Written in fabulous EB Garamond

You know, I think I know why nobody likes me. I keep leading you on the wrong path—intentionally, by the way, I'm not stupid!—and I know nobody appreciates that. I mean, other than the ones that do. They exist, I'm sure. Anyway, you're here for the story, so I'll pick up where I left off. He woke up a couple hours later, with an empty stomach and an earful of clucking. Grumbling, he got up. He never really wanted to know what he had in him, but considering how complainable the day was going, he must have been Jewish. Still, he needed to get something to eat, otherwise he would starve, and that wouldn't be any good.

Cluck cluck cluck! The chicken's noises continued, drawing him in. Of course, he didn't need the noise for that, he just needed to be hungry. Tick, he was. A snap of the neck, a trip to the stove, and he wasn't in pain any more. That was the best he could say.

To the south, there was a small village. Well, I say to the south there was a small village, what I actually mean is that in the direction opposite the door, there's two houses. Two houses which, notably, were built in such a way that nobody could enter or leave. The door was situated at least 6 metres off the ground. The house itself had an above-ground basement two stories deep, and somehow I figured that it didn't have a floor under each level.

Hiss!

What was that?

"Oh, shit!" he yelled, punched the blob of green away, and jumped to the floor. He survived this time, but there were more green things. Leaf or Moss Dildoes, they looked like, with frowns comparable to bananas. Gee, how fun. Especially since it was trembling in its boots. Well, it doesn't have boots, it's a figure of speech where I'm from. That friction is sure to cause a fire.

Kaboom!

Well, not a fire, but close enough.

He was far enough away from the blast to be able to see the chain reaction and not be in the damn thing. It took out three or four moss dildoes and threw sand and oddly orange blood around. A small section of the house came crumbling down with it, the sandstone it was built with must be very old indeed. The immediate threat was gone, however, so that was all over for now. He noticed a few people with large noses. Huh. It extended beyond caricature and became simply a fact of life—there was an ethnic group with noses this large.

There were many possible questions, including ones about the moss monsters, the villagers, and the buildings. He was most concerned about the buildings.

Finding himself next to a villager, he prayed to whatever invisible man in the sky could answer his plight that they spoke at least some form of English.

"Hey, what's the deal with the houses?"

The villager saw his pointed finger, traced to the peculiar building, and inferred the meaning. The villager, with the knowledge of the language acquired from a less than reliable source, was hesitant to answer in English—after all, the last time he did so, he was kicked out for sexual harassment. He didn't trust the guy who taught him.

But he tried. "The man building that—Olberlink—had build them under ground fourty years ago."

"Why are there only two houses, then, if there are eight of you?"

"Nona us had knowledge of house building."

"Makes sense. Anyway, what is your name?"

"Gijs Päder."

"I will make a note of it."

And he set off. Päder hobbled back to the rest of the village, a left-handed bias showing in his limp. His scraggly bits of white hair blew through the breeze before finally cutting out in the shelter of the building.

The Newcomer, himself, had a walk to rival Doctor House, after all, he had just fallen four stories onto the ground. You don't just dust yourself off after that. The last thing he needed was a broken leg. His mind wasn't on that, though. The houses were still on his mind, even as he picked a fruit from a tree and bit into it. Yeah, those blood stains aren't getting out, referring to the stains left by the plant-things. It was a lost cause until he could make new clothes.

"I hope it doesn't stain me any, because I do plan to get out of here eventually. Especially now that I know there were natives." Donnegram Base was, hopefully, soon to be only known as failed. If not... "Well, I know who I'm going to blame." Newcomer's enemy and high school bully, Rudolph Dyer, seemed like a good start to the question in the back of his mind. Namely, who the hell brought me here? No, Dyer couldn't do this, he failed Geography. He doubted Dyer even knew what an island was.

Actually, he doubted he even knew what an island was at this point, since it seemed to extend for quite a while. And it was getting dark, very very dark. Thankfully, he wasn't too far away from his stuff, but it would be nightfall before he got back to D. Base.

Boom!

Orange blood. It was on the trees, the ground, and his tie.

The world sucks.