Filly the Foal

Pain, pain. Pain was all Jenn felt. In her legs, in her arms. In her head, in her bowels. In everywhere there could have been and everywhere there could not.

She blinked, taking in the flicker of a light above. It was a deep blue, shaped like a hydragea, and powered by a source beyond her.

Where was she? Who was she? All those familiar memories seemed at once so distant. Then it came back. Flashes of being bounced like a ball, blood spewing like an old pipe’s leaking, and she understood.

Modern art did have that effect on people.

Jenn turned her head from side to side. There were beds all around, most white, some red, and a few oozing all manner of rainbow. She was in an infirmary. And judging by the others' clothing—she wasn't the only one who had a bit of a fight.

Headstrong protagonists were a common thing, after all, and when two of them came against each other… well, the situation spoke for itself.

There were nurses nearby, but none saw her wake. For a while, Jenn studied them, watching as they handled a great big machine. It was a tall, glass jar; a medical apparatus and inside swirled a thick, blue liquid.

Some of the beds had one, and from them, protruded flexible tubes, plugged into those hospitalised.

“An IV line?”

It was a strange thing indeed, all this blue. Pretty as it was, did the Indarians not have any other colour to their banner?

Jenn gave existence due consideration, then started to study her own body.

“An IV line mark?”

Something was on her right arm. There was a faint, discoloured bruise. Faded, but visible enough in the dim, blue of the room.

Jenn recoiled at this and sat up. A soft groan came from her throat, and she struggled her way past the beds. She looked ready to disavow existence herself, what with her mumbled hate, and disgruntled whines.

“Damn isekai IV’s.” She mumbled incoherently. “Disgusting.” She groaned. “Imagine how many generic protagonists this penetrated…”

The woman pressed a hand to her mouth and spasmed, a motion between vomiting and a seizure.

“Please vomit outside,” a voice announced, coming from around a corner.

Jenn looked up. Calming herself with a few inhales, she went ahead and found herself in front of a counter.

The night had come, and the receptionist stood in a veil of slight shadow. Like the guards at the World Portal, he was dressed in all-white. A high-collared coat, with blue hydrangea along the cuffs and hems, and a tabard over it all with what Jenn assumed to be a medical symbol.

Lacking the wide-brimmed hat, all things considered. But emblematic all the same.

“Oh uh…” She felt through her tunic and took out a wallet.

The receptionist recognised it and shook his head.

“Your stay has been paid for.”

“Who?” was all Jenn could manage.

He shrugged. “Too many faces, too many things. Can't keep track.”

Jenn stopped and thought for longer than she should have. “Well, if you think you see, hear or smell ‘em, give my thanks.”

The man mustered a half-assed nod that would never be followed on. He then, reached under, took a stack of things, Jenn’s former clothes and whatnot, and set it on the desk.

She took it, nodded again, and left through the front door. A gust of wind and water pelted her. The rain was still strong, and came with a side of lightning. Every minute, it would carve through the air, and for every two, Jenn would spot a flash of white.

It smelled of wet earth and mould, and the skies were an impenetrable sheet of grey. It was a small wonder that there were none to greet Jenn: no merchants, no tourists, no nothing.

Jenn trudged through the streets, turning around a stone arch. Her clothes were soaked through and she could already feel it drag with every twitch and movement.

But she didn’t mind.

It was aesthetic, after all. With the loud, rhythmic patter and the square stone buildings.

And her body still hurt. So taking her time was comfortable in that sort of sense too.

A few steps later, Jenn was street centre. She smiled and held out her hands, feeling the rain against her skin. It had seeped past the soft, thin linen of her tunic, and worked its way deeper. Perhaps she would let it continue. Perhaps she won't.

All was as aesthetics dictated—correct. And all was as she dictated—possible.

Suddenly, Jenn punched the air, and her eyes gained a pensive gaze. She looked like she was about to start monologuing and go into a big tirade about the meaning of aesthetics, and how losing to a random girl was all a part of her masterstroke.

“Man.” Jenn started, on the brink of something long and terribly droll. “I’m star—”

I had zoned out at this point, and frankly, stopped paying attention to anything that Jenn was saying. However, I will note that this whole monologue lasted a grand total of five minutes—yes, five minutes—followed by occasional thirty seconds pauses during which she looked to the sky and said something in the vein of ‘dattebayo!’, so really it was more like eight minutes, and really who wants to suffer through eight minutes of undiluted Jenn?

Finally, she stopped, and with one last heave, struck a pose in the rain.

“Come inside, dumbass! You'll get a cold at this rate!”

At around this time, a voice cut into Jenn’s personal space. It came from the end of the street. There was noise there—no, music, and a group of people huddled under a cover. It was the entrance to a building of sorts, and the man who called seemed very surprised, and very ecstatic.

Jenn went to them. There were glass windows in the building, and through them she saw drink, tables, and more drink. A sign was attached to it, illustrated with a pig mounting another with a human, self-satisfied expression.

The one who called to her, a man with a wooden pipe, tipped ash to the floor. He was old, with a thicket of grey on head and chin.

“What were you doing?”

“Monologuing,” Jenn answered honestly. “Though I did consider singing.”

“A great calling. But better in the company of hearthwood and friends.”

Jenn shrugged. “That's the case for just about anything, don't you think?”

Putting his pipe in a long, leather pouch, the man grinned. “Then let's get to just about anything, don't you think?”

Jenn did not reply, but her eyes seemed to soften. The man entered the building, and she followed. Inside was a rather large, even homely space. Scented with meat and Indarian herbs. Fitted with long wooden tables, and blue hydrangeas: in pots near the windows, in the shape of the chandelier, in woven garlands on the barmaid’s heads.

“An isekai character designed this?” Jenn seemed dubious.

She continued in and avoided the clusters of folk. They did not seem to notice her, but she did not seem to mind. Taking her place near a blue fire, Jenn waited atop a rickety wood chair.

She stayed there for a while, seemingly content with just staring into its pale blue glow, drying herself of all moisture to the sound of drunken bravado and ye olde music.

But really, taverns were for talking, and an isekai tavern, albeit more droll than a regular one, was still similar enough to stir Jenn to motion. She turned her head, slow and methodical, looking for anything of note.

It took less than a minute for someone to catch her eye.

A man sat bar front, moving with the inelegance of a drunkard. He wore shades of red and white, topped off with a regimental coat, and distinguishing lapels to match. He had the garb of an Indarian soldier. The attitude of one. But he wore red where they wore white, and he wore annoyance where they wore apathy.

And etched into his clothes was not the blue hydrangea, but a red rose.

The tavern’s guests took no note of him, but the attendants did, their faces lit with confusion and anxiety.

“Been a while. I see you’ve settled well after the war,” said the stranger.

“‘Course.” The barkeep—the disgruntled fifty-year-old Jenn saw outside returned with mug in hand, and set it in front of the man. “I’ve settled well enough.” He paused. “I wish I could say the same for you.”

The man spat, launching a yellow-specked phlegm to the ground.

“You’d best watch yourself,” said the barkeep. “This isn’t camp, any more. This here’s my place.”

His beet-red face took on humour. “Your place?” The stranger downed his mug and slammed it on the counter. “Last I passed through, this place still belonged to a good man.”

“It still does.”

They had aroused attention now. Not much. But not little. Here and there, tavern-goers would steal glances, watching as the situation escalated with further intensity. Jenn was no different. Hers was a look of curiosity.

The stranger laughed. “Do good men break their oaths? Do good men change allegiance like a noblewoman does her clothes? Do good men, wear the colours of the usurper king?”

“A good man does what needs to be done. Only fools are stupid enough to remain stubborn to a lost cause.”

“No,” the stranger said, his voice growing louder. “No!” He stood and slammed the counter. “Myrion. Willem. Sanse! Were they fools then? For fighting for what they believed in?!”

His voice came like thunder, then fell beneath the waves of tavern noise. Jenn watched this all the same, her excited thumbs caressing her mug. Beneath the two men’s interactions was a deal of unspoken history, and Jenn, fancied herself quite the observer.

“They were brave men,” replied the barkeep. “Braver than any I know,” he said bitterly. “But bravery doesn’t make a cause worth fighting for. And bravery doesn’t make a man just. Otherwise, you’d be a judge, and I the hanged man.”

Another silence came. The stranger was never friendly, but his expression now seemed malicious.

“So be it,” the stranger said. He walked five paces away, hand reaching for the waist. Beneath the flap of his red tunic appeared a long, wooden handle. “I suppose these days, bravery’s all I have left.”

Over the tavern racket came a single, loud, thunderclap. It was the sound of a bullet. And as it took the stranger’s fingers, rendering them little more than bloodied stumps—there came the clatter of metal.

“Hargh…” The stranger clutched at his right hand. His gun fell to the ground, bouncing with a softened skid.

It was long-barreled and old-looking, chased with the same silver inlay Jenn saw in the White Hat’s guns. Was this man a former soldier? She had no idea.

But the tavern was in a sudden quiet, and what were once mere tavern-goers, now became the onlookers of something quite exciting.

A voice cut through. Emerging from a corner of the tavern, with the hoarseness of a fifty-year-old smoker. “Dwellin’ on bygones is just vanity, mister. And I suggest you take a good look at your reflection.”

Who was he? Who was this sharpshooter, who had managed to snipe a man’s finger from a tavern space away?

Herein lies the answer:

His shoes were heavy leather. He walked with the jingle of spurs. And he possessed the rhythm of a man set to a ticking clock, elegant and constant as he was.

Filly the Foal was his name. And killin’ folk was his game.