would defeat the purpose of finding a nice house in the first place, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
He sat down on a nearby bench, his legs sore. How long had he been walking, an hour or so? Time sure does fly when you go through an existential crisis, after all.
"I take it your house hunting didn't go as planned?" asked the voice of the Elder. The human blinked, sitting up. Wait… he must have looped around somehow; he was sitting down on the same bench where they had first met. Under the same lamp, to boot.
"No. Everyone locked up before going down the well." He idly bunted a rock near the bench, sending it skidding a few inches.
"Locked up, you say?" A dark hand came to his mask, rubbing the bottom of it. "Maybe some of the other residents have a few spare keys."
"Hold on, it's not just you?" The human asked incredulously. How many others lurked in the shadows here? Were they being watched right now?
The Elder held up his other hand in a defensive gesture. "Now, don't go accusing me of anything. It slipped my mind."
So it was more than just the three of them. But still, where were the other residents? And speaking of… where did the Knight go off to? He hadn't seen head nor tail of it since he had gone on his little walk. Maybe it went down the well? After all, why else would it have come to this backwater town? The resale value of the property?
"Well, where can I find them?" he quietly asked, "and have you seen the Knight?"
"Find her ," the Elder corrected, "Only Iselda is here. She's the mapper's wife, you see. As for your friend, the little thing decided to explore those underground crossroads." So he had some time to establish himself, then.
"So… just her then? Where can I find her?" So much for this place not being abandoned, then. Instead of just one resident, minus him, it was a staggering population of two. Wonderful.
"Oh, yes, right. Iselda should be at her store right now." The Elder replied.
"And that is...?" he continued, one of his hands twirling in a small circle.
"Forgive me, I forget guests don't know our town," he said, pointing to one of the several shell-like homes darting the edge of the square. Unlike the rest of its neighbors, there was a dull glimmer of light in its windows.
He nodded in thanks, before pulling himself up from the bench, legs still sore and made his way over to Iselda's home. Unlike its neighbors, the building was in fairly good shape, save for a few patches on the exterior, as well as fraying paint. The door itself was also quite scuffed, but still daunting to stand in front of.
Knock knock knock.
The sound of shuffling came from the inside of the store, only for it to suddenly cease just from the other side of the door.
"Um… hello?" he called, "I'm looking for Iselda."
"And who's asking?" came a muffled voice; it sounded feminine, though with a hard edge.
"I'm…" he said, struggling for a name to use, "I'm... a human." Dammit.
"Stop playing with me, boy," snapped the voice, "Nothing of such a name exists. I would know."
"A-and how do you?" he replied, "Nothing's impossible." He thought his words were strong, but they ultimately ruined by his nervousness.
"I've been around the world, far more than you could know. And franky, I'm not in the mood for your games." Surprisingly, the tone softened after that statement, "A new visitor is a rarity, though. Come to the window."
That conversation... could have gone better, but he hadn't been turned away which was a win in his books. Despite that, he had the feeling that whatever happened next was going to be awkward. If humanity truly didn't exist here, said awkwardness would only become an inevitability. Maybe the town being abandoned was truly a blessing in disguise. The alternative was far less pleasant. 'Come see the one and only human! A freak of nature! Five dollars per viewing.'
He strolled to the side of the house, and went up to one of the windows. Peering inside, he saw that it was a small, yet very cozy space. Instead of a more traditional light, such as the outside lamps, the inside was instead illuminated by several fireflies in jars. Bit odd to use bugs instead of electrical lights, but he had to admit that the glow given off was much more calming than the harsh light produced by the bulbs.
Of course, most of this was observed around the lone occupant of the building. She must have been waiting for him. Had he been asked about what he was expecting this Iselda to look like, he would have guessed that she would have been like both the Elder and the Knight; a smaller figure wearing a similar white mask, having a body composed of a black substance, and wearing a cloak concealing much of her body.
That expectation was promptly shattered when he got a clear look at her.
She… was definitely not like that. Not in the slightest. Unlike the Elder and Knight, she was unmasked, for a start. Her face was… it screamed "Bug!" at him. A large-ish oval of sorts with two black, beady eyes staring down at him. Down at him. Cripes, she was a good head or two taller than him. Intimidating, to say the least. Her two antennas were tied in some sort of braid, which trailed behind her head. And was that a thorax instead of a waist? Her lithe biology was surreal and alien to him.
Iselda's voice broke him out of another brief existential crisis, "...Well, you were right. Why don't you come in?" For whatever reason, she sounded tired, though was that a hint of wonder in her voice? Probably not.
With a nervous breath, he walked back in front of the house and gently opened the door, which had been unlocked by the time he reached it. Being inside of Iselda's home was even cozier than it looked through the window; the firefly lamps seeping a pale glow into the small house. The first thing the human noticed was how much paper there was, every corner of the already-cramped room filled with it. But at the same time, it wasn't disorderly or scattered; it was all neatly shelved or stored. He could safely assume every last page was scrawled with maps and charts.
There was a small counter in the center of the room, probably where Iselda or the map-maker received customers. Behind that was what looked like some kind of bunk bed, cut out from the wall to conserve what little space was available. Iselda herself stood behind the counter, hunched over with her head propped up with an arm, her expression one of exhausted boredom.
"You're a new face, I'll say that much," she mused as he walked in and closed the door behind him. "I've never seen another bug like you. You seem so… squishy. "
So they were bugs, he knew it! Though, that meant reality didn't just go on a smoke break; it had gone like a father heading out to gather more cigarettes, only to never return. He wasn't sure what to make of her other comment, though, so he just ignored it for the time being.
"Yeah, I'm… not from around here," he smiled nervously. His hand ran up his arm and squeezed it gently, anxious to get his new house keys. The sooner this conversation was over, the better.
"Neither am I," Iselda tilted her head at him. "Where are you from, then? I'm sure I've heard of it, wherever it may be; you get to be familiar with many places when you marry a cartographer."
The human opened his mouth to answer, only to suck in a shaky breath when he came up without one. The sheer gravity of his situation had been clouded by reality's second-hand smoke, but that bastard had finally, finally extinguished the butt of his cigarette and let the human take in the full terror of real life. He couldn't remember where he came from. He couldn't remember who he grew up with, he couldn't remember his family, he couldn't remember any friends…
He couldn't remember his home.
He couldn't remember anything.
This wasn't a dream, this wasn't a hallucination. He was here, in this moment, in a new and alien world, with his old life essentially extinguished, voided. And he was talking with a tall bug-woman in hopes of getting a free house key from her. Where did he go wrong in life?
God, he was going to have a breakdown if he didn't get out of here quickly.
Iselda, for better or for worse, noticed his distress. "...Is it a… sensitive subject, perhaps?"
The human shuffled his feet, suddenly enticed by the floor. A very dusty floor that looked like it hadn't been swept in some time. "...You could say that," he mumbled hopelessly.
Iselda straightened up a bit, a twinge of empathy in her eyes. "I understand. We all have secrets better left kept silent." He didn't, not anymore.
"We so rarely get passersby in this town, and here I am, scaring away the only one in ages…" Somewhere in the middle of her sentence, she started slouching down again.
"D-Don't worry about it, it's alright…" the human said, eager to end the conversation quickly and on a somewhat positive note. One piece of information he did possess popped into his mind, "And besides, I'm not a passerby; I'm, uh, actually looking for a place to stay."
Iselda's somewhat glum expression immediately shot up at his words. "A place to stay? As in, permanently?"
"I… yeah. Yes." Until I can get home, at least.
Iselda rose up from her slump over the counter, standing as tall as the short roof would allow her, her hands frozen in front of her face and her eyes wide with surprise. "O-Oh my! We haven't gotten newcomers in such a long time…"
"I, uhm, spoke with the Elder outside-"
"You're looking for a house, right? And Elderbug pointed you my way?" Elderbug was his name? Really? "I've held onto some spare keys for the empty homes around here. I'd be glad to help you get situated."
The human's face lit up. "T-That'd be great, thank you!"
Iselda grabbed something from behind the counter; a ring of keys, the human noticed, and they went outside together, strolling through the empty roads. The human pulled his scarf up closer to his face to keep out the chilled wind. If Iselda was bothered by the cold, she didn't show it.
She walked ahead of him, guiding him through the dark alleyways. While she went ahead, however, the human couldn't help but look at the long scars running across her back. He kept his gaze trained at the cobblestone road, electing to keep quiet about it.
"This town's been so empty for so long; it's refreshing to have a new face around," she thought aloud. "We ought to celebrate! I'll prepare a hearty meal tonight, and the whole town can have a grand feast!" Her offer was genuine, but he picked up on the joking sarcasm; the 'whole town' consisted of only three people, four if he got to meet the cartographer.
"Uhm, that's uh, really not necessary-"
"Please, don't worry about it. It's been so long since this dreary ghost town had anything worth celebrating. Maybe even my husband will be home in time…?" she said. They stopped in front of what Iselda referred to as a "good enough house", and she unlocked the door with a dull grey key from around the ring. She unhooked it and handed it to the human.
"I hope it suits you. If you need anything, let Elderbug or I know, and I'll come down to get you when dinner is ready."
"R-Right, thank you," the human stammered. The door was closed between them, and the human was alone in his new home.
It was similarly cozy to Iselda's, illuminated by a pale glow from firefly lanterns, but was far more spacious than the cartographer's home. It was barely the size of a studio apartment, but still seemed to be partitioned into a few rooms. Two of them housed bedrooms, another seemed to be a simple storage room, while the main area housed what looked like a small kitchen as well as a cushioned bench that was pathetically attempting to pass as a 'couch'. Everything had a light layer of dust over their respective surface.
The human ignored all of this, however, in favor of storming to the closest bedroom, slamming a pillow into his face, and screaming.
And scream. And scream. And continue screaming. He couldn't remember how long he sat there, shrieking his misery into the stuffed fabric. One final scream came tumbling out, but instead was replaced by a fit of coughing. Followed by more coughing. He was left breathing heavily into the pillow, tears leaking from his eyes. Damn it. Damn it. DAMN IT!
Sniffling a bit, he finally brought his head out from his sanctuary of the mucus-covered pillow. Why him? Why was this happening to him!? He buried his face back into the pillow, and attempted to shriek again, only for his raw throat to give its own phantom scream of pain, followed by another series of hacking. It all gave way to sobs that racked his entire body; all the emotions of fear and pain poured into his salty tears, staining the pillow further. He couldn't do this. He couldn't!
At the peak of his meltdown, a soft… something brushed his cheek, wiping away a few of his tears. He didn't care who the appendage belonged to, or why it was there. Something warm wrapped around his body, holding him in its embrace. The human leaned into the hug, trying to wrap his arms around his savior. But… there wasn't anything there. Just a brilliant, glowing light. Whatever it was, he melted into its grasp, crying his heart out.
He couldn't remember what had happened after, just that he woke up lying down, clutching the pillow to his chest. Which had been covered in his bodily fluids. Ew…
The disgust of it all quickly left him, however. Whatever the reason, the feeling of sadness and loss had abandoned him as well, along with any feeling of happiness or joy. He just felt… hollow inside. Like his emotions had been plucked out with tweezers. In a way, it was comforting to be without them, but it was like there was a physical gap in his body, sapping his energy.
With the absence of emotions in his chest, he could feel the exhaustion nagging at him. It wasn't just from the floodgates in his eyes opening up; it was a culmination of everything that had happened. Wandering on the cliffs, falling down the cliff, his injuries from the cliff, the healing of said injuries from the cliff… It was mostly the cliff, now that he thought about it.
At the very least, he was finally resting on a real bed. A bed that felt like heaven to his battered body, even if it was lumpy in all the wrong places and a tad small. And also contaminated with his bodily fluids.
He rose up from his position, stretching slightly and grimacing at the snot and tears now staining his shirt. Hopefully, there was somewhere he could wash it. And the rest of his clothing, for that matter. Maybe also a way to repair them. If his experiences here so far were the norm, he would need to repair the scrapes and tears they would inevitably accumulate over time.
Since he was finally somewhere safe, somewhat relaxing, and alone , it would be a good time to start thinking about… everything. Though, 'everything' meant almost nothing, since his memories only went back about an hour or so. At the very least, he could safely assume he didn't always live in this strange world with strange creatures, otherwise he wouldn't have found them so, well, strange . That only meant that somehow, he wound up here. The question was, did he walk here on his own, or did something take him here-
A dark, lonely road. The frigid wind gushing past him, his scarf whipping behind him. An inky black sky. The agony in his feet and legs. The raw willpower pushing him onwards into the uncertain and unknown.
-Nope, he definitely walked here.
That line of thought was torn off course when he noticed a weight against his outer thigh. He reached down into his pockets and pulled out a small, rectangular box of sorts; his smartphone, he realized after a second. Its shiny surface reflecting his sorry face back at him. God, he looked repulsive . His face was coated in dried blood, snot, and tears. Raw scars lined his cheeks and his hair was streaked with dirt. He quickly turned the screen on, anxious to stop staring at his filthy visage.
72% battery life, and obviously no cell data or internet connection. After all, he couldn't expect bug-people who toted around swords to have Wi-Fi. That only left him what he had already downloaded to the phone beforehand.
The first thing to look at was the pictures. That had to be the best way to jog his memory, a good family photo or maybe something from a vacation. ...A minute of sifting through his picture library dampened that hope. Apparently, he had saved well over a thousand lame memes, nearly all of which relied on inside jokes he no longer understood. Tapping around to get to only the photos he had taken with his camera, he let his eyes dart from picture to picture.
He was wearing a fancy suit in a bathroom mirror. He was surrounded by unfamiliar faces in a dimly lit bowling alley. He was wearing sunglasses, his hair flying everywhere in the wind as he stood with his back to a beach. His face had a look of exhaustion, yet elation, while in a sports jersey and covered in mud on a rainy day. He looked far younger and was in his pajamas, sitting under a decorated tree surrounded by colorful presents and unfamiliar faces. He was standing outside of a movie theatre, holding a bucket of popcorn with two unrecognizable people on either side of him. His face was nearly invisible in the dark, the only thing clearly seen being a single figure wielding a guitar on a stage surrounded by colorful beams of light.
He was smiling . He was smiling and it told him nothing.
He shut off his phone, throwing his head back into the pillows in frustration. A deep breath was taken in, then let out. After a moment, he woke the phone again. Quitting was not an option.
There weren't many games downloaded, but they wouldn't tell him anything. He didn't have any social media. The map, predictably, did jack shit. For some really weird reason, he only ever used a private tab on web browsers, so there went checking his web history. Stupid past self.
There was nothing . What would he even use this damn device for, to check the time? It might cheer him up to wow the bugs of Dirtmouth with humanity's pinnacle of personal devices, but that would definitely cause more problems than it was worth.
...There was one thing left he could check. With steady hands, he tapped on the music app.
Just at a glance, the last thing he had listened to was a playlist titled "Nice", with a picture that looked like a screaming cat. Past him just picked something at random from his meme collection, clearly. The human opened it up and clicked the first song, not bothering to look at the title. He just placed his phone down, turned up the volume, and rested his head back against the pillows as soft strums of a guitar echoed from his speaker.
A voice, a hauntingly familiar voice, flooded his mind, singing to him like a father trying to put a baby to sleep.
Something flashed back.
"Wild, wild horses~"
He sat through the whole song, flowed over its currents and rested along its riverbeds. Beneath his closed eyes tears welled up, and for a moment in the darkness, he almost thought he could see the face of a friend.
As the track came to a close, he quickly hit the pause button to ride out the silence as long as possible, soaking up the afterglow in a cold sweat. God, what… what was that? Did he almost remember something? He opened the playlist again and scrolled through it. None of the names were familiar, but could their tunes hide a deeper meaning? It certainly could be possible. After all, wasn't music stored differently than regular memories?
Now that he thought about it, if he'd really lost his memory, why could he still read? And why'd he remember his music, anyway? Or what a smartphone even was, much less how to use it? This could have been normal for amnesia as far as he knew. He didn't know how the hell amnesia was supposed to work, anyway. Maybe it was some kind of selective amnesia.
The repetitive questions brought a headache to the forefront of his brain. With a groan, he flopped onto his back, hands grasping his head. The headache gave way to sleep, its tendrils dragging him under. That was where he laid, silent and peaceful, until a sudden knock at the door broke him from his slumber.
Ugh… was it time for dinner already? Iselda hadn't been gone for that long. Or maybe she had been. He had long since lost his grasp of time in this purgatory. A few minutes, a few hours, what was the difference?
Getting up from the bed, he made his way to the door of the house, then promptly opened it, rubbing his eyes as he did so.
The stranger who had knocked was definitely not Iselda.
"Oh, hello there! I heard a newcomer had moved in, but I was starting to doubt that when nobody answered the door for a moment there." The human blinked. Was this guy calling him slow?
Who was 'this guy,' anyway? He was about his height, had a bluish-gray shell with a slight pot-belly (or was he just slouching? It was hard to tell), and had a pale face with dark eyes. His most notable features were the long blade strapped to his waist, and the large mask-like object that sat atop his head like a hat.
"Uhh… Hi?" the human slurred, still half asleep his emotional power nap. He leaned up against the small door frame, his arm propped to the side to keep him upright. He almost considered closing the door on this stranger and going back to sleep. Maybe this dude was right about him being slow.
"My name is Quirrel," he said. "I'm a new arrival to this small town myself, though I don't plan on staying long. Could never stay in one place for too long." Quirrel looked him up and down, his expression one of bewildered curiosity. "Though, despite all the places I've been before, I can't recall having ever met a being such as yourself. What's your name, traveler?"
The human couldn't recall having been asked for his whole life story. He supposed everyone was a world-class traveler around here.
He also still couldn't recall his own name, so he gripped the door frame nervously, unable to voice a response. Pursing his lips, he racked his brain for an answer- any answer- to give for a question as simple as his name. He looked down at the ground, averting his gaze from Quirrel's.
"Is everything alright? You seem-"
A totally random word popped in his head.
"Chance," he blurted out. It took him a full second before he realized how awkward he just made things for both of them.
"Chance?" Quirrel parroted. "That's… a unique name. ...I was just saying, are you alright? You look a little bit, er… wet."
The human, having now named himself Chance, glanced down to see that the front of his shirt was still smeared with snot and tears from his little 'crying alone in the dark in fear of the unknown' festival. He quickly wiped his face on his sleeve, more than a little embarrassed by the dark streaks it left on his clothing, and shrugged. "It's nothing," he assured. "I'm fine. Just, ah, just feeling a bit under the weather, that's all."
Quirrel looked skeptical, but didn't push the subject further. "Speaking off, I don't mean to impose, but may I step inside for a moment? The weather out here is dreary, and standing out here with your door open can't be doing your home any favors."
Chance was suddenly hyper-aware of the cold wind blowing through his door and the goosebumps growing on his arms. He quickly ushered Quirrel in before closing the door behind him with a heavy thud. Quirrel glanced around at the empty house, sifting a small bit of dust on the floor with his foot.
"I take it you've just moved in?" Was he trying to say his house was dirty? ...Well, the human supposed he'd be absolutely right if he was. The first thing he did when he got inside was make an absolute mess of his bedsheets, which only added onto the pile of things he'd have to clean when he got the time.
"Y-Yeah," Chance mumbled out. He stood around awkwardly in the middle of the room for a minute, glancing around, almost as unfamiliar with the house as Quirrel was. It was very plain upon second glance; the walls were devoid of any decorations, and the most colorful thing in the room was an old carpet under the not-couch that was in desperate need of a vacuum cleaner. It gave no clues as to the old owners of this house, or if anyone had lived here at all before.
"It's a very nice home regardless," Quirrel complimented, taking in the room. "Fairly spacious compared to some of the other houses near the square."
"Yeah, it's nice…" Chance sighed. This conversation wasn't going anywhere; they were both grasping at straws here. At least, that was what he thought, until Quirrel turned to him with curiosity in his dark eyes.
"So what brings you to this small ghost town?" he asked. "This place is said to rarely get visitors, and yet two newcomers show up within a day." Chance neglected to mention the third, smaller newcomer who had vanished down a well just a few hours prior.
Truthfully, he didn't know. If he really did walk on his own all the way to Hallownest, he didn't remember why anymore. Could he just… make something up? For Quirrel? Could he keep his story straight until he found his past again? He didn't know if he could live a lie while looking for the truth at the same time. But he didn't really have a choice, did he? He spoke slowly:
"I traveled here from-"
"I thought I had it all toge-ther~!"
Both parties jumped at the sudden voice in the room. Chance frantically reached into his pocket to tear out his phone while the sound of a piano echoed around. He fiddled with it furiously, failing the fingerprint recognition three times with his sweaty hands, forcing him to type out the password manually(another thing he should've forgotten, but didn't), and tap on the pause button until the unfittingly funky music ceased.
A long silence fell between them.
"... Er… Sorry about that…"
Quirrel leaned forward in fascination towards the human and the mysterious device in his hands. "My word!" he breathed in awe. "What was that? It sounded almost like… music! "
"Oh, uh…" Chance, flushed red with embarrassment, shrugged before quickly pocketing the device. "Its, a uh…" Was he going through with this? Did he really have the patience to explain what a smartphone was, in complete detail, to what was essentially an alien who would be baffled by the advanced technology behind an electric lamp?
...No, of course not.
"I just picked it up. On the side of the road, on my way here," he said.
"Really? Things like that exist just lying around?" Quirrel said. "Perhaps I may stumble upon one myself one of these days!"
"Y-Yeah, perhaps…"
Another long pause. Quirrel rose from the not-couch and tipped his mask like a hat. "Well, I've imposed upon you for too long. I must be off now, though I may visit again, if you don't mind my presence. You are a fascinating friend to have, Outsider!"
Fascinating. That was the word he used. It suddenly occurred to the human how formal everyone's language was. Not just Quirrel, but Iselda and Elderbug spoke to him like that before. It was a far cry from anything Shakespearean, but seemed more like… old English? He wasn't a linguist. How'd he have this guess anyway, if he'd lost his memories? He gave Quirrel a weak wave and a smile as the door closed with a dull thud.
The gestures evaporated soon after, returning to a frown. Another new bug, though this one was transient. What were the odds of three new visitors in one day? Probably nothing more than a coincidence, after all, how does that old saying go? Once is happenstance, twice is a coincidence, thrice is ninjas? Yeah, something like that.
His arms swung ineffectively at his sides. He probably wouldn't be getting any new visitors until Iselda came by to fetch him, so what to do… what… to… do…?
A few seconds of thought bore fruit. This place was certainly a pigsty: he might as well begin cleansing the house while he had the time.
He gave the living room a critical look over. Still like before, dust was everywhere. Dust on the floor, dust on the table, dust now on him. Ugh, it was unbearable. There had to be a mop, or maybe a dust cloth. He went to the kitchen, which also reeked of spoiled food. Another task to add to the growing pile of jobs. After rooting through a few drawers full of various implements, he finally found what he sought; a spare scrap of cloth. Time to get to cleaning.
The methodical task of wiping down the house took a lot longer than he would have thought, but it was surprisingly therapeutic. There was nothing quite like solving a problem with a bit of elbow grease. It was boring, simpleminded work, but anything to take his mind off of the insanity was appreciated. He had finished wiping down the table, and moved onto the sad excuse of a couch.
As he dusted off his new- temporary- home, he thought back to his conversation with Quirrel. Why did his phone have to go off in the middle of a conversation? He hated having to play dumb about its workings, but what could he do? Explain what the hell it was supposed to be? His mind wandered to the phone itself, as well as his findings on it. Was he even the same person in those pictures, the one who looked so happy and carefree?
And most importantly was his name. Well, new name, that he randomly picked on a whim. Chance . What did that have to do with anything? Where'd the name come from? A thought occurred to him. He paused his dusting to check his phone.
...Of course, he had gotten the name from an artist on his playlist. His eyes must have glanced over the word when he was browsing it earlier. Well, if he was going to name himself after them, he hoped their music was good, at the very least. He didn't have the time to sit and listen to them now, since the inevitable nostalgic tears would probably distract him from cleaning. He made a mental note to give it a listen later.
He had finished up the chair. The rest of the cleaning went by in a blur. He gave the living room a final look over. It was much better, but a generous layer of dust still occupied the floor. Maybe he could find a broom in one of the other buildings. Not like he needed to worry about smashing windows now, though it might be slightly less barbaric to simply ask for one.
He was in such a groove that a succession of several sharp knocks at the door escaped his notice. It did throw off his rhythm, which was shattered upon the second barrage of rapping.
"Coming!" he loudly said, putting the cloth down and heading for the door. Upon opening said door, he found Iselda standing outside his new home.
She was wearing an expression that seemed happy, if he was correct. Maybe it was her upright posture, or the way her eyebrows were arched. These bugs' body language was at least somewhat similar to humanity's own.
"Everything is ready." She said, a bit of joy in her otherwise naturally bored tone. "There are even more guests than was anticipated."
"More guests?" he asked, "Like Quirrel?"
"So you've met him! My husband will also be joining us. I convinced him to stay with us for a meal!" That explained why Iselda looked so happy. So he would be getting to meet this cartographer after all? Another new face to add to his quickly growing compendium.
Both Chance and Iselda took off down the street, the noise of their footsteps blown away by the wind.
Iselda broke the monotonous droning of the wind, "In all the excitement of a new visitor, I forgot to ask your name. What is it?"
"Oh, it's… um…," Well, the one he gave Quirrel seemed to work, "It's Chance." The name still felt foreign on his tongue; it'd take a while to get used to.
"Chance, you say," Iselda remarked, "That is certainly quite the odd name. Where do you hail from?"
Another lie couldn't hurt, could it? "...I'm not comfortable saying." That wasn't a lie, actually. Win.
"I'm sure you have your reasons," She said, shrugging a little. "We all have our reasons."
The two found themselves in front of a smaller home near the square.
"So, is this your home?" He asked, shifting a bit on his feet.
"Not quite," she admitted, "It is more of a... town hall. A feast within our shop would be impossible."
Upon entering, Chance was greeted by a larger (and much cleaner) version of his own home. Unlike it, a small dining area sat off, connected to both the living area and kitchen, forming a singular large space. The table housed in the dining area was a nice one, made of some sort of ebony wood he didn't recognize. Seated around it were Quirrel, the Elderbug, and a new figure. This one could only be the cartographer.
Unlike the rest of the bugs, he was a very squat individual. Unlike his wife, whose antennas were tied in an odd braid, his flowed out behind him, tied to the spectacles attached to his head. Speaking of that head, there was a very long, thin trunk of sorts going down much of his front. He was wearing some kind of cloth clothing, though they seemed a bit absent. Behind him, many different bags were laid out, overflowing with paper and quills.
He was the first to speak, "So this is the stranger you were referring to!" he laughed, "Come closer! Let me get a look at you!"
"Um… Hello?" he hesitantly said, stepping forward slightly.
"Corny, you're making him nervous!" Iselda scolded from the kitchen. She was bringing a large pot filled to the brim with some kind of stew to the table, which was set down with an almighty thud. The smell coming off of it was an odd one, but rather pleasant. Chance had already taken a seat at the table next to Quirrel.
"What have you cooked up for us, Iselda?" The Elderbug asked. He had taken a seat next to this 'Corny'. That must've been some kind of pet name, right?
"An old recipe of mine," Iselda cheerfully replied, "It's hearty, easy to make, and good on the table or the road."
"But what's in it?" Elderbug asked once again.
"A little bit of this and that," Iselda dismissed. While the two continued their banter on soup, the human decided to talk to this "Cartographer".
"So…" he began, "You're Iselda's husband, right?"
"Who else would I be? Cornifer, at your service," he replied. He added, "But what about you? I've never seen anyone who shares your looks." Was that supposed to be an insult or-... oh, forget it.
"I'm Chance," The human said. Maybe saying it enough would make it true. "I'm… Well, I'm not from here."
"Fascinating," Cornifer said quietly, "And where are you from, exactly? I'm sure it would be quite strange, seeing how you came from it."
Damnit, why was everyone asking that? "I'd prefer to not say."
Cornifer shrugged, "If you insist. If you change your mind though, I'm willing to listen."
Their conversation was interrupted by a very stressed sounding Iselda nearly shouting, "Why don't we start our little feast?" The Elder mumbled something about just asking a question, but he went ignored. She grabbed the ladle and scooped up a healthy dollop of the stew.
"Why don't our guests be served first?" She asked, before grabbing Quirrel's bowl and putting a serving of soup in it. The same was done with his own bowl. It's contents were an odd grey mess of broth and crushed plants, still steaming. It definitely wasn't any kind of soup from back home. It has a distinctly alien look and scent, but hopefully it would taste good enough.
Chance looked from the stew to see that everyone had been served, including Iselda sitting down now. Even while sitting, she was taller than everyone else at the table by a large margin. It was a bit discomforting, actually.
"We're all here, dig in!" she smiled. Everyone gladly started eating their meals, taking spoonful after spoonful of Iselda's soup while chattering amongst themselves. Chance slowly glanced down into his bowl, carefully eyeing the stew as he absentmindedly stirred it with his spoon. It was a bit more white-ish than grey, upon second glance, with chopped up greens floating on the surface. A few chunks were present as well, the bits presumably being some kind of meat, maybe. Of course, it probably wasn't exactly chicken, though that only left him wondering exactly what was in his bowl.
It kind of reminded him of oyster stew. He never liked oyster stew. Or rather, felt that he never liked oyster stew.
"Well, try some!" Quirrel waved his spoon in the general direction of the human's bowl. "It may not be the same as they have where you're from, but it's a universal delight, I assure you!" He emphasized the point by eating another bite from his own bowl.
Iselda laughed lightly at Quirrel's compliments. "My cooking isn't that amazing…"
"But it is !" Cornifer nearly exploded. "The elegant balance of spice, the freshest diced vegetables, the finest meats butchered by your own masterful handling of a nail, all broiling perfecting in a simmering broth that makes the mouth water…" He waved his arms around dramatically, as though recounting epic tales of warriors and heroes ages past.
" Corny! " Iselda blushed. "You're embarrassing me!"
While the two engaged in their lover's quarrel, Chance glanced back down at his soup. Cornifer's description, albeit somewhat overdramatized, did sound pretty convincing…
With his spoon, he poked one of the small chunks of meat. What was that saying, "You Only Live Once"? Besides, it would be rude not to at least try it.
Tentatively, he took a small spoonful of the stew and brought it to his mouth. He gave it a look of distaste, before shrugging then taking it into his maw. The taste was… it was all across the board. There was a bit of savory meat, the earthy taste of some kind of vegetable, and was that basil? Definitely an odd taste, but not a bad one.
Have you ever had a sip of wine described as "earthy"? He imagined that somehow it would be similar to the soup's flavor. He took another spoonful, then another. Quirrel piped up with a grin, "What did I tell you?"
"It... is great…" Chance smiled, marveling at the first meal he'd eaten since he arrived in this strange, alien world. It was an acquired taste, but to him, it was a symbol of safety, of shelter, of hope. Here he was, eating a tasty, warm meal, surrounded by strangers turned neighbors and maybe even friends, and afterward, he'd have a warm, cozy bed to return to.
Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.
Chance enjoyed the rest of his evening with the people of Dirtmouth, eventually finishing his stew and only staying a little longer to talk before he retired. He stumbled into his dark new house, rested his back against the door for a moment, before staggering over to his bed, the snot and tears having long since dried, and collapsed-
-into her soft and warm embrace, her wings wrapping around him like massive blankets. Her brilliant light was all-encompassing, a glorious sun stepping forth from the horizon and into his arms. Her hide was fuzzy, and the human couldn't help but hide his face in her chest, taking a deep breath of her. She smelled sickly sweet, like an antique candy store. A warmth rose in his heart as he pulled his head up and gazed up into her gleaming eyes, orange like an autumn sunrise, orange like fresh-picked tangerines covered in crisp morning dew, orange like a cozy fireplace on a frosty night. Something in her eyes beckoned him to come closer, to come deeper , and he obliged. As their faces came close, the human briefly deprived himself of her beauty, but with his closed eyes, he leaned down, and just as their lips nearly touched, he opened his mouth for her, and-
-vomited all over his fucking bedsheets.
The bile broke him out of his miasma of dreams, bringing him awake to its burning sensation. Before he could even rationalize thought, he was already spitting into his bedsheets to dislodge the remaining acid from his mouth. The vile taste and pounding head finally brought him back to his senses, where he was upright on his bed, vomit coating the sheets.
He took in several deep breaths, trying to collect himself. Well, after he had shoved the soiled sheets as far from his body as he could. His knees were against his chest as he cradled them with his arms, rocking back and forth slightly. The wispy remnants of his dream had already abandoned him, leaving just faint traces. Something about the sun…?
With a grunt, he got to his feet unsteadily, groping in the dark for one of the lanterns. He grasped one of the glass globes, shaking it slightly to wake up the fireflies inside.
By then, the smell of the retch had made itself known. A rotting stench pervaded his nostrils, causing him to gag. With the glow of the fireflies filling the air, he could see the full extent of the damage. The retch had covered the sheets, leaving few patches left untouched. While the issue of how he would clean the sheets was obvious, it was the least of his concerns. He couldn't help but stare at the bile. Specifically, it's color.
A bright shade of orange. A disgusting, yet beautiful shade of orange. What the fuck!? It was surreal. He closed his eyes, rubbing them through his eyelids. Maybe when he opened his eyes back up, the vomit would be grey-ish or green-ish? Yeah, that had to be. Unfortunately, the same bright orange greeted him.
He carried the lantern with him out of the room, desperate for something to get this taste out of his mouth. As he left the room, he noticed that when the pale light of the fireflies left the bedroom in darkness, it was replaced with a very dim orange-ish glow. Because of course his vomit was glow-in-the-dark now.
He stumbled into the main room of his new house, turning towards the kitchen area. Oh right, running water was an alien concept in this world. He spat on the floor, an orange splotch of saliva on the dusty carpet. He eyed the saliva with a glare. He was no doctor, but he knew having orange, glowing spit was a whole new kind of health risk.
He needed help.
Iselda. Iselda would know. Or maybe Elderbug. Or maybe even Cornifer, he traveled the whole width and breadth of this place, he must have seen this kind of thing before, right?
Quickly throwing on his coat, he grabbed his lantern again and stormed out the front door into the cold.
Having a cup of fresh water to wash out the last traces of vomit in his mouth was nice. Watching the people who gave you said water pace back and forth through their house, as though they were panicking over your symptoms even more than you yourself were, while muttering curses under their breath, was not quite as nice.
Iselda stormed past him again, her arms crossed across her chest and her shoulders tense, before turning sharply on her heel and striding right past him again. She grumbled something unintelligible, stopped for a moment, stared at a wall, and kept walking back and forth in front of him like some deranged dance.
Cornifer, meanwhile, stood still near Chance, trying to comfort him but obviously also trying to keep his distance. He couldn't blame him. He hadn't had this illness for an hour and he was already hating it.
Cornifer patted his back, which was covered in a warm blanket while the human sat down in a small stool. He turned to look up at his wife. "I know it seems bad, Izzy, but bugs have managed to overcome it. He appears lucid enough, despite being woken up in the middle of the night."
Iselda spun around and glared down at the cartographer. "They were a lucky few. Who says he'll turn out the same?"
Chance took another nervous sip of his cup. "I don't like where this conversation is going," he commented.
Iselda, instead of answering, turned around and resumed her pacing, seething to herself. "And you've only just arrived…" Her voice was shaky, as though she could burst into tears at any moment. Strong, intimidating, yet wholehearted Iselda, breaking down and sobbing over the color of his spit.
"Am I gonna-"
Chance's question was interrupted as a knock came from the door. Iselda quit her endless pacing and practically tore the door open to see Elderbug standing outside.
"Elder, you're here! Can you help him?"
"Help?" Elderbug questioned as he wedged himself through the doorframe. "I only knocked because I heard so much noise at such an ungodly hour. Is there a problem?"
"It's our guest, he…" Iselda, at a loss for words, hopelessly gestured towards him. Elderbug took one glance at his sorry state and immediately rushed over to him as fast as his small legs could allow.
"Oh, no, no, no…" he mumbled. Chance swallowed nervously. "The symptoms are clear. You've caught it, too, I'm afraid."
Symptoms? Caught it? Too? The human had so many questions, but only one could fall off of his tongue. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"You've caught a plague known only as the Infection," Elderbug explained. "It's a horrifying disease that steals the minds and sanities of those whom it befalls."
"Elder, don't frighten him!" Iselda scolded.
She was ignored, however. Chance blinked. His mind was in danger? "How… dangerous is it?"
"I…" Elderbug averted his gaze, refusing to give an answer. Chance leaned forward, his heart pounding in his ears.
"How long do I have?" It was a horrible question, but if it was this much of a concern…
The Elder sighed. Iselda was giving him a death glare, but he ignored it to speak to the human. "You're already showing strong symptoms of the infection, yet your mind seems untouched for the time being. You may last longer than most victims yet, but I'd still give you… maybe two months, if you're lucky."
The human's gaze was empty as his stare bore holes into Elderbug's head. His face slowly lowered until he was staring into his cup, only a thin layer of water left at the very bottom of the cup.
"This Infection was the reason the kingdom below us perished, after all."
The last thing Chance remembered before passing out was staring into his reflection in the glass, and seeing two bright, orange irises in his eyes staring back at him.
Chapter name and summary are a reference to Gimmie Shelter by The Rolling Stones.
Other musical references in this chapter include:
Wild Horses by The Rolling Stones
Baby I'm Yours by Breakbot
Milky Chance (artist)
This story is a collab between me and a friend named Piston.
If it wasn't already glaringly obvious, we're laying down the music theme pretty hard in this story, for a number of reasons that should become apparent as the story goes on. We already have most of the major points of this story planned out ahead of time, it's just a matter of actually getting everything written. Of course, not every detail has been set in stone, for example, the name Chance is a relatively recent development. We mostly added it 'cause we were sick of using "the human" over and over again.
Also, speaking of our story plan, it's, well, long. Very long. To prevent this story from taking the next decade to complete, we're planning on having some longer major chapters, but shorter slice-of-life ones in between, so chapter length from this point on may vary greatly.
As a side note, we STRONGLY suggest that you keep up with the version of this story on ArchiveOfOurOwn rather than here, since we've been paying more attention to that website for this story. This chapter was actually finished a day or two ago, and we just forgot to put it on here.
Thank you all for your support and suggestions in the previous chapter, and we can't wait to come back with the next one!
