Milo lay on the ground as the looming man said another few syllables in whatever stupid language he spoke. It sounded like a mixture of…French and Japanese, maybe, with…an Australian twang mixed in? It certainly wasn’t English. Can’t I ever catch a break?
Just to be sure the guy didn’t somehow speak gobbledegook and English, he said something back to the man, whose brows furrowed in response. The stranger said something else. Milo shook his head, wishing he had a magical psychic fish to shove in his ear. Couldn’t the system have given me Common or whatever? Some kind of magical translation? How am I supposed to learn a whole language on TOP of everything else?
Alternating between eyeing the knife and looking the man in the eyes, Milo slowly raised his hands—hand—over his head. The guy spared a curious glance for Milo’s bagged, bandaged stump. Milo also glanced at it, shrugging in answer.
“I mean you no harm. Let’s go kill stuff together. I have Soylent…and, uh, dog food.” Milo spoke in what he hoped was a soothing tone. The man looked at him in apparent consternation. The knife remained. He said something else in a stern voice that might have been a question. Milo shrugged.
The two remained in an awkward standoff until Milo had a brilliant idea. Closing his eyes, he proceeded to very slowly roll away from the man.
He didn’t like the constant threat of the knife in his face, and he knew that, were he in the other man’s shoes, he would feel ridiculous stabbing such an obviously helpless target.
I’m a genius.
When he bumped into a wall, he opened his eyes to find the man standing above him, knife in hand, a new expression—either confusion or concern, Milo wasn’t sure—taking over from the threatening one he’d worn earlier. Hopefully that meant Milo had made progress in the right direction. Confusing the enemy was half the battle, right?
“I’m going to stand up now. Friend. I am friend.” He repeated the word ‘friend’ very slowly while touching his chest, for all the good that did. He might as well have been saying “Grapes. I eat grapes.”
Suiting his words, Milo slowly worked up to a seated position until his back was against the wall, then worked his way up it with his arms stretched in the universal sign for “I’m helpless, don’t kill me.” It was awkward, but it seemed to work. The man merely watched him as he did it, continuing to hold the knife steadily between them. His gaze was intense, but didn’t give Milo much clue about his thoughts.
Milo found he was almost a head taller than the man, though the stranger was stockier and more muscular. That didn’t mean he was short by any means; at 6’ 3”, Milo was taller than most people he encountered.
Carefully, Milo reached with his one hand to point at the knife. “Knife,” he said. “Knife, down.” He pointed down. The guy didn’t react, so he tried again. This time, he made a shooing motion. “Away. Knife away.” The man was a statue.
Unexpectedly, Milo’s phone alarm chose that moment to go off. The man reacted quickly, pivoting a step to keep Milo in his vision while also trying to identify the source of the strange noise. It was nothing special, just a musical beeping pattern that repeated, but it was loud and Milo doubted the man had ever heard anything quite like it.
“Relax, stay calm, don’t kill me…that’s just my alarm. I’ll go turn it off.” He took a sideways step around the man, who immediately jabbed the knife threateningly toward Milo and barked a few syllables. Milo stopped. “Chill. Here, I’ll do it this way.” Closing his eyes, Milo dropped once more to the floor and began to roll toward the sound of his phone. It had worked before. Sort of. He wasn’t dead, anyway.
He stopped rolling when he heard the phone nearby, then fumbled awkwardly for it while keeping his eyes closed. As soon as he found it, it was wrenched out of his hand. He opened his eyes. The man stood a stride away from him, glancing back and forth between Milo and the, to him, strange device held in his hand. He said something that sounded like a demand for an explanation.
Milo shrugged. “It’s a phone, dude. Not sure what else to tell you.”
The man responded with another string of words, obviously agitated. The phone continued its melodic beeping.
“If you want to turn it off, you have to swipe the circle like this.” Milo mimed touching the screen and swiping it. He didn’t seem to understand. Milo gestured for him to pass the phone over, which the man considered for a split second before shaking his head. Milo shrugged again. Your choice, guy.
They again stood at an impasse, the lord guy not trusting Milo, Milo relatively powerless. Finally, the alarm shut itself off. The man glanced at the phone, then gave Milo a questioning look. Milo nodded and shrugged. Yup, not unexpected. Everything’s fine. Don’t kill me.
Things stayed as they were for another ten seconds or so before Milo decided to offer the man a drink. He bent down (slowly) and grabbed a Soylent. The man scrutinized him, but didn’t stop him. Hugging the bottle to his chest with his left arm, Milo opened it up and took a sip. He made exaggerated noises of satisfaction, sighing and smacking his lips with a smile, before offering the bottle to his untrusting maybe-ally.
Apparently he was thirsty, because he grudgingly tucked Milo’s phone away in his pants to free up a hand to accept it. He kept the knife up though. Milo couldn’t exactly blame the guy; if he’d been stabbed as many times as the man had, he’d have a hard time trusting people too.
Lord-guy eyed the strange, shiny bottle speculatively. Milo initially thought he was inspecting the strange English symbols, but then he realized that the man had likely never even seen plastic before. Maybe it was a bit of each.
Finally, he sniffed the contents, making a face of surprised interest before taking a tentative sip. His eyebrows shot up. Keeping his eyes glued on Milo, he tilted the bottle back until he’d emptied it entirely. Wow. Hit the spot, I guess.
Unsure of what to do next, Milo finally decided on bending down and grabbing another Soylent to offer the man. Maybe I can just feed him until he trusts me? It works with animals. After barely a moment’s consideration, the man dropped his empty bottle and took the offered drink, struggling a bit with the perforated plastic covering the screwcap before figuring it out. He studied the semi-transparent wrapping with a slight frown before discarding it on the ground as Milo had with the previous one. He downed the second bottle only slightly slower than the first, a muted burp escaping him when he was finished.
He said a few words, which Milo interpreted as “Damned tasty,” although it might have been anything. Milo offered him a third, which the man declined, rubbing his belly with a regretful half-smile. That’s a good sign…
“Hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” said Milo, ignoring for the moment that it had been entirely the other man’s fault. He’d been perfectly polite and friendly, offering refreshments and even saving the man’s life. But whatever. He smiled reassuringly. “I’m Milo.” He pointed to his chest, repeating. “Milo.” Then he pointed at the other man. “You?”
After a long pause, the man finally sighed and tucked the knife away behind his back. He stuck out a hand to Milo. “Backlebutt.” Milo had to hide a snort of laughter behind a cough as he grasped the man’s hand.
“Backlebutt? Milo, Backlebutt?” The man nodded, eyes narrowing at Milo’s poorly hidden reaction. Come on Milo, so he has a ridiculous name with ‘butt’ in it. You’re not ten years old. Still, it doesn’t help that he puts so much emphasis on that last syllable. BackleBUTT. Clearing his throat, he shook Backlebutt’s hand firmly. “Milo, Backlebutt. Good to meet you, Backlebutt.”
Their hands released, and again Milo was left unsure of what should come next. He realized he’d never before been stuck with someone he couldn’t communicate with effectively. He was denied the comfort of even his usually awkward small talk to smooth out the silences, although that was somewhat of a relief; he’d never been a huge fan of small talk. Backlebutt took the initiative, much to Milo’s relief.
“Trefte bugetchonai sheiskispiel,” he said, gesturing at all of Milo’s stuff on the ground. Milo looked, considering. Alright, what is he saying here? Not exactly sure, but I’ve now got way too much crap to carry on my own. He needs to take something. Milo retrieved the system-gifted pack and offered it to Backlebutt.
“Here,” he said. “Yours.”
Backlebutt accepted the pack with another couple of unfamiliar words before dropping to the ground to rifle through its contents, first unsheathing his knife and setting it beside him with a glance at Milo. The message was clear: his trust only went so far for now. That was fine by Milo. He figured it was only a matter of time now before he won the man over.
And then, Milo would strike.
Or not. Probably not.
-
You have 10 minutes remaining to prepare for your Descent.
-
The words flashed in Milo’s vision, and obviously Backlebutt’s as well. Their eyes met, and they nodded at one another. Milo felt a small thrill of anticipation that his rational side tried to squash. Why am I like this? I’m probably going to die. I’m a freaking Scholar. Still, he inexplicably felt like a kid tucked into his bed on Christmas Eve, anticipating the coming dungeon dive.
The two of them got all their stuff squared away. Backlebutt’s pack had some extra room, which they used to store some more of the extra Soylent Milo would have been unable to take on his own. With that done, Backlebutt was suddenly in the mood for a game of charades.
It took a couple of false starts, but Milo finally got the message when the man gave a questioning look, pointed at Milo, and slashed with his knife several times at imaginary foes. “How you fight?”
Milo signaled his understanding with a widening of his eyes and a nod of his head. He took out his hammer and swung it a few times, shrugging. Then, he held out a finger. Boy, you’re not gonna like this.
He’d briefly considered keeping his class to himself, but Milo believed transparency was probably the best way to go. No sense in letting Backlebutt believe he had superhuman prowess in battle when the reality was…not that.
Considering how best to get the message across, Milo finally drew a square in the air in front of him. Putting a finger to his lips, he let out an audible “hmmm,” then pointed to an arbitrary spot inside the square he’d drawn. Signaling Backlebutt to wait, he dug the textbook out of his bag. He set the book down in front of him and mimed reading it, finger tracking words inhumanly fast before flipping page after page. Superscholar. See? Never mind that he hadn’t actually chosen a speed reading ability. None of his actual skills would come across in charades.
Backlebutt didn’t seem to be getting it. Either that, or he didn’t want to. He looked at Milo skeptically.
Sighing, Milo stood up. He made a few more swipes with his hammer, then shook his head and repeatedly waved his arms negatingly in front of him. No battle. Then, he sat back down and began speeding through the text again, nodding his head. He glanced up to check in with Backlebutt, who had a hand to his face and was muttering incomprehensibly to himself. That looks about right. I think he got it.
After a few moments Backlebutt removed the hand from his face and gestured at Milo with that arm while saying something that sounded like a question. Milo shrugged apologetically. Backlebutt responded by turning around, raising arms to the ceiling, and ranting as he began to pace.
He’s not taking this well. Also, he’s kind of a drama queen.
Time was running low, and Milo still didn’t know what Backlebutt could do in a fight. “Hey!” he called, interrupting the man’s tantrum. “You? How do you fight?” He used the same set of actions Backlebutt had used earlier to convey the question.
Backlebutt laughed bitterly before drawing an imaginary arrow from an imaginary quiver and shooting it with, you guessed it, an imaginary bow. Milo stared at him. Backlebutt returned the stare, wearing a small, sardonic grin. Milo glanced around searchingly for a pile of archery equipment he had hopefully not noticed before.
There was none to be found.
Well, crap. A scholar and a bow-less archer walk into a dungeon. They die. End of joke.
