Chapter 6

Tylor silently turned the doorknob, moving the door without a sound. As morning sun began to seep through, he peeked.

No sign of Millew on his farm. Gone.

Tylor heaved out a pent-up sigh. He'd been up most of the night, fixated on this exact moment. Mr. Football stood a pace behind him, also peeking. The dude never slept, and rarely closed his eyes.

"Gah?"

"Everything's good again," Tylor said, to calm both of their spirits. "But I think... I'm thinking there might be some changes around here soon."

Tylor set to work after one prolonged breakfast in front of the TV. He unpacked the rest of his tools, indoor and outdoor. The rest of the unpacked boxes got shoved behind the couch, which he'd scooted a foot or two closer to the TV. Mr. Football was enjoying being right up against the screen.

When he made it outside, it was mid-afternoon, the air flowing warm and breezy. Tylor smiled while squinting, then hefted his shovel.

He mucked up the spot where Millew had bled, tossing dirt and dead plants over top. Mucked up other parts of the field, erasing footprints in the dirt. Then he took his pickaxe out into the field and began swinging.

There were many large stones to clear. It was nice to be rid of them, good for the farm, but Tylor needed the stone for another purpose. After a very rough night, he'd decided he needed a defense against spies, intruders, and aggressors. A nice stone wall around the perimeter would serve this purpose.

Along with the stone, he collected handfuls of nurnies and oobsidian, enough to fill both pockets.

It surprised him he was still able to swing the pickaxe for hours, after getting no sleep. His system felt shot, gut still aching from the weird sensations and hallucinations that had racked him all night. Every now and then, he'd see the grass move in those strange ways that didn't make sense, and when he closed his eyes, there were colors, and brightness, and even crazier hallucinations that threatened to rip his mind apart. To test-

Tylor shut his eyes, and the sunlight filtering through bent into the shape of a cyan pill bug, endlessly extending in a swirl that changed colors, going magenta, orange, neon green. What was once a pill bug became curves and ridges that seemed to overlap, becoming three-dimensional, bulging towards him with an intensity reserved for nightmares, and the colors bubbled out, too bright-

Tylor snapped his eyes open and swore. The hallucinations were still very much a thing.

He kept busy, taking a wheelbarrow into town loaded up with bits of stone. The furniture store had a workshop area with a public-access fabricuter, where he processed the stone into wall segments that could be slotted together in a modular fashion. He took those back home, then repeated the process.

On the second trip home, Bazil appeared from around a building, and immediately gravitated towards Tylor.

"What's the wall for?" Bazil asked.

"My property," Tylor explained. "Had a few too many run-ins with strangers poking their noses in."

Bazil whistled. "More than fair, my friend, everyone could use a wall. What are you doing for the gate?"

"Haven't thought that far," Tylor admitted.

Bazil sighed. "Love a good gate."

"I prefer a portcullis," Tylor argued.

When they got to the farm, Tylor unloaded the wall segments, stacking them neatly alongside the house. Bazil wandered a bit, poking his nose around the far side of the building.

"This is the house," Tylor said, a little pointlessly.

"I see it," Bazil said. "You sure you need a wall for something this shoddy?"

Tylor wasn't fond of the question, but he answered, "Yes. I intend to build more on the property. The house was inherited."

Bazil was coming around the far side now, to rejoin Tylor. "Quite a lot of property to build on! Half of Badgetown could fit on this lot."

"Mhmm. Farms are usually big," Tylor said.

"You wouldn't be looking to sell a portion?"

"Nope. All mine." Tylor said, firm. He kicked up some dead crops and chucked them into the empty wheelbarrow.

"What will you grow here?"

"Crops. Justtuce, if I can get the seeds again."

"If we work out a deal, I can likely have them imported," Bazil offered.

"Sure. Thanks," Tylor said. "I'll let you know when I'm ready. But before any of that, I'll be focused on growing more ooblets."

Tylor entered the wilderness at dusk, shovel in hand. He'd also strapped a pantsabear-leather pouch to his waist, for carrying seeds.

His body had started going weak from lack of food and sleep, but he couldn't imagine sleeping yet. This hike only re-energized him, and so did his resolve to find what he was looking for. Ooblet seeds.

A little further down the path, he spied a lumpstump, gleefully gyrating on a pile of wet leaves.

Tylor stalked forward, then broke into a run. Lumpstump reacted late, but it didn't matter. They shoved themself into a damp, hollowed out log, escaping Tylor's grasp.

Tylor kicked the log and continued moving. He didn't need another lumpstump anyway. None could compare to Mr. Football.

This time, he tracked a green isopud from a distance away, keeping low to the ground to reduce his size. Isopud was much slower, and only made it halfway up a tree before Tylor got his hands on the shell. He tore it from the bark, holding it out so the bug was facing him, little legs squirming helplessly.

"Seed, please," Tylor demanded. He gave it a little shake for emphasis, then set it down. Isopud tried to scurry away, and Tylor blocked them. "Seed."

Isopud continued searching for escape routes, so Tylor adjusted things, setting isopud on its back so it couldn't easily right itself.

Isopud seemed to get the message after a little while. He popped out a seed, and Tylor scooped it into his pouch, thanking them.

He passed a few dumbirbs, high in their perches. A radlad crossed his path at one point, but... that whole species seemed pretty worthless. He spat in the dirt, moving on.

Then came wigglewip.

This one was of the common variety, with a brown body and green whips streaming out the top of its head like vines. Seeing Tylor, wigglewip shook madly, whips rattling against nearby trees and brush, before taking off. Tylor was late to start the chase, a little flustered.

Wigglewip had to be the most agile ooblet he'd seen yet, bouncing from spot to spot and grappling onto branches with their whips. The branches got flung back at Tylor, hampering him every few steps.

Tylor raised an arm to shield his face, and started running harder, pushing against the lack of sustenance in his body. The next branch - a nice and thick one - hit him like a football charge. Tylor broke through it, past another tangle of branches, and kept sprinting.

Up ahead, wigglewip swung from a flimsy branch that snapped under their weight, and ended up launching themselves face-first into the dirt. Finally.

Tylor caught up and set a hand on the back of wigglewip, pinning them. Wigglewip struggled a bit, but it was like the wind had been knocked from them.

He paused there. Thinking things through a little more. Taking the last seed had felt kinda bad, like a villain making his demands. The alternative was to beat them in a dance battle to earn the seed, and Tylor really didn't see that going well.

"Bud," he said, unsure if the wigglewip could understand English. "You're damn fast. I could really use a wigglewip like you. One who's fast."

Wigglewip wiggled a little. Still struggling.

"Just need a seed, bud. I'll raise 'em good, you can count on it."

Wigglewip made a juicy sound in their throat.

"Come on, just do it. I'm pretty stubborn, so it's going to happen one way or another."

Wigglewip sighed, deflating a bit. Done struggling.

They plopped out a seed.

Tylor smiled, collecting the seed while the wigglewip made haste. That had gone a little better, he supposed.

With two seeds in his pouch, he felt pretty accomplished, and fatigue finally started to creep its way in. He turned around, back towards town and the farm.

As he was nearing the edge of the forest, a lumpstump stepped into his path, to block him.

The lump seemed much wider than a typical lumpstump, to the point of resembling a real stump, and its bark was grey with many notches missing in the wood. Both of its stubby arms were missing.

Every ooblet came in three varieties. Lumpstump came in brown, red, and gleamy. Never grey.

"What the fuck are you?" Tylor asked.

The widestump planted themselves in the path with a loud thud. In the gloom, it could have passed for a random tree stump, if not for the creepy pale eyes staring him down.

Really fucking strange. Tylor walked around the stump. His shoe caught on a bit of protruding root, and he nearly went down.

"Trying to trip me?" he grumbled.

Widestump was already on the move, waddling on short leg stubs into the dark of the forest.

They'd left a dusty grey seed behind.

"Fuck it."

Tylor scooped up the seed, despite not really wanting to. With any luck, the seed would turn out to be a dud, and wouldn't grow. That, or it'd sprout into something horrifying, enough so he'd get fewer visitors.

With three seeds in his pouch, he departed from the woods, drowsily thinking of names for his new squad. He needed names for an isopud, a wigglewhip, and a fucked-stump. Mr. Football could help with that last one.

Despite his mounting fatigue, Tylor spent another hour awake that evening, tilling the land and planting the seeds. It was the first real time he'd cared about doing some farming, which sat funny with him. Was he really that lazy?

I'm a farmer. That means hard work and sweat.

He'd get on himself to do some more serious farming soon. That way he could keep calling himself a farmer, and people would get off his case.

With that, he hit the sack.

In his dreams, he sat at a bright blue desk, manipulating shapes on a screen to create art for a kid's show. He used precise coordinates to position the shapes, arranging things in a way that made sense to only him, and feeling immense satisfaction as everything finally came together.

Then he was in another dream, where he sat on the edge of a lake, ice fishing with Dad and a random stranger. Every time Tylor looked at the stranger, he saw someone else, details all changed, but his Dad remained there. More in focus, more intact every time Tylor looked.

Tylor and him had never gone fishing.

A bit of wind battered the house, waking Tylor. Lumpstump stood next to him on the bed, staring at the TV from across the house.

The dreams began to fade. Tylor lost the art dream first, then the Dad dream began to go.

He managed to hold onto just one part. Him and his Dad fishing, something they'd never gotten to do.

A lot of it sucked. Dad had only wished one thing for Tylor throughout all of his childhood, and despite fighting him on it for years, Tylor was finally achieving that goal. Tylor only wished his father could return, to see what Tylor was becoming.

A real farmer. Through and through.