Day 4

Day 4

"The absolute worst thing here is the music.  I've been listening to it, you see, because there are so many radios here, and it blares out of every last damned one of them.  The insipid, repetitive tracks constantly fill each shop, restaurant, and occasional street with their propagandising noise.  Let me tell you of what I've heard in the past half hour alone:

I Won't Take Everything (Just a Teaspoonful)
Cute Boy
Don't Run Away
Delicious
Keep Touching Me
She Can't Love You (Not Like Me)

The first is every bit the five-minute-long assault of verbal smut on the ear that it sounds.  The second is an ode to a thirteen-year-old by his older neighbor, who only refers to herself as "big sis," a moniker as disturbing as any for a potential suitor.  The last one is particularly interesting, as it tells a story of a "pretty boy" who has fallen for a "hu-girl," one who is incapable of truly loving him because of her species.  "Hu-girls," you see, is slang for women; a necessary distinction when they're trying to claim that word for themselves."

I put down the pen, distracted by the itch on my arm.  I know it'll just bleed, but I'm tired of the distraction while I'm making my report.  The hard, mottled brown and red patch of scab separates easily enough from the surrounding skin, revealing the opening from the scratch I took from the sharp edge of my bed.  Off-white weepings has formed around the edges of the wound.
"Are you gonna eat that?"
I look toward the knife-eared thing sitting in the table next to mine.  Its blue-grey eyes are focused on my hand.  No, not my hand; they're focused on the wound.  It opens its mouth and too many inches of tongue unfurl.

I step out of the restaurant, panting slightly and cursing my luck that I have to run into something as disgusting as an Akaname when, minutes beforehand, I had finally gotten enough of an appetite to try to eat.  If my stomach wasn't turning so much I would've simply killed it for- for being so vile.  I begin marching down the streets, pondering how any man could be so sick in the head that he would willingly choose to mate with something like that.  I've been wondering that a lot the past few days.

I briefly consider looking into the other restaurants but the train of thought dies quickly.  I know that I'll find them all equally infested, and I'm not sure I can eat right now anyway.  The things seem equally spread out wherever you go in this city, as though they were actively trying to spread a net.  It seems that there's not a single quiet place outside of my hall where I can simply clear my head and write.

No, there's a place.  These creatures haven't been here forever and the decent, traditional humans have doubtless found places for themselves to avoid harassment.  I just have to find one of them so that I can sit and eat without having to restrain my gag reflex.  It wouldn't be in the center of the city, surrounded by the things and their claims that they somehow deserve equal treatment only a decade after threatening us with extinction.  Nor would it be near the docks and its immigrants all mindlessly seeking out innocent victims.

I walk through downtown, heading west toward the edge of the city.  It doesn't take me long; on the first day it struck me how small the city was, scarcely five miles from center to wall.  That also explained why there were so few cars on the roads; people here simply walk.

The main road leading to the western exit leads me through downtown and then the taller, more modern buildings of the commercial district.  From there it passes through houses, first the crowded ones with apartment complexes interspersed which slowly fade out until I reach the almost idyllic white-picket-fenced suburbs.  As the houses become more permanent and less crowded, so too does the horde of monsters seem to fade away.  One or two have still managed to insinuate themselves here, doubtless moving in with the people who already lived in these homes.

I reach the wall of the city before finding what I'm looking for.  For a hundred feet between houses and wall there's nothing but open field; no one wants to live too close to it.  I set foot on open grass and soft soil and begin walking the wall, less out of any real sense that it will take me to where I want to be than out of sheer pointless wandering.  There's something nostalgic about it, though.  Perhaps it reminds me of drills back in the training hall.  Perhaps I just want to clear my head and think.

I've only been here for a few days, and yet I already feel sick of this place.  It's suffocating.  It's like watching a car wreck over and over again.  Humans are rendered into second-class citizens by their mere presence.  And we- we don't even have a use for the things.  There's nothing they can offer us, not even magically.  The Shields of Saint Rylan proved that our technomages are far more brilliant in the magical arts than they are.  And yet we took them in instead of slaughtering the last of them.

I march and I fume as the field of grass gives way to streets once again.  As the wall curves to the east sections of city reach out to meet it, filling out the entire border with small homes and smaller businesses.  A mom and pop restaurant promise old-fashioned food and an open-air business sells wax paper candies.  The old man inside nods and smiles as he waves vaguely in my direction.  "Good morning, sir."  I smile as I say the words; I can tell he isn't smiling because of me, but because I remind him of someone else.  He was a man saved by a paladin back then.  It's his eyes that tell me that.

At the very southwest edge, another dock greets me.  Beyond it lay only the endless expanse of blue where the Megalan ocean reaches out and mingles with the Erythraean Sea.  Fishermen - simple fishermen - go out into the shallow water to ply their trade.  Beyond them a single ship moves north, heading into the harbor to the north.  No doubt its occupants are staring out at these simple folk, seeing the chance to satisfy their hunger.  I move on, waving back at each friendly gesture sent my way.

My path slowly shifts from east to northeast as I follow the curve of the wall, occasionally finding that I've forgotten why I began walking it to begin with.  Finally separated from the masses of monsters saturating the city I find exactly the calm that I was hoping for.  I briefly consider coming out here whenever the corrupting masses get too much, but my stomach reminds me that I can't subsist entirely on quiet walks.  Besides, I want a place where I can just spend some time with my own species.

The sky shifts darker, and then to brilliant orange as I follow the wall through more open fields to the eastern gate.  I stop when I get there, baffles by what I spot.  Through the gate, past the road leading out, a small shop sits on the crest of a hill overlooking the harbor.  I stare at this ludicrous sight for a good five minutes wondering what madness allows for such a thing.  Outside of the gates where any feral could simply wander in from the forest, someone decided to just open up their own business.  I hesitate to simply walk out there and see it for myself before I realize that I'm just as safe out there as I am in here.  It's the same safety that lets me walk the streets at night.  Smiling at the oddly delayed realization I set out at a walk.

The guard barely glances away from his station before wordlessly opening the gates for me.  Outside the grass immediately rises to waist height and the road quickly transitions to a flat dirt path.  As I approach from the hill below the light no longer shines in my eyes and I can see that it's something like a diner or cafe.  A small wooden plank painted with dozens of multicolored butterflies informs me that it's named "The Nostalgic."  If anything, it all makes the place seem more ridiculous.

I step onto the patio and open the door.  A pair of tables line the wall where slatted windows let in only a handful of orange rays.  The walls are lined with dozens of smaller paintings and portraits of smiling people, placed one against the other to fill every possible inch of space.  Along the opposite wall is a small kitchen-bar mix behind the counter, and a twelve-year-old monster staring happily at me.  It's what grabs my attention.
"Hi there, mister."

The unnaturally pink hair wouldn't necessarily be enough.  Kids these days think that emulating these things is somehow cool.  It's the pointed ears that do it, and the violet eyes.  But then, that doesn't necessarily mean that it's tainted.  It's wearing clothing - appropriate, modest clothing.  Its red dress is billowy and covers its legs and almost all of its arms.  A pair of leaves hang out from the sleaves; it could simply be an elf child free of demonic energy's corruption.  Not even necessarily the former - elves are slow to mature so it could be as old as I am.

It - she - tilts her head slightly and raises her brow.  "You there, mister paladin?"
I straighten up and answer "I am" suddenly enough that she jumps slightly.  "What do you serve here?"
She looks around for a moment, flustered and confused.  "Oh, uh, coffee?  And pastries.  I have some things for breakfast, too."
"Do you have a radio?"
"I- what?  No?  I could go get one-"
"Don't.  I'll have coffee and toast.  No butter."

I sit at the nearest table and pull the cylindrical case from my pack, opening it and pressing my report flat on the table.  The elf calls from the corner "Wait, are you a writer?  Are you doing a novel-"
"No."
Silence returns to the place.  All I can hear is the sound of waves striking the shore below and the pleasant noise of food being prepared for me.  I smile and turn to the report, painted pink by the light streaming down onto it.

"You've heard all about their propagandising before, I'm certain, but I don't think you could have been truly informed of the sheer ubiquity of it.  They want to be seen as the females of our species and to be seen as a more reasonable choice of mate than the women that are.  They want to completely drown out the reasoning of every man in this city with a constant flood of lies through this music, and I can only hope that they're failing."

The worst part - the absolutely worst part of all of this, though, is how damned catchy the tunes are.  So help me, if I find myself humming the refrain to Cute Boy again I'm going to cleanse my frontal cortex with fire.