They bobbed in and out of alleyways until the industrial area faded into more homes. Emerging onto another cobblestone road, Maeve hung a left and then walked straight into the first yard they came across. As far as he could see, the houses were identical. Perfectly mowed and edged lawns, one-story homes with cobblestone walkways leading up to three steps, a small porch, and a white door.

  Maeve pounded on the door. “Brannoc, you old fool, open up!”

  After a moment, Maeve lifted her hand to pound at the door again, but it clicked and slowly eased open. The empty doorway felt like it was watching him. Maeve trotted in with none of his concern about the situation, only noticing he wasn’t following once she was most of the way down the first hallway.

  “Come on, he don’t bite.”

  Greg took a few steps into the home, and the voice in his head sounded again.

  You’ve entered a designated safe zone. Volatility will begin decreasing at a rate of 5 per hour as long as you remain at rest.

  Well, some good news. This place was safe?

  Perhaps it was simply the contrast to the last few hours of his life, but even in the poorly lit hallway that smelled of mildew and dust, there was something warm and welcoming about the home. A set of stairs ran up the right side of the hall. To his left, a set of wall mounted coat hangers held two coats, a heavy fur-lined leather duster that had seen more than its fair share of use and what looked suspiciously like an M-65 field jacket his father had brought home from the war.

  “The hell you want, Maeve?” Brannoc’s voice echoed through the otherwise silent house like he’d smoked a pack a day for the last forty years, and didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

  “I need you to check this guy out. He just offed a Frost Kissed.”

  Greg heard the man grumble as he followed Maeve around the corner, and his mind formed a picture of what sort of man a sound like that would come from. The result was stunningly close. He didn’t bother looking up from the tome as they approached, just kept rocking back and forth in the old wooden chair. His face was vaguely lit by the crackling fireplace beside him, enough to see fresh wrinkles extending from the corners of his eyes, a large but not absurdly so nose, and a salt and pepper beard.

  When Maeve kicked off her boots and hopped onto one of the couches to lounge like she owned the place, he finally looked up, and Greg saw familiar eyes. Familiar, but far more unsettling. They reminded him of the woman he’d seen earlier, but these were not the beautiful green. His eyes were blood red whirlpools. Where the woman had vibrant red and orange streaks like fire, Brannoc’s were black, but they both ended at that tiny white pupil.

  “I got something on my face?” Brannoc raised an eyebrow at him.

  “No!” Greg held up his hands. “Sorry. I’m..I just…” He stammered. What was he going to tell him? ‘I’ve never seen weird ass eyes like yours before.’ ‘I’m in a weird alien land!’ “I’ve had a long day.” He decided on.

  “Uhuh.” Brannoc glanced down at his book for a moment, finishing whatever he was reading, then dog-eared the page and slid it into a cloth sleeve hanging off the arm of the chair. He pushed thick, calloused fingers through his long, age-peppered black hair and tied it off. In the process, he gave Greg his first look at the pointed ears of an elf, though the one that faced him looked like it had a chunk taken out of it.

  Oh good. Why wouldn’t there be elves?

  “What’s your problem, son?” Brannoc dug into the same sleeve he’d dumped the worn tome and produced a pipe and a fist-sized back that gave off a powerful scent of herbs when he opened it.

  “I don’t know how to answer that.” Greg said honestly. “I think I’ve gone insane.”

  Brannoc stuffed some herbs into the pipe and snapped his fingers. Orange flame extended from his thumb like a lighter, and he pulled deep. The white dots in the center of his eyes focused on him, and he swore he saw the red glow faintly. A cool tingle ran along his legs, up his spine, down his arms, and finally through his head, leaving blinking back tears like he’d just snorted a mountain of peppermints.

  “Seem fine physically. Hands were broken not long ago, but your regeneration kicked in fast enough to stop any permanent damage.” He gestured at his shoulders with the end of his pipe. “Scars are concerning. How’d that happen?”

  Greg huffed a breath through his nose and pushed trembling fingers through his own hair. He’d thought it was a hallucination. Then again, all of this was likely still some trick his mind was playing…except the pain. Brannoc was right, his hands barely ached, but he knew he’d broken them when he hit the Frost kissed.

  “I was in a bar. Two people attacked me, and I woke up here…with these.” He jerked his head to one side.

  Brannoc raised a bushy eyebrow and flicked his gaze to Maeve who’d at some point pulled out a tiny motor and started tinkering with it. Dual streams of smoke pushed through the elf’s nose, and he nodded.

  “Attacked you for no reason, did they?”

  Greg shrugged. “It’d been a really bad day. I guess I could have been rude to somebody, not enough to get stabbed. I don’t think at least.”

  “Don’t usually get stabbed for being rude to people, Greg.”

  “No, I know.” Greg grimaced and looked down. His hand instinctively grasped for the badge that wasn’t there. He hadn’t had time to process it yet, but the thought of never having to go back to his job would almost leave him giddy…assuming he wasn’t in this situation. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of Brannoc’s lips, revealing a single golden molar behind surprisingly white teeth. “Perceptive.” was all he said as he held the pipe between his teeth and stood to walk over to a bookshelf.

  It was evident that Brannoc’s stature was not what Greg had assumed the stereotypical elf was, but until he stood, he hadn’t had the full scope. He was at least a head taller than Greg. His shoulders weren’t particularly wide, but the way the loose fabric of his shirt hung off them indicated muscle, a lot of it, hidden beneath.

  He fingered his way through a couple of rows of books before lifting one off the shelf and returning to his seat. He frisbeed the book to him as he plopped down with a grunt, rubbing his left knee.

  “What’s this?” Greg asked, turning the leather-bound book over in his hands a few times. It had no markings, not even on the spine. Just a dusty, heavily used leather cover.

  “Test. Open it.” He situated himself back in the rocking chair and took another drag from his pipe.

  Maeve had stopped tinkering to watch him. The sudden attention and apprehension in her furrowed brows and pursed lips were not making him feel very comfortable.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Is this thing going to melt my face when I open it or something?”

  Brannoc eyed him silently, clearly not entertained by his snark. When he still didn’t move the elf held out his hand again. “If you ain’t gonna open it, give it here. Can’t help you if you don’t listen.”

  “Fine, fuck…I’ll open the stupid book.”

  Greg gnawed at the inside of his cheek for a moment. A week ago, he would have roasted himself for being scared to open a book, yet here he was…staring at the leather like it might open him up instead. He closed his eyes and dragged the cover open.

  “Gods dammit, kid. Open your eyes.” Brannoc snapped.

  “Easy with the blasphemy, old man.” Maeve said.

  Nothing had happened. His face was still intact as far as he could tell. He cracked open one eye, and a translucent blue box flittered from the inside cover, peaking into his barely open lid.

  Basics of Swordsmanship:

  Would you like to absorb the Basics of Swordsmanship skillbook?

  Yes/No

  Absorb the skillbook? Wide-eyed, Greg looked through the message at Brannoc, a puff of smoke forced from his nostrils, and he nodded. He’d been watching him as he read the message, and that was apparently more than enough for him to understand what was going on.

  “Accept it if you want. They’re cheap.” He grumbled and lifted the favored knee to cross over his other leg.

  “What happened?” Maeve asked, glancing back and forth from him to Brannoc.

  Greg thought away the message and shook his head. “Okay. I need more than that. You obviously know what’s going on with me.”

  The elf puffed at the pipe and nodded. “I’ll tell you everything I know, but Maeve has to go first?”

  “Why?” they said in unison, but where his tone flared with frustration, Maeve’s was the whine of a child getting kicked out of a grownup’s conversation.

  Brannoc’s pinpoint pupils focused on him, crimson whirlpools almost hypnotizing. “After I say my piece, if you want to tell this little shit, you’re welcome to do so. Until then, I’m quiet as a mouse fart.”

  Greg glanced from Brannoc to Maeve and gave her a shrug.

  “Sorry, if he knows something…”

  “No, it’s fine.” Maeve whined as she packed up her engine and tiny tools and shoved them back into whatever extra-dimensional space she kept them in over her head. “He’s a stubborn old idiot. I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

  He gave her a nod as she left the room, but Brannoc didn’t speak. His eyes went glassy for a moment, and his unfocused face spoke, giving Greg chills.

  “I can see you, Maeve.”

  A huff sounded from the hallways, then exaggerated stomps from heavy boots before the door opened and slammed shut. The haze over the crimson eyes faded, and Brannoc nodded to the couch Maeve had just left.

  “Sit down, making me nervous.”

  Greg pursed his lips, but did as he was told.

  “My knowledge is admittedly limited,” Brannoc started, thick fingers working at his knee. “You’ve got something talking to you, right? Explaining things you’ve got no context for?”

  “Yeah, it’s just like…little text boxes, sometimes a voice.” Greg said, actively toning down the excitement that perked up upon someone else knowing what he was going through.

  “Don’t tell anybody about it.” Brannoc squashed any hopes in a sentence. “Not until you implicitly trust them. Think of it like a cheat sheet. Whatever god ripped you off your planet and brought you here knew you’d be behind.”

  ERROR17638v.00001 resolved! Thank you for your patience!

  Assigning stats per prior experience…

  Assigning skills per prior experience…

  “Cheat sheet?” Greg dismissed the system message and the character sheet that popped up with it. A problem for later.

  “Woke up in a summoning circle, right? Big white circle, bunch of freaks in cloaks chanting around you?” Brannoc asked.

  Greg looked down, considered lying, then thought better of it. This might be the closest to an expert he was going to get. Better give him the best information he could.

  “They were all dead when I woke up.” He corrected the assumption.

  Brannoc’s bushy brows rose. “Dead? Like killed themselves?”

  Greg gnawed at the inside of his cheek, starting to regret saying anything, but shook his head. “Their uhh…Their hearts were ripped out.”

  Brannoc stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Sweat had built up on Greg’s upper lip and forehead before the older man spoke again.

  “Doesn’t exactly explain the scars. Hmm.” He said as idly as if they were discussing the weather. “When you were pulled from one circle to another, it destroyed your body, and it reformed on the other side.” Brannoc flicked his fingers casually at his shoulders. “Little knowledge I have of the mechanics usually means whatever ailments you had in your previous life are cured in the process. Which makes those a problem.”

  It was Greg’s turn to be silent. He pushed fingers into his hair and folded over on himself. These were answers, sure. They even—sort of—made sense. At the end of it all, it just left him with more questions.

  “How do you know all this?”

  Brannoc pointed a knobby finger up above the fireplace at a painting Greg hadn’t noticed before. A little less salt and pepper Brannoc with his arms around a blond human woman with golden scleraless eyes.

  “My wife did a lot of research on the summoned. Bit of a fascination.” He took another puff of his pipe, his eyes finding the fire again. “You’ve got more questions. Ask em. If I have an answer, I’ll tell you.”

  Greg peered up at him from his doubled over position and let out an exhausted laugh. “Do people get summoned here a lot?”

  Brannoc shook his head. “Once every fifty years or so.”

  “Why? The gods are just uprooting people from other planets and dropping them here? For what?” Greg’s eyes narrowed.

  “Can’t say for sure.” Brannoc nodded at the painting again. “She had a theory, you won’t like it though.”

  “I’m not a big fan of anything that has happened to me recently. Just tell me.” Greg closed his eyes and braced himself for the worst.

  “She thought it was a game.” He stretched, pipe hanging out between his lips and joints popping loudly as his long limbs splayed out from his seated position. “Divine being summons a champion. There is inevitably a terrible struggle not long after. That champion is almost always right in the middle of it, and they either win…or die.”

  Greg’s face only screwed up further. “A game against who?”

  “Depends.” Brannoc ashed the bowl of his pipe and refilled it. “Sometimes other gods, occasionally demons or devils. Before the end, she’d started researching some really weird stuff. Ancient eldritch beings. Terrifying shit.”

  “So I just wanna make sure I understand…” Greg sat up, fists clenching on his bare thighs. “You’re telling me I was stabbed in a dirty bathroom and ripped across the universe for some divine beings’ dick measuring contest?”

  Brannoc lifted a shoulder and snapped his fingers again, lighting the bowl. “Told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

  The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, the strong scent of herbs filling the room. To the right of his vision, a tab he’d been ignoring began to flash. All the notifications he didn’t want to deal with had been thrown to the side, and he knew as soon as he opened that things were going to get more complex. Greg took a deep breath and nodded, he had many, many more questions, but one seemed pertinent right now.

  “You said I would only want people I trusted to know I was summoned. That means I’m in danger right?”

  Brannoc nodded slowly, letting that sink in for a second before continuing. “On multiple fronts, unfortunately. One of the reasons my Bella thought it was some kind of game was the factions that would hunt them down. Usually rival gods or demonic entities to the divine being that summoned them.”

  “Oh, good.” Greg murmured.

  “You’ve got the inherent nature of your abilities that will attract monsters and worse. Then there are certain…call them political factions that don’t like Gifted in general, extra special ones are easy targets. Especially because they are usually right in the middle of the shit.”

  “Maeve kept calling me that. Gifted. What is it?”

  “Just what they call us.” He pressed fore and middle fingers beneath his eyes. “Anybody that’s been blessed by a more powerful being. Guessin you ain’t seen a mirror since you woke up.”

  “Are my…?” Greg looked around, searching for a mirror.

  “Toilet’s got one.” Brannoc pointed to a door in the corner of the room before getting up and walking over to the bookshelf again.

  Greg shot to his feet and across the room. His hand searched the wall on the other side of the door for a switch, but there wasn’t one. As soon as he stepped into the room, a lantern hovering over the mirror lit up with firelight.

  His face was still speckled with the black and red fluid of the Frost Kissed, but otherwise it was still his face. The eyes, though…those were not his. His left eye was icy blue with white shocks that fired off in random directions stemming from the pinprick white pupil. Brannoc’s blood red eye had freaked him out, but not anymore. His right eye rippled and pulsed like an actively bleeding wound. Outside the pupil, there was no relief. No pop of color. Only endless, seething blood.

  When was the last time you felt something?

  Even now, staring into the eyes of a stranger in his own skull, he felt…what? Curiosity? Mild horror at best? Not the gut-punch devastation of apparently no longer being human or even on his own planet. Not the grief of losing everything he’d ever held dear.

  Even this. He just let happen to him.

  Keep rolling with the punches.