Proto was saved from this dilemma by a giant barbarian wielding a greatsword.

  At least, that’s what the guy had been the last time Proto had seen him, while visiting his dream with Mayger. Today, he wasn’t quite so giant, and he wasn’t wearing crudely cut hides or wielding a six-foot sword.

  On the other hand, he was wearing a Viking-horned helmet and had runes painted on his face, which was contorted with furious berserkergang pleasure. He was headbanging to the beat. This was all rather odd, because mellow indie was playing, and he was wearing an artsy black turtleneck. But he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Reks. That was his name, Proto remembered.

  Reks had just accidentally horned Proto with his headbanging. “Whoa, sorry! Got a little carried away,” the turtlenecked man apologized, then waved at the stage. “Great stuff, huh?”

  “I like the bassist,” remarked Proto. “With the 60s Fender.”

  Black scoffed.

  “Oh, man, who doesn’t?” agreed Reks enthusiastically. “I came here for Beelzebub’s Breakfast.” He waved toward the doom metal band in the distance. “But this is where it’s at! What have I been missing?”

  Black scanned the Viking helmet, the face runes, the turtleneck, and the broad smile. “I think you’re missing absolutely nothing that matters in life.”

  “What?” asked Reks. “Oh, hey Aston, what’s up?”

  He’d turned to face another young man, this one wearing a Prince of Wales button-up shirt with seersucker shorts—the sort of guy you’d see a dozen of while walking from the country club to the yacht club in Connecticut.

  “Meet my bro Aston. We raid together.” The Viking-horned man nodded at his friend. “And I’m Reks. Have I said that already? Too much headbanging.”

  “You raid together?” Black’s lips quirked up, as she eyed the preppy one. “Did you forget your horns today?”

  “No. My girlfriend wouldn’t let me wear them,” said Aston.

  Somehow, he looked familiar too. But as Proto ran through the dreams he’d visited, he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen that face. Maybe he’d been one of their barbarian allies in Reks’ dream . . . ?

  After a moment, Proto shook his head. Whatever. Bigger things to worry about.

  “Yeah, I tank and he heals,” Reks was explaining to no one in particular. “Druid healer. You know what they say about druid healers.”

  “I don’t actually,” said Proto. “But I want to.”

  “A priest in rites, and a beast in fights.” Reks looked proud.

  Nodding grimly, Black stepped away from them. “I’ll be over here, Moo. Let me know when you two are done.”

  “You should do this when you say that.” Proto double-gunned Reks.

  “I wield a sword, you ignoble musketeer!” admonished Reks.

  Even as they bantered, Proto was beginning to feel worried. He’d be visiting Reks’ dream in the future. Originally, in that dream, Reks hadn’t seemed to remember him—at least, not clearly. That seemed to suggest Proto wasn’t supposed to talk much with Reks today, if at all.

  On the other hand, using future knowledge was what got Proto into trouble. Avoiding Reks today would be an example of using future knowledge. Ironically, trying to avoid changing the future might be exactly what changed the future.

  Maybe Proto should just go with the flow. Maybe Reks’ violent headbanging would scramble the memory away.

  “A sword and a paintbrush,” Reks went on. “Though we’ll see how long that lasts. I’m thinking of dropping out of art school. None of my friends who graduated this year have jobs yet. Except graphic design, and that doesn’t count.”

  Proto absently recalled Mayger’s brief bio of Reks after his dream: “Mister Barbarian Swordsman? An artist. The paintbrush and pencil kind. Strange, isn’t it? He graduated from art school just as AI art took off. His grand career launch plans have flopped. He spends most of his time now playing an MMO. Guess what class he plays. Guess what weapon he wields.”

  “It looked like my friend Aidan was getting some work. Got a $200 commission from some Twitter anon to draw a dragon lady. Got all excited,” continued Reks. “But then the payment came through on PayPal, and it was from his mom’s e-mail address.”

  “Ouch,” winced Proto.

  “There but for the grace of graphic design go we all,” shrugged Reks.

  Proto turned to Aston. He was nodding slightly to the song’s beat with his arms folded. “How about you? You in art school too?”

  “Me? No, I’m a vice president at an insurance company,” answered Aston, itching beneath his spread collar. “But I am starting to collect art.”

  Of course you F’ing are. Proto didn’t know why he’d even asked.

  “Support the arts! Starting right here.” Reks patted his turtlenecked chest with a rune-covered hand. “Just finished a nice piece. Full of bloody Norsemen, diving Valkyries, and Odin throwing Gungnir, directly at you.”

  “Sounds tubular,” said Proto.

  “Yes! That use of perspective!” enthused Reks.

  “I’d love to help,” replied Aston, dabbing a bead of sweat from his brow with his pocket square. “But I don’t think Shirley would let me hang that in our brownstone.”

  “Yeah, I’m still over here. Don’t mind me,” called Black.

  “Oh, there’s Shirley,” observed Reks.

  Following Reks’ eyes—and noticing a slight wince from Aston—Proto saw a young woman with pinned-up hair and a blouse approaching.

  “I thought I’d find you over here,” she called to Aston. “Just find the crowd with the most ripped T-shirts! Works every time.”

  Her voice was what Proto remembered first:

  “You can’t go far in your career without going to great lengths, right?” she cheerily countered. “And you stay up late anyway!”

  The guy’s lips pressed. “I guess I’ll just miss seeing your face, Shirley.”

  “Aw. But now there’s Zoom. I can see your face and hear your voice,” Shirley reasoned. “So that’s everything we need, right?”

  “Yeah. Everything,” he mumbled.

  Then, reaching a little further back:

  They wandered the convention looking for Mercune for a few more minutes before Fyrir ahed and strode toward a young woman in a mech suit. “Shirley! Is that you in there?”

  She stiffened, then nodded. “It sure is! What a nice surprise, Sir!”

  Proto shook his head at the smallness of the world.

  “Hi Shirley,” Aston flatly greeted her.

  “I see you’ve made some friends.” She looked Proto and Black up and down, eyes seeming to pause on each tear in their clothing.

  Then, Shirley beamed, putting on a face that said, I’m judging you, but I’m far too smiley and polite for you to do anything about it. “It’s very nice to meet you on such a nice day!”

  Proto wanted to reply, “Actually, when I met you, you were playing hooky in a mech suit.”

  What he instead said was, “Pleasure’s all mine. Are you two here for Beelzebub’s Breakfast?”

  Well, that wasn’t much better, was it. Oh well. He glanced at Black, who was smirking at him.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Hmph,” said Shirley. “I’m here for Matt Davis Band, and my partner Aston is here with me. And, I suppose, here with him.” She inclined her head toward Reks, who nodded his Viking horns cheerily.

  “Oh, you didn’t catch Matt Davis Band at the country club last week?” asked Proto.

  Black scoffed again.

  “Oh, were they playing there? Why didn’t you tell me?” Shirley complained to Aston, then turned back to Proto. “Anyway, we’re celebrating my departure.”

  Aston opened his mouth and eyed her, then pressed his lips.

  “I have a two-year internship in Dubai with a famous scientist. Wraithing Research Center. Great opportunity,” she went on. “We can’t believe how lucky I am.”

  “That’s right, Hon,” Aston agreed emotionlessly.

  “So, I’m leaving in a few days. But we thought it’d be nice to go out with a bang.” Shirley waved cheerfully at the music all around them. “And what a bang it’s been!”

  Aston seemed to be struggling to keep a straight face. “It sure has, Hon.”

  “He’s still figuring out how we’ll celebrate the next few days,” she explained.

  Aston shrugged. “A nice brunch. Some ‘us’ time. We’ll see.”

  “Meh.” Shirley wrinkled her nose. “I might go out with the girls one last time. You and Mister Raider here can spend some quality time together.” She waved at Reks.

  Aston looked glumly away.

  “Yeah, I’m really going to let my hair down these last few days,” Shirley chattered on. “Literally! I won’t be allowed to do that outside in Dubai.”

  “Shame there aren’t any internships in America, where you could show your hair and do science,” remarked Aston, a little stiffly.

  “Dear, this is for my career! We’ve been through this,” Shirley told him sweetly. Then, she turned to the others, scrunching a smile out. “We’ve been through this.”

  “All this angst! It comes of having real jobs,” mused Reks. “Follow my approach! I raid all day, I sketch things during my insomnia, I sleep in class, and it all works out.”

  You may want to reconsider that approach! winced Proto, eying the soon-to-be starving artist.

  Shirley sighed and looked at Aston. “We need to find you some good influences. No offense, Reks.”

  “Ignore her! Raid with me tomorrow. No offense, Shirley,” the artist countered cheerfully.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Aston replied to her. “I’ve got two whole years to find some, right?”

  “That’s the spirit!” She patted his cheek.

  “I’ll help with that,” offered Reks. “You find the best people on Monraid and Tuesraid. More mature.”

  “Tuesraid?” Shirley stared at Aston. “Tell me he’s making up that word. Tell me you don’t use that word.”

  Aston shifted awkwardly.

  “Wednesraid, Thursraid, Friraid,” Reks sang in a deep country-western voice. “Who do you think I Friraid with?”

  “It’s ‘whom,’” a woman corrected with an audible cringe. It was Helen, walking up with Himari.

  “Yeah, he makes me cringe too,” Shirley said to the blonde GSI, then turned to her smaller counterpart. “Helllooo, Himari!”

  “Hi Fellow Intern!” greeted the black-haired GSI.

  “You should get friends like Himari!” Shirley urged Aston. “Did you know she’s a math major?”

  “You might have mentioned that once or twice,” said Aston.

  “Fellow Intern! How much do math majors make coming out of college?” asked Shirley.

  “Somewhere around 5318008,” answered Himari.

  “Is that cents . . . ? That can’t be right.” Shirley puzzled over the number. “Anyway, you should try to make money like that, Aston.”

  “I do, actually,” muttered Aston.

  “Yes, well, with the wage gap, you should be higher,” waved Shirley.

  “Always room for more 5318008 in your life, right?” Himari encouraged Aston.

  It seemed like he might maintain a straight face. But at Shirley’s emphatic nod of agreement, a laugh slipped out.

  “Meanwhile, grandmothers point at me and say, ‘Stay away from that one,’” lamented Helen, then turned to Reks. “Life in the humanities, am I right?”

  “You knew I was humanities? How?” asked Reks, tilting his Viking horns and itching his black turtleneck.

  “That look of disappointed hopes in your eyes.” Helen gave Reks a kind pat on his rune-covered and whiskery cheek.

  Reks frowned in puzzlement.

  “It happens to us all, when some math major explains that a $200,000 student loan means you’ll pay $500,000,” Helen went on wistfully. “Thanks for that, Himari.”

  “ . . . wait, really?” Reks said slowly. “No, I only have to pay 8% more than $200,000. Right?”

  “Talk to me when you’re twenty-three.” Helen squeezed Reks’ hand sympathetically. “It’ll start with a letter from a woman named Fannie. She’ll demand all your money. Don’t give it to her! She’ll threaten you, but her threats are empty.”

  “Don’t be sad, Helen,” consoled Himari. “I may have 5318008 in cents, but you’ve got it where it counts.”

  Helen preened. “Ooh. It’s all in the shirt, I think, but thank you for that.” She was wearing a Shakespeare tanktop, showing Hamlet holding Yorick’s skull. “Though I think it went over better in that other crowd.” She waved toward Beelzebub’s Breakfast. “I’ve never had so many tattooed men openly admiring my interest in Shakespeare!”

  Shirley curled her lip and turned to Aston. “Yeah, stay away from crowds like that. No good influences there.”

  “So, no video gamers, no humanities majors, no metal fans. Anyone else?” asked the man in the seersucker shorts.

  “That’s a good start,” shrugged Shirley. “And no one in ripped T-shirts or tracksuits.”

  Now, Proto felt like he was being subtweeted. But he resisted saying anything. He didn’t want to draw Helen’s attention and mess up her future dream.

  Black, on the other hand, had no such compunctions. “You could stay away from all them,” she nonchalantly told Aston. “Or, you could just leave behind one thing instead.”

  Helen surreptitiously tittered and gave Black two thumbs up.

  “And what’s that?” Shirley’s nose was wrinkled. “Respectability?”

  Black smiled and opened her mouth to reply.

  “Uh, heh!” Aston broke in. “Speaking of which, it’s really a nice day, isn’t it?” He gestured vaguely at the sky and glanced nervously at Black, who rolled her eyes.

  “Ugh. We have to work on your small talk, Dear,” sighed Shirley. “‘Speaking of which’?”

  “The secret to small talk is imagination,” opined Helen. “And subject matter! Hobbies and follies while conversing, duties and pleasantries while diverting, bodies and toddies while flirting.”

  “Huh.” Shirley looked impressed. “I like that.”

  “She’s a humanities major, she knows,” noted Himari, nodding sagely. “I know Fermat’s Last Theorem, she knows small talk.”

  “I guess that’s useful,” Shirley grudgingly acknowledged to Helen. “Imagination, huh?”

  “Indeed!” affirmed Helen. “‘As imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the lover’s mind turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing a big strong body.’”

  “Okay, that’s not useful. And it’s not small talk,” said Shirley.

  “‘Bodies forth’? What the F, Helen?” said Himari.

  “You leave Shakespeare to me, and I’ll leave the Fromage Theorem to you,” retorted the blonde GSI.

  “That’s a little cheesy,” observed Himari. Then, she and Helen double-gunned each other.

  “That quote—it was Theseus, right?” recalled Aston.

  “Yes! Well, most of it.” Helen looked excitedly at Himari, then at Aston’s polished shoes, then his face. “Say, I like your shirt’s fit. What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “‘Theseus.’ Ugh. This is why you haven’t made SVP yet,” groused Shirley to Aston. “Less her, more her.” She waved from Helen to Himari.

  “Well, that’s rude,” observed Helen. “But ‘rudeness is a sauce to good wit,’ yes? So it might be useful for you someday.”

  Shirley tilted her head. “What?”

  “Oh, just a humanities thing. Right, Fellow Humanities Major?” Helen held a hand toward Reks.

  The Viking-horned man nodded emphatically. Or maybe that was just his continued headbanging.

  “Welp,” mused Himari, “the only ‘bodying forth’ I have planned is to body forth a little Himari someday.” She regarded herself sadly. “That is, another little Himari. But the first step is finding a big strong body. And paid maternity leave. And pay.”

  Shirley nodded stoutly. “We can have it all!”

  Helen thrust a fist in the air. “Yes! Small talk, a big strong body, and 5318008!”

  Then, she lowered her empty hand and frowned at it. “We need some two-buck chuck to toast with.” She scanned the vicinity as though looking for a bottle.

  Instead, all that came into view was the mosher. Apparently, Beelzebub’s Breakfast was taking a break, so he’d headed to the next noisiest place nearby, like a moth deprived of one flame and seeking out another.

  Now, he was bouncing and marauding amid a rather different crowd, who were wearing a mix of flannel, polos, and band T-shirts. They looked less amused. Especially Shirley, as the mosher came careening toward her.

  Fortunately, Aston stepped in front of her, held out a firm arm, and bounced the mosher away.

  “Of course his shirt is ripped!” grumped Shirley, eying the thrashing man disdainfully. “And he almost ripped mine!”

  “Maybe we should go check out Matt Davis Band. They’ll be starting in 45 minutes,” suggested Aston.

  “I’m glad you’re getting serious, Dear. Let’s go.” She strode away, as Aston stoically guarded her.

  Meanwhile, the mosher kept moshing. Other couples were frowning and heading elsewhere too. Some were calling for security, but there were no guards in sight.

  “This is why you never invite metal and indie bands to the same concert!” muttered Black. “Where are Hells Angels when you need them?”

  “Here, I’ll go get a guard,” offered Proto.

  “Am I dating a narc? Why don’t you handle it yourself?” Black eyed him disgustedly, then grinned. “Just kidding. Please go quickly.”

  “On my way.” Proto wound through the crowd back toward the entrance. This was easier than it’d been earlier, as the vomit had been cleaned up or at least trampled out of sight.

  Within a few minutes, the entrance to the Summit Exhibition Grounds came into view. The bag check line was nearly nonexistent, and just a single guard was left to inspect bags. The others had disappeared.

  Naturally. Lips pressed, Proto stood on his tiptoes and scanned the passing throngs for other guards.

  And there he was—the huge guard with the Somnus-on-a-bloody-battlefield shirt. He was languidly making his way toward some bootlegger holding a full-sized movie camera. He looked bored, yawning as he brushed aside the concertgoers in his path.

  “Hey, excuse me!” called Proto, darting up before the guard could slip too far into the crowd.

  “Yo, what’s up? Looking to buy a shirt?” asked the guard. “Talk to me in a bit. I have to go break something.” He waved ahead. It was unclear if he was gesturing at the camera or the bootlegger.

  “You’ll want to hear this.” Proto pointed toward where he’d come from. “First, some mosher is over there smearing people, and they’re getting pissed. Second, I think I found a new artist for you.”

  The guard had looked uninterested at first, but now his ears perked up. “You shitting me? Let’s go.”

  Proto turned to lead the way, but the guard maneuvered in front of him. “Here, stay close. I’m Stang, by the way.”

  Ruthlessly, the huge guard started parting the ocean of bodies like the Red Sea. Extending one arm after the other, he casually swept aside man, woman, and service dog alike. In his wake, Proto walked like a king along a red carpet.

  Well, a green and brown carpet, with occasional pink and orange splotches that were suspiciously vomit-like. But it went quickly.

  “So, this artist, he do interesting stuff?” The guard casually brushed aside several girls in black leather, followed by what looked like a 1990s boy band. “You know. Love and war, blood and skulls, steel on steel, limbs flying.”

  “That’s his specialty.” Proto had never actually seen Reks’ art, but this seemed a reasonable assumption.

  “Good, good,” murmured Stang. “Our clientele have discriminating tastes. You really gotta hit the right notes.”

  Proto squinted and picked out Reks in the crowd ahead, then started to point. “He’s over there. He’s the one—”

  “Oh, that’s perfect!” the guard broke in excitedly. He already was marveling at the Viking-horned, rune-cheeked, headbanging young man in a black turtleneck. “This is my man. I already know. I already know.”

  Unfortunately, the mosher picked precisely that moment to careen into Reks.