Seaport was a town meant to facilitate trade between the merfolk colonies and human lands; with very few players having reached level 30 – the stage where merfolk could survive on land – the town currently hosted far fewer players than it was designed to hold.

The upside of the rather deserted-feeling atmosphere was that service at the shops and restaurants was extremely fast. Fey, Blade, and Leandriel were the only people in the seaside restaurant dubbed The Lucky Mackerel. To avoid blocking up the restaurant with Leandriel’s inconveniently-large wings, they chose to sit outside on the deck of the second floor, which came with a beautiful view of the tropical waters.

Rather than cramming themselves (and excessive number of pets) into a standard four-person table, Leandriel politely asked for and obtained the large ten-person table situated at the farthest edge of the deck. Fey dropped pets into the empty place settings, leaving a space for Firefly to perch. Of course, Feypets being Feypets, they soon hopped all over the table and grouped themselves as they pleased. (Firefly stayed where she was because she’s taking on the characteristics of her boring owner.)

 

Fey did not know what to say, and occupied herself by looking at the menu. However, after their orders were placed, the silence between the three players became distinctly awkward.

Amethyst squeaked (“This is weird.”).

All the Feypets nodded. Magic added his own comments, squeaking (“Fey-Fey usually chatters when she’s with Lee-Lee.”).

Obsidian wiggled his ears and pointed out a countervailing argument, squeaking (“She doesn’t talk that much when she’s with meat-shield-man, though.”).

Glad to have something (other than awkward silence) to pay attention to, Fey attentively watched her pets converse as if the squeaks had meaning to her.

“Do you know what they say?” asked Leandriel. It was possible to learn to understand pets and other non-humanoid creatures, but these were abilities usually restricted to nature- or psychic-based classes at high levels.

Fey smiled. “Not really.” Making up a dialogue, she continued, “Probably something along the lines of ‘this is weird; why isn’t anybody talking? Fey usually talks a lot. Well, not always; sometimes she’s silent.’”

 

Both Leandriel and Blade smiled at the imaginative (and surprisingly accurate) translation, though for different reasons: the former found it amusing, while the latter agreed that the atmosphere was awkward and was trying to change the mood.

 

Blade made an effort to be friendly; he did not even understand why he was so ready to dislike Leandriel in the first place (probably because the author-goddess was extremely unfair in the distribution of attractive attributes when she created the characters).

“So, how did the two of you meet?” he asked conversationally.

Fey and Leandriel blinked and exchanged a glance that was suspiciously laden with meaning. While Fey was ready to gloss over the incident, Leandriel answered in an honest and regretful manner. “In one of my first, clumsy attempts at flying, I crashed into the lady, injuring her seriously.”

Fey’s inner fangirl was giggling madly at being called a “lady”, but she mustered up enough brain power to protest, “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Broken ribs are ‘not that serious’?” Leandriel countered.

“Injuries that last less than thirty seconds are ‘not that serious’,” Fey replied in an authoritative-yet-joking tone.

 

Blade was starting to pick up serious ‘lovey-dovey’ vibes from the pair’s argument-that-wasn’t-arguing. “Are you two dating or something?” he asked.

 

Fey and Leandriel exchanged another glance, this one laden with considerably more embarrassment.

“…No…?” Leandriel finally said, as if uncertain. (The correct answer is probably closer to “or something”) He glanced again at Fey, who had now covered her eyes with one hand.

 

When Fey entered into situations that progressed from ‘awkward’ to ‘actively embarrassing’, she felt a physical urge to jump up and run away. While she had largely mastered the impulse (except when reading and watching movies), she could feel the quadriceps in her legs tense up in preparation for flight. To forestall this particular line of questioning, she sent Blade a PM:

<Fey: He’s an NPC, you idiot.>

Blade revealed a startled expression and stared directly at Fey, still with her eyes covered. It became obvious to Leandriel that the two were having a silent conversation, but he assumed that Fey was simply asking Blade to stop (asking), and politely waited for the exchange to end.

<Blade: What? No way! Why is he here, then?>

<Fey: Because I asked him to come get Magic.>

<Blade: No, I mean, shouldn’t he have some sort of NPC job that he can’t just abandon?>

Blade made a valid argument against Leandriel’s identity as an NPC, but a single fact absolutely convinced Fey against the possibility of Leandriel being anything else:

<Fey: He’s an angel. No one could possibly reach level 100 in the ten days the game’s been online.>

<Blade: Oh. Good point.>

<Fey: Anyways, stop asking awkward questions!!>

Strictly speaking, Fey’s last message did not warrant a double exclamation mark; this was the result of her agitated state of mind that lashed out at the rather unfortunate Blade.

<Blade: Okay, okay.>

 

Fey was highly thankful when the arrival of the food interrupted the conversation. Under the cover of clinking dishes and the waitress’s movements, Fey lifted Amethyst close to her mouth and muttered, “If Blade says anything stupid, smack him.”

 

(For amusement’s sake, the readers may take a ten-second pause to consider the results of that command.)

 

Amethyst nodded (too eagerly), and hopped over to the optimal position to smack the human warrior, next to Blade’s elbow.

Firefly thought that there was something odd about Amethyst’s position. None of Fey’s pets either intentionally avoided or intentionally went near Blade, treating him rather like a moving piece of furniture that happened to follow their owner around (*unjust treatment of Blade*). The fyrfalcon shifted uneasily on her perch, and let out a quiet ‘scree’ sound. Unfortunately, Blade was distracted by the waitress setting his food in front of him, and did not pay attention to his pet.

 

“Thank you,” Blade said to the waitress.

As soon as it was safe to do so without disturbing the food, Amethyst smacked him with her bubble. (It appears that our violent, merry, cannibalistic slime finds conventional manners to be extraneous and useless actions.)

“Hey!” Blade yelled indignantly, glaring at the diminutive pet. “What did you do that for?”

 

Ah. Oops. Fey focused on trying not to laugh, starting to realize the natural results of her command. Her internal struggles were such that she forgot to speak, so Amethyst’s explanatory squeaks were all the information Blade was given.

Leandriel was looking back and forth between Blade’s argument with Amethyst and Fey’s expression, which clearly showed her trying to control laughter. Magic, who ‘stood’ horizontally on the angel’s arm, chimed in with a squeak (“I think that counts as a stupid question.”)

Amethyst squeaked (“Good point.”) and smacked Blade again.

 

At Blade’s second indignant, “Hey!” Fey burst into giggles. (Rather than the inner nine-year-old, it was her inner five-year-old that was now in control.)

Blade noticed her state of mirthful discomposure and refocused his glare onto Amethyst’s owner. “You put it up to this!” he accused.

Amethyst squeaked (“Duh.”) and smacked him again, which only caused Fey to laugh harder.

 

Owowowowow. Fey was beginning to have serious cramps in her breathing muscles, but the situation was funny enough that she still could not stop laughing.

 

“What did you tell her to do?” Leandriel asked.

Fey answered breathlessly between giggles. “I… told her… to smack… him… if he said… anything… stupid!” More intense laughing burst out as a result of the explanation.

 

Leandriel felt rather bad for laughing at a newly-made acquaintance, but (he was being infected by the heroine’s evilness and) had to chuckle at the explanation.

 

“I didn’t say anything stupid!” Blade protested. This (of course) resulted in another smack.

 

Fey was now experiencing shooting pains in her abdomen with every inhale and exhale, and tried to calm herself and breathe deeply. “Amethyst… you gotta stop… I’m dying here.”

Amethyst squeaked concernedly (“Is she really dying?”).

Boris grunted (“Can’t tell. She hasn’t breathed normally in a while, though.”).

Amethyst left off tormenting Blade and hopped back to Fey. Fey now had enough control to laugh silently, though the shaking of her shoulders indicated that she was still a long ways away from relieving her muscle cramps.

 

Calming down was a long, slow process. Whenever Fey thought again about why she was laughing, her progress was partly undone by a renewed fit of mirth. It did not help that Leandriel started to find Fey’s laughter amusing in and of itself, and started a (positive) feedback loop of laughter (inciting amusement inciting laughter).

 

As Fey gradually calmed down, Magic and Boris had a thoughtful conversation. A translated transcript is as follows:

 

Magic: Do you think Fey-Fey really would have died if she kept laughing?

Boris: Probably not, but I think eventually she would’ve fainted.

Magic: Hmm. Do you think this “laughing” thing would make a good status effect?

Boris: Yeah. It doesn’t kill, but it looks like it hurts. Also it lasts longer than paralysis.

Magic: Okay. I’ll try making a laughing Spore.

 

After this short exchange, Magic closed his eyes and focused on his internal biochemical processes.

 

Fey had her head bowed down and gaze fixed firmly on her plate, avoiding eye contact with everyone to avoid triggering more laughter. The pose gave her an appearance of modesty and penitence (that was rather inaccurate). “Let’s eat!” she suggested, still not looking up. The players picked up their eating utensils.

 

Alas, successfully having a calm meal was not to be. Magic opened his eyes and squeaked (“I think I got it.”).

Boris grunted (“Try it.”)

Amethyst squeaked (“Not on Fey-Fey, though; she’s still recovering.”)

Magic nodded and sent his newly-formulated cloud of Spores to envelop Leandriel and Blade (*friendly fire*).

 

Caught off guard by the attack/experiment, Leandriel inhaled the Spore attack. Magic had formulated it correctly, and he was struck by the uncharacteristic urge to laugh freely. However, due to the huge level difference between him and the mushroom, he shrugged off the status effect after a few seconds (and after establishing that he had an incredibly rich and attractive laugh, because the author-goddess continues to shower unrealistic gifts onto her chosen one).

 

Blade had no such resistance to the attack; he began to laugh and did not stop.

Seeing the Spore particles in the air and her table-mates’ resulting laughter, Fey asked Magic, “What did you do?” (Ignoring his explanatory squeaks,) She checked on her party member’s status:

<Laughter: hinders breathing, vision, and movement. Mages are unable to cast spells that require verbal activation.>

<Duration: One hour>

“One hour??” Fey was torn between admiration for Magic’s addition to his already over-powered repertoire, dismay that her party member would be crippled for such a long period of time, and disbelief that a game developer had actually coded such a ridiculous status effect (*way too much free time*).

“This is really bad. Is there an antidote for this?” Fey asked, not really expecting anyone to answer.

 

Leandriel said, “No, but it is possible to snap him out of it.” Upon seeing the extent and duration of Blade’s laughter, he made a mental note to find out who had designed the status effect and to stay far away from that person. (It had seemed so harmless in theory…)

 

“Great idea! Blade, snap out of it, or I’m going to make you suffer until you cry.” There was no malice behind Fey’s threat; even her slightly-underactive conscience felt bad that her pet’s action had resulted in this mess. However, pity and soft words would accomplish nothing, and a fearsome threat would actually be the least painful way to cure Blade of his affliction.

 

Malice or not, Blade heard the sincerity behind Fey’s words. (Fey’s threats are no laughing matter *bad puns*) He made a valiant attempt to calm himself, but the small spike of fear from the verbal threat was insufficient to overcome the Laughing status. “Don’t… Do… Anything… Rash,” he said in between gasps of laughter.

 

“Of course not.” Rather than acting impulsively, Fey carefully considered how to make Blade suffer. The answer was (purple and) sitting on her shoulder.

“Amethyst, furyweed.” After several days of carriage rides and continuous poisoning, Fey was now completely immune to the painful poison. After refusing to train the ability, Blade was not.

“Last chance,” Fey warned in a voice of doom. She had resolved to not to use furyweed after experiencing its truly painful side effects (see Chapter 20 if you don’t remember), but this occasion called for its particular properties.

 

Blade had never experienced this particular poison before, but based on Fey’s expression, guessed it was bad.

“Wait,” he gasped.

“One. Two. Three!” Fey touched poisonous slime to Blade’s exposed skin.

 

“Son of a [censored word]!” Blade jumped out of his seat, knocking his chair over. The pain was bad enough that he did not notice that he was no longer laughing.

“Um, you might want to drink an antidote,” Fey advised. Blade’s Immunity was still at level 2 and the poison was strong enough to kill him if left untreated.

Blade fumbled in his belt pouch and came up with a vial of green liquid. He sighed in relief after drinking its contents, righting his chair and sinking into the seat exhaustedly.

“You really need to stop poisoning me,” he complained. (Too late; it is now a regular ongoing joke.)

 

“Ehe.” Fey was meek and penitent (for once). She plucked Magic off of Leandriel’s arm and scolded, “You can’t just go around randomly casting status effects on friends.”

Magic squeaked questioningly (“Does Blade-Blade count as a friend? Fey-Fey doesn’t seem to like him very much.”)

Fey nodded, and answered, “Yes, even Blade,” at the same time as Amethyst squeaked (“I think she means ‘people on her friends’ list’ in meat-shield-man’s case.”). Fey’s responses continued to be amazingly accurate despite having no insight into the Squeak language (or the existence of the Squeak language).

Magic nodded in understanding and Fey put him down, allowing him to hop back onto Leandriel’s arm.

 

“Hey, what do you mean, ‘even Blade’?” Blade complained.

“Well, there are ‘friends’, friends, and friends,” Fey answered.

“…I don’t know what that means.” Blade heard the three distinct inflections of the same word, but was aware of only one meaning.

“That’s okay,” said Fey consolingly.

 

The waitress came over and discreetly cast a charm to reheat their food. Fey thanked her (guiltily) and (finally) started eating. (Not important, but she ordered fried breaded shrimp, Leandriel had salmon, and Blade got oysters.)

 

Leandriel, who had been watching and listening the whole time, thought he knew the meanings behind Fey’s three versions of “friend”.

“So you and Sirena are friends?” he ventured.

Fey was chewing and unable to talk, but beamed and nodded vigorously.

 

Blade looked at the angel with skepticism, unable to believe that he had actually deciphered ‘girl code’. (For the record, Fey-speak is a completely different language from ‘girl code’, and any terminology learned from long experience with Fey should not be applied to the rest of the population.)

“So what about you and me?” he challenged.

 

“…Fey, I believe, would classify you as a ‘friend’.” Leandriel did not want to offend a new acquaintance, and so prefaced the answer with a disclaimer to basically say ‘it’s not me, it’s Fey’.

Fey was amused. Leandriel had tried, but his cultured voice completely failed to insert the proper air quotes into the word. “I think you’re going to have to do physical air quotes if you don’t want to confuse him even more.” However, when the angel experimentally curled and uncurled his index and middle fingers, the gesture looked even more out of place. Fey grinned and looked down, popping another shrimp into her mouth.

 

Blade had asked a two-part question, which Leandriel had not forgotten. However, he hesitated to define his relationship to Fey; it was something that seemed to defy classification. After a few seconds, Leandriel realized that both his table-mates had forgotten the second part of the question (Blade looked disgruntled at the first-part answer, while Fey looked gleefully amused), so he let the conversational thread drop with relief.

 

The rest of the meal ended without incident. Each player paid for their respective meals (Fey added a large tip to apologize for causing a disturbance), and they left the restaurant to return to the teleportation gate.

Neither Fey nor Leandriel were the type to dally when business was done, and they did not walk at a particularly slow pace, but it should be noted that their normal speed is a particularly fast one (*lovey-dovey*).

 

When the gate came into view, it occurred to Fey to ask, “Magic will gain more experience if I transfer his ownership to you, right?”

“…Yes.” Leandriel hesitated, not because he had to review his knowledge of the Fantasia game system, but because the question implied a high degree of trust. Once the pet ownership was transferred, there was nothing in the game to force him to return it.

 

The concern never seemed to cross Fey’s mind. After they stopped in front of the teleportation gate and Leandriel activated it, Fey opened a trade dome.

 

Leandriel smiled and pulled out a coin to trade. “Do you accept this coin in exchange for your pet mushroom?” A keen observer (which Fey decidedly was not) might have noticed a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Yes,” Fey agreed, and the trade was complete (and irreversible).

<Trade complete.>

<Pet ownership transferred.>

<Fey gains 1,000,000 gold.>

Fey gaped at the coin Leandriel had dropped into her hand. (Magic had already been hanging off of Leandriel’s arm, and did not need to move.) It was the same size and shape as a normal 1g coin, but its metallic blue appearance indicated its composition as pure mithril, and the design minted into the coin indicated its value at one million gold coins.

“You, you…” Fey floundered for words, wanting to call the angel a bad name, but unable to think of an appropriate swear word for the occasion.

 

Leandriel chuckled. “No trading back.”

Fey felt a strong urge to hit him. If not for Blade and the occasional passer-by, in all likelihood she would have. (Haha, no public displays of affection, please.)

Mastering the impulse, Fey settled for (childish) pouting. “I’m not spending it,” she declared. (This statement rated as one of the worst comebacks she had ever uttered.)

 

“Okay,” agreed Leandriel (far too agreeably). The teleportation gate was fully active with a portal to the Dark Side in its centre. “I should go.”

 

Fey switched mental gears to bid the angel a proper goodbye. Infuriating tricks aside, he was doing her a huge favour. “Bye! Be good, Magic!”

The Feypets chimed in with their own farewells and last-second advice (Boris pragmatically said, “Don’t die,” while Amethyst repeated the Feypet motto: “Don’t forget the loot!”). Magic cheerfully accepted the well-wishes.

 

“Goodbye.” As usual, Leandriel cast Helping Hand before leaving. Angel and his new pet disappeared into the open portal with a flash of light.