Chapter 3: -3- “A Talk Over Soup”

 

“Now that I think about it, I am quite hungry.” Standing from his seat, Deacon makes for the soup. Strangely enough, despite it being so simple, it smelled fragrant. The smell was likely from some of the vegetables Damaris threw in. Then he realizes he doesn’t have a utensil to eat his soup. Looking at Damaris, she is eating with her a spoon that she likely keeps on her. Then he remembers his field kit that hung on the chair. 

Opening up one of the pouches, he pulls out a mess kit. Nothing more than a metal tin with utensils inside. Grabbing the spoon, he finishes serving himself with the larger one for the soup, afterward sitting back down next to his newfound companion. Damaris had also cut up half a loaf of bread, laying it on a small piece of cloth on her lap. Wordlessly, she offers some to Deacon, to which he happily accepts. 

The two of them ate in silence, Deacon enjoying the meal. With the state of how this world looks, he thought it best just to enjoy whatever food he came across. Thankfully he wasn’t a picky eater, so long as it was excellent and edible. 

“So, Deacon,” Damaris begins, eating a chunk of bread, “Do you have friends in your homeland?” 

Deacon finishes the food in his mouth before answering, “No…not a whole bunch. Maybe a couple but no one I was close to.” 

“What about a lover?” 

He nearly chokes on his soup, the liquid going down his airway instead of his esophagus. “Ugh…no, no lovers. There was this one woman who I was…intimate with on a few occasions. But we never really ‘sealed the deal,’ so to speak.” 

“Hmm, I can’t say I blame either of you. Love has always been a touchy subject for me. I would rather have a rusted knife to my throat than someone falling head over heels for me.” She laughs dryly, stirring her half-finished soup with a spoon. 

Wiping his mouth, Deacon clears his throat of any dregs of liquid before continuing, “Can I ask a question now?” 

“Shoot.” 

“Can you tell me where I am?” 

“I can try. Not a cartographer, but I am familiar with the local area. I have lived on this continent my whole life, that’s why I was so confused about what you are wearing. Hell, I didn’t even think there was anything outside these lands.” Damaris eats another spoonful of food. “You’re on Pentalus, the land of five kingdoms. Least, there was supposed to be. The land is still fertile enough for agriculture, the animals can still get fat, and the water is drinkable.” 

“Why is that such a bleak positive?” Deacon takes a bite of bread, dipping it into his soup to give it some flavor. 

“I’m not a historian or all that religious, but the whole place has been wrought with catastrophe these past few centuries. If it isn’t weather or disease that kills you, it’s the dead. Even an entire region has fallen to them.” 

“Damn, and I guess the kingdoms haven’t been making an active effort to fix things?” 

“Oh, they have.” Damaris frowns. “Each has tried their own method of bettering everyone’s lives and combating the threat. Some pious, others practical. Thirty thousand swords have been etched onto the gates to the Deadlands to honor those lost in the Doomed Crusade. It only gets worse. Notice how there are three suns?” Deacon takes another bite of bread before nodding. “In the northern regions, called Norhelvi, there is no sunlight. A great storm called the Zenith has blanked the area, plunging it into darkness. Many mages have tried to brave it, but no amount of combined magic could push it back even a *mile.” 

Deacon fidgets slightly in his chair, nervous at the little history lesson. Dark forces cover two areas of this continent. Just what kind of world was he thrown onto? “So the place is lethal?” 

“More or less. But, through the combined efforts of the bordering states, the Deadlands and Norhelvi have been contained. Nevertheless, destruction comes from the occasional death cult or demonic incursion. Eventually, though, they are destroyed by a religious group called the White Hand if locals can’t deal with them.” Damaris gets up, putting away the dishes after rinsing them in the water bucket. Deacon finishes his bread and washes his dishes, too, once he realizes he has finished his soup. Then, after putting the bowl back and the mess kit in the field pouch, he sits back down with her. 

“Surely, there are those who can assist the local militaries, right? People with special talents, adventurers, a guild maybe?” Deacon asks. Damaris shakes her head. 

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“Maybe in the distant past, such people existed, but nowadays everyone with marketable skills is called a Merc. Call yourself whatever you wish, Deacon, but in the end, everyone only does it for money. Can't eat wisdom or honor, can we? As for a guild, there is an organization called the Lodge. They organize contracts and postings for jobs that Mercs can take up.” 

Deacon frowns now. He always heard a common trope of guilds that work with adventurers and their unique skills. But with how things look and how Damaris describes them, the theme is darker than he anticipated. “How well does the work pay?” 

“It all depends on the person commissioning, plus the Lodge's fee for expenses. More or less, though, the deadlier the job, the more it pays.” 

“Mmm. Gonna have to check ‘em out whenever we get to town.” Deacon concludes as the two continue to sit in silence and enjoy the fire. 

Before long, Damaris yawns quietly but audibly. “All that fighting took a good chunk out of me…even now. But since you have your undead guarding the door, I think I’ll be able to sleep soundly for the first time in a while. I can do so, right?” She asks him with a raised eyebrow. 

Deacon laughs softly before joking, “If I wanted you dead, why would I bother saving you, to begin with.” 

“Mmm. Fair point.” Standing from her chair, Damaris would stretch and crack her back. Then, with a satisfied groan, she would move over to the bed in the corner. As she lays down, Deacon realizes it’s big enough for two. He also heard the familiar click of a hammer pulled back as she stowed a pistol under her pillow. “I don’t mind sharing; just make sure you keep to your side, yeah?” 

“Of course.” Deacon replies as he gets up and copies her with stretching. Removing his blouse coat and putting it on the chair, he grabs his 1911 and places it under his pillow. Laying down, he faces his back to Damaris and looks to the door. His squad is still visible from the corners of the window, continuing their watch.

Between surviving a nuclear explosion, being pulled from a pool of muck, and killing a group of bandits, he was pretty tired. A piece of Deacon was wondering what would happen if he fell asleep. Would he wake up in the real world? Was this just a fever dream? 

Whatever the case, he mumbles a goodnight to Damaris. She lazily responds, shifting slightly before settling into position. He does the same, rubbing his eyes while staring at the wooden ceiling. Then, slowly, he drifts off to sleep. 

A familiar tune stirs him awake as his eyes open to a different wooden roof. He was also sitting on something soft and smooth, contrasting the rough bedding. Turning his head, he sees faded black leather, running his hand over it to confirm what he is looking at. His focus then shifts to the song, but it wasn’t just *any song. It was Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day! Sitting up, Deacon looks around to see where he is and where the music is coming from. He’s in a studio apartment, walls covered with framed tattoo art and decor. The scent of tobacco wafts into his nose as he sees a speaker with a phone docked on it on top of a liquor cabinet. 

Looking outside the room, Deacon expects to see San Francisco’s skyline. But, to his horror, there is nothing but a black expanse beyond. While looking down, he was dressed in the same clothes as when he went to sleep!! 

So it wasn’t a fever dream, but this is…

If it’s a dream, why does it all feel so real? And why this apartment, of all places?

“Because it is real, Deek.” Deacon’s surprise only grows as he whips his head around to the source of the voice. Tall, lean, and muscular. She has tattoos down her limbs, blue-dyed hair, and a lit cigarette in her mouth. “Hey there, troublemaker, you just gonna stare?” 

It felt like there was cotton in his throat, Deacon scrambling to find the words. But wait, did she just read his mind? 

“No, you need to think more quietly. Plus, there are no secrets here.” The woman continues to speak. 

His brain soon catches up to his body, allowing the college student only to say one word as he stares her down. 

“Adrienne.”

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