Not just a hobby

We’d somehow fallen into a strange new rhythm. It’s not quite a “nine-to-five,” but it’s the closest thing I’ve had in this world to being a salaryman. Mornings are for the archive. At this point, every priest in that place has stopped looking up when we walk in. We’re furniture now. The couple with the ink stains on their fingers and the faint smell of old paper - part of the décor, like the shelves or the dust floating in the light.

We take our time, digging through endless stacks of brittle parchment, ledgers, and scrolls. Somewhere in there is something important - I can feel it.

Afternoons are the fun part. Io has a new hobby: poker.

I’m really hoping this doesn’t turn into a gambling problem, but… seeing her so animated after everything that happened is worth the risk. I’m not sure which part she enjoys more - the money, the strategy, or the way she leans back in her chair and smiles like a cat every time she cleans someone out. Probably all three.

The whole thing still scrambles my brain. This world plus poker plus Io - it’s like seeing your high school history teacher in a nightclub. There are boxes in my head where these things are stored, and now someone’s shaking them all up and dumping them on the floor.

I keep wondering if we’ll ever meet the person who brought poker here. They’ve got to be from Earth, right? Occam’s razor and all that… although when step one is “get zapped to another planet,” maybe Occam can take the day off.

And yeah - I’m still “cheating.” Or, as I prefer to call it: “making strategic use of my sublime people-reading skills.” Which most people here would probably describe as magic. Either way, it works. Do I feel bad about it? Not really. It’s not like we’re fleecing the poor. Most of our opponents are well-fed, well-dressed, and not in danger of skipping dinner because they lost a hand.

I also make it a point to avoid playing against Io. For one, it would cut into our earnings. For another… I don’t want to lose to her. Pride is an ugly thing, but there it is.

“Are you still stuck thinking about that game?”

Io’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife through fog.

“Huh?” I answer with my usual eloquence.

“You know I can understand some of your words now,” she says, tilting her head at me. “You were thinking about the game… and something about cheating.”

“I’m starting to think teaching you English might have been a mistake,” I say.

“Now don’t you dare stop,” she warns.

“Yeah, yeah. I won’t.”

She narrows her eyes, lips curling into a playful smirk. “So… what was that about cheating? Is that why you don’t play against me? You know you’d lose, right?”

“Give me a break. If I can just tell when someone’s nervous or excited, that’s hardly cheating.” I set down the ledgers I’ve been carrying. “It’s not like I’m pulling cards out of my sleeve.”

“The question is why are you so good at it? Are you sure you’re not from my world?”

“Pretty sure.” She taps the tip of her ear to make the point. “Unless your ‘elves’ suddenly became real, I’m not from there.”

I glance at her worktable. She’s got some kind of system going - three neat piles of papers, a small collection of marked scrolls, and a few loose sheets with scribbled notes in her looping hand. Every so often she shifts something from one pile to another, stands up to pace in a slow circle, or lets out a little exclamation when she finds something interesting.

It’s all very… Io.

###

“I’m done for now.” Io pushed herself up from the desk, stretching her arms overhead until her joints cracked.
“Ready to go?” she asked, already halfway to the door.

“Sure.”

“So? Found anything interesting today? You only did four circles.”

“Funny,” she shot back, voice sharp enough to sting. Then her expression softened into something smug. “I’ll have you know, I just finished reading through the last three hundred years of this town’s history.”

Three hundred years. I’m more surprised she can even read most of it. The handwriting in those ledgers is like a competition for who can add the most curls to a single letter. Meanwhile, I can barely manage her handwriting after months of practice, and only because I’ve trained myself to read the frantic scratches of someone who writes faster than she thinks.

Back home, screens robbed me of this skill. Here, it just makes me feel like a caveman holding a book upside down while she casually deciphers centuries.

Damn. She’d have been unstoppable in my world-full-ride scholarship, degrees stacked like trophies. I would have loved to see her in that life.

Ouch-my hand. I blink down to find her fingers clamped around mine.

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

“Stop ignoring me.”

“Ignoring you? You were saying something?”

“Obviously. I think we can start now.”

“Start… what?”

“Getting serious about it.”

My stomach dips. Serious about what? Us? Work? Oh God, us?

“The cards. We need to start making as much money as we can.”

…Oh.

Why do I feel a little disappointed?

“More money, huh?”

“Think about it.” Her tone shifts into that razor-edged pragmatism she wears like armor. “Even if we fail with the archives, we could bribe merchants to smuggle us out of the forest. No one would bat an eye if you bought land, food, or influence. I’m still not sure if you could own land, but money would solve more problems than not.”

“So you feel confident enough with poker to make it an actual job?”

“I admit there's a risk, but it's a new opportunity. We’d be stupid not to use it.”

“Another job, then.” I sigh. “You need a hobby.”

She squints. “Hobby…” Then, in careful English: “The thing you do for fun, right?”

“Exactly. You turned the game into work, so it’s time to balance it out.”

“And what would that be?” Her tone slides from pragmatic general to casual sparring partner.

“Well… weaving baskets. But that feels like an old-lady thing.”

“Agree.”

I rack my brain for something-anything that isn’t modern. Damn it, half the things I know are useless here. “Okay, fine. What do you usually do for fun?”

She exhales through her nose, lips twitching into the smile that always means trouble. “You’re fun.”

“That’s not a hobby.”

“It is if spending time with you is fun.”

I arch an eyebrow. “So what does that make me? Your toy? Or are you just toying with me?”

Her smile vanishes. The city’s noise blurs into background static.

“Don’t say that.”

I blink. “Say what?”

“That you’re just some… thing I pass the time with.” Her voice tightens, serious and raw. “We have fun together, yes. But you’re also the only person I can rely on here. The only one I trust. Don’t forget that.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Heavier than a joke, sharper than an argument. For a moment, I can’t decide if I should laugh it off, apologize, or just… stand there like an idiot.

“You’re an idiot, Nate Kesler,” I mutter in my head.

“Sorry,” I finally manage, my throat dry. “I’m an idiot.”

She studies me for a beat, then looks away. “Just don’t forget what I said.”

I nod. We walk.

“I’m not in the mood to play. Let’s do something else,” she murmurs after a while.

We take a turn off our usual route without a word. She starts creasing the back of my hand with her thumb.

I mirror the gesture. Neither of us speaks, but somehow, the silence feels fuller than any conversation.

###

How did we end up here? I mean, I know. I killed the mood by saying stupid things… like an idiot.

But I got to hear what she thinks.

If only I could hear the same thing without first making her sad…

“Yes, and that’s why they never let me use a kitchen knife ever again! I was strictly restricted to cleaning duties, and let me tell you one thing-you would not believe how bad a monk can smell. Truly, it’s something else!”

That’s the sentence that yanks me out of my thoughts. Viktor’s voice-fast, theatrical, alive.

Well… that’s a weird story. But it tracks. Io didn’t lie when she told me about this guy.

When she darted upstairs to our room to fetch the package, I didn’t expect to spend the afternoon here of all places. Then again, we’d been meaning to meet him sooner or later, so maybe it’s better this way.

“So, Mister Nate, what did you bring me today? I must say, I’ve been patiently waiting.” Viktor leans across the table, hands steepled, eyes twinkling like a man about to unwrap a gift.

“I have a few stories in the same style as the one you received before.” Which is all to say-I plagiarized Shakespeare. Again. With improvisation filling the holes my memory couldn’t patch. It’s been years since I sat through those classes.

Viktor practically claps his hands. “Wonderful! Splendid! You wouldn’t believe the success of your last gift. I tried it on some noble ladies at a private gathering. My hat was never filled with coin quicker! They adored it. Ah, yes, the drama of young love, the rashness of passion! You should have seen their faces-poor creatures married to fossils, they drank every word as if it were wine!”

And he keeps going. And going. And going. How long can one man sustain a monologue without breathing? If rap battles existed here, Viktor would dominate the scene. He’s like a bard wired on pure caffeine, except I’m pretty sure all he’s had is weak ale.

But there’s a nugget of gold in the rambling. He tested the story with nobles. Nobles.

“Wait-you know nobles?!” I blurt out, cutting him off.

“-and then this chicken-pardon? Well of course I do!” He looks genuinely offended at the question.

If he has ties to nobility, then… this could work. That guy back at the inn mentioned the wealthy dabbling in poker. And who has more money than nobles? I guess the king, but that’s beside the point. If-big if-we could get a seat at one of *their* tables, we wouldn’t just be winning dinner money anymore. That could be life-changing. What we need is a contact. An inside man.

I clear my throat, trying to sound grander than I feel. “So, Mister Viktor, if I can be so crass as to ask you directly…” I lean into his own theatrics. “How do you feel about the nobles?”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Io looking at me, curious.

“What is it to feel?” Viktor spreads his hands dramatically. “I love-love when people listen to me. And they are very good listeners. But do you know what I love even more than their attention?”

I already know where this is going.

“The shiny coins they toss into my hat when I finish a song or story.”

“So you do it for the money, not the art?” Io cuts in, her voice cool and sharp.

“I live to sing, to tell stories,” Viktor insists, pressing a hand to his chest. “But a man must eat. He must sleep beneath a roof. Do you think I *enjoy* reserving my best words for the ears of lords and ladies while the common folk go without? No! I burn to share beauty with *everyone*-to bring laughter, tears, hope. But I need patrons. And nobles… nobles are the keys to patronage.”

Io doesn’t soften. “And why are you telling us this?”

His eyes brighten. He leans closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “Because I have a dream. One I thought buried long ago.”

Oh no. Here it comes. Strap in.

“When I was still in the monastery-yes, yes, I was once a novice, did I tell you? I must have told the lady-”

“I’m aware,” I cut in before he veers off into the weeds.

“Yes, well!” He regathers himself. “They tried to make me vow silence. Can you imagine me, silent? So I turned to the only thing I had: reading. Scriptures, sermons… and other texts. *Less holy* texts.” His eyes gleam at the scandalous phrase.

What does he mean by less holy? How shady were those monks?

“I read descriptions of ancient times, distant lands. And in one scroll I found something miraculous. A practice of telling stories not with words alone but with the body. Three men, each becoming a character, acting out the tale for the crowd! Acting, Mister Nate. Pretending-no, *becoming*. Are you familiar with such a thing?”

“Yes,” I answer, perhaps too quickly.

His whole face lights up. “Brilliant! I knew you were enlightened, your very *story* gave you away!”

Of course-Shakespeare. I plagiarized a play. For him, it’s a miracle. For me, it’s second-year English class.

But the fact he treats theater like some forbidden ritual… that says a lot. Maybe it never took root here. Maybe some church law stamped it out.

“My dream,” Viktor continues, standing now, as if on a stage of his own, “is to revive this practice. Not just a parlor trick, but something grand! A building dedicated to this art! Where peasant and prince alike may sit shoulder to shoulder and be moved to laughter, to tears, to awe. A shrine to the story itself!”

He spreads his arms, breathing heavily, as though the weight of destiny is on his shoulders.

“You need nobles to fund it,” I say flatly.

“Yes! Yes, exactly!”

Before I can say more, Io cuts in, sharp and practical as ever. “You need money. We need money. We have stories. You have the talent. Why don’t we help each other?”

The gleam in Viktor’s eye sharpens. He leans forward like a man who’s just smelled profit.

This is going to be a long conversation.