Troublesome Visitor

The journey home was an uneventful one, marked predominantly by an ever-increasing shortage of people and a lack of attention directed my way.

That's Kingsville for you. The people here tend not to mind anyone for the most part. Not out of apathy or anything, but rather because they're so caught up in their own little lives that they don't think anything bad can happen.

Right now, I'm heading up to my apartment, finally taking the elevator for once.

Ding.

The elevator door opens. I head out, walk ten paces, make a quick right turn, and I'm at my apartment.

"There."

I open the locked door and enter. My first reflex is to set down the weird boy on the sofa and stare at him about a metre away, gauging him for movement.

"You there?"

No reaction. As expected, me attempting to speak to an unconscious person proves to be a dumb idea. I walk to him and pause.

"Hm".

According to what I know, unconsciousness should only persist for about ten seconds. Leaving the main reason for such prolonged sleep to be death or brain damage.

Hm.

I'd rather not accept that I'm that incapable of controlling my strength.

I shake the boy by his shoulders.

"WOAH!"

A loud shriek. His head rotates from left to right, then back to me again.

"Sorry, did I fall asleep here?"

Just like I expected, he does sound like a teenage boy. No discernible accent, however.

"You fell asleep when I strangled you in an alley. I carried you here after."

"Oh." He answers wistfully, scratching the back of his head as if apologetic. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

Contrary to my assumption, he's, uh, apologising for some reason. Rather than question the fact that I strangled him, carried him here, and am currently in the midst of engaging in conversation.

"Won't be much of a fighter if I can't carry a lightweight like yourself."

"Definitely!" He exclaims. "I mean, definitely as in you're definitely a very good fighter and all, given the prior information I'd acquired on your state of being, and not definitely as if I'm implying that you're incompetent by any means."

My eyes narrow.

"You're enthusiastic."

Tricky. How do I retrace this conversation to discuss something useful without coming off as too unwieldy?

"Oh, sorry, I should probably introduce myself."

With that, he stands up, flaunting a right thumb to his face and resting a left hand on his waist.

"The name's Molok, pure-hearted hero of justice, fledgling mage, and defender of the innocent."

I tilt my head downwards and exhale heavily into my right hand.

"Name's Camille, wannabe fighter, former martial arts teacher, defender of the loose dignity that I'm currently barely clinging onto."

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere!"

An earnest smile.

He reaches into his robe and pulls out a business card, shoving it in front of my face. Inscribed on it is the text 'Pure-Hearted Hero of Justice', a number, and a picture of him posing with what I can only assume to be some robot or android.

After a short survey, I ask half-jokingly. "So, do you accept credit?"

He crosses his arms. Seeming almost prideful as his head bobs up and down.

"I do accept credit as a valid method of donation, but in terms of assistance, my services are completely free of charge."

Services?

"And your services entail?"

He looks up, and, noting my curiosity, nods. "Saving you from the hunter out to kill you, of course."

"Right." A pause. I lean back and stare. "I'll just be straightforward; I haven't the faintest idea as to what situation I'm in". Then a exhale. "So if you'd indulge me, I'd appreciate it."

"Hm. Alright! How much do you know?" he answers in an encouraging yet bewildered way.

"I know there's some crazy woman after me, but that's about it."

"Okay!" He hammers his fist into an open palm. "So basically, you got yourself into a death game situation. You know, like one of those old-school Japanese mangas, a bit battle royale style. Or, like, Hunger Games for a western example. But also not really, cause there's only one 'hunter' assigned to each person. So basically, you have to fight off this person or 'hunter', beat them, and you get to make it out and keep your powers. Also, every participant is allowed a single 'guardian' that might be willing to help them, in this case being me!"

I think I understood maybe half of that. Seventy per cent, if I'm being generous.

"You're not very good at explaining."

"That's okay; I'll gladly repeat myself as often as you need!"

Scratch that. I can do without it.

"How about we try something different?" I propose. "I ask questions, you answer."

"Good idea!"

Understanding that he's agreeing, I bombard him with every query I have.

"First. How do I win this death game?"

"You kill your designated hunter."

Got it.

"Second. Does each person only have one designated hunter?"

"Yep. Per decree by the death game runner! Once the hunter marks a victim by fighting, magic, or a manifestation, they're considered taken, so to speak."

"Third. How do you know all this?"

He answers by reaching into his robe again.

This time, he takes out a furled-up piece of paper and promptly spreads it.

Is this some kind of advertisement?

...I try to examine the poster objectively. Even so, the only possible way I can see the paper is as some cheap, almost gaudy promotion.

How else am I supposed to interpret 'COOL BATTLE ROYALE IN BACKWATER VILLAGE COMMENCING! LOOKING FOR PEOPLE WITH BIG HEARTS AND EVEN BIGGER SKILLZ'

Bright colours, a half-naked green man, and flashy explosions in the background notwithstanding.

"You came here because you saw that and thought it was worth your time."

"Yep!"

This must be the upper limit to charity. Either that, or there's something he's gaining from this. The idea that someone would choose to sacrifice themselves willingly for a stranger is absurd.

And that's not even factoring in how old he is.

"So what, someone plucked you straight out the womb and made you a hero?"

"No plucking required; I came here of my own free will!"

What a way to avoid a question I didn't feel like asking.

Taking an alternate path, I decide to ask directly.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen!"

Six-teen. Eleven years younger than me. Too young to even be drinking.

How crazy.

For all intents and purposes, it seems I'm going to get saved by a sixteen-year-old with dreams of heroism. The fact that I can phrase that idea in my head is wild. Isn't he supposed to be attending high school or something?

Are kids just neglecting the education system nowadays?

Does he even have schools where he comes from?

I'm staring at him, pondering over some other question to ask when a bell, the same high-pitched whirr I'm ever accustomed to, rings through the apartment.

Not wanting to accept it, I check the time on my phone.

7:49 PM.

She's eleven minutes early.