1.1 It Can't Be That Bad

Cérise didn't die. He never did—properly, that is—because he was a coward.

It all came to bite him in the ass when Snail showed up with a cult recruitment pamphlet one night. "Is it okay if I read it to you?"

"No."

She began: The world is running out of time. It needs heroes⁠—needs you.

"I said no."

To whom it may concern, we need you.

"Snail."

We need as many people as we can, as many heroes, before it's too late. Bring friends⁠, comrades, anyone willing to help. I shall be waiting tomorrow at the first lapis lazuli tower, from seven past midnight onward. Hopefully, you will be, too.

I will explain the rest there.

Snail stared at Cérise. Cérise stared at Snail. He said, "No," at the same time she said, "Please? Aw, man, why not?"

"Why yes?"

She bit her lip. "What's the point of being a bounty hunter if you don't go after the bad guys?"

He pretended not to notice. "The point of being a bounty hunter is hunting bounties, which you suck at."

Snail put down the letter. On her fingers, it looked like a candy wrapper. She didn't fit into the cave—not fully—so she had to curl at the entrance. Mystifyingly, she refused to seek more dignified places to rest, thus confining them to this place. Him, to be specific. Since she didn't fit. "Cér?"

"No."

She said, "You know you'll end up saying yes in the end anyway." He did. Snail continued: "One, we don't lose anything by going. Two, there's gonna be a lot of bounty hunters there. Three, we can meet someone who needs a partner. Four, I don't suck. And five, we can save the world."

Six, they might afford a giant-friendly inn again. Her, to be specific. Since she insisted on using her funds and her funds only. Because of this, their joke of a dinner was a mystery brew with ingredients she'd gathered and water he'd failed to boil. Why she insisted on teaching Cérise how to cook was beyond him, but then again, so were most of her antics. He'd set tea on fire last week.

"Cér?"

"Snail."

"So?"

"You said it yourself," he mumbled. "I'll end up saying yes anyway."

"No, no, I meant the stew. Is it ready?"

No. Cérise poured the scalding, odorless, flavorless liquid on a bowl before handing it over to Snail. On her hands, the bowl looked like a teacup. Its contents were the same color as her, which could be a good or bad thing depending on who you asked. She blew on it again and again and again and again and— "Would you stop?" He snapped. She stopped, took a sip, and grimaced. "I told you I can't cook, yet you... oh, come on, it can't be that bad."

It was worse. It wasn't odorless or flavorless after all, and such was their punishment for her folly. If they burned their tongues, it wasn't too bad, though.

While Snail finished the brew (she also refused to throw food away), Cérise went for some fresh air. The best thing about this place was how cool it got once the sun set, the stars of all colors, scattered across the sky like jewels, the purple dunes below, like the sea. Too bad the lights from the city ruined this.

Cérise ducked away before she could tap his shoulder. "Sorry," said Snail. "Um, are you angry?"

"No?"

"Why?"

What a strange thing to follow up with. "Why would I... oh. You're referring to the pyramid scheme from earlier. Where did you get that from, anyway?"

Snail bit her lip.

"I see."

"No, no, wait. It's not, um. It's not a pyramid scheme. Someone was giving these out at the plaza, right, to everyone walking by, but most people ignored him. He looked very sad and fancy at the same time, which I know describes a lot of them but this one was different okay I don't think he's trying to sell anything I promise I really think he's trying to. Trying to form a party. Remember last time? With the dragon? Like that, but for real this time."

Often, one could gauge how little somebody wanted to answer a question based on how many inane tangents they took. Conversely, silence said nothing but the necessary.

Since Cérise opted for the latter, Snail went on: "He looked like a foreigner. I'm not sure where his clothes could be from, though, but they look really hot, so I think he uses magic to keep himself cool, or else he would die of hyperthermia. It must be something serious is what I'm saying. Please?"

Cérise should've told her she'd fallen for one of the oldest tricks out there, could have told her, would have told her, had it not been the first time a smile had reached her eyes in a while. He had tried to get rid of her so many, many times. 'You'll have more fun here'. 'They'll take better care of you here.' 'They'll actually take care of you here'. "Assuming this is true," he said, "Why would he travel so much to find 'heroes'?"

"Maybe he's the last of his kind."

"Why not just hire mercenaries?"

"Maybe he was the only one who managed to escape, and now he has to awaken sacred weapons to defeat the evil lord who took over his land."

"You go to the theater too much."

"Maybe..." Snail trailed off. Protectively, for some reason, she curled over the pamphlet. "Maybe he's also a prince. His hair looked really soft. I think we should go."

"Hm."

Snail toyed with a strand of her hair until she tucked it beneath her long, pointy ear, like said strand was even long enough to stay there for long. "We lose nothing by trying."

"Time. We lose time."

"Why?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"It could be true. Wouldn't you like it to be true?"

"You know the answer to that, too."

"I don't," she said.

"You—"

"I think this could finally prove my experiment."

Of course she said the one thing that made Cérise relent. The last time she'd done this—the dragon incident—had ended in failure, but it'd almost made him believe. It'd almost made him want it to be true.

"...and if we go," Snail continued, "And if ends up not, um, being true, I'll do whatever you want. Literally whatever you want."

"Even leave?"

"Yeah," she mumbled.

He did not expect that response. "Do you..." Cérise trailed off. Do you really want to go there so badly? Why? Why know the answer to those questions?

In the past, a popular trick among bandits had been to pretend to be sickly in the middle of the desert. Once a pack of ill-fated passersby offered help, the member of the group faking sickness would lure them to an untimely demise. After the general population had caught track of this, bandits began to post fake ransoms on bulletin boards, then fake bounties, fake invitations to guilds—in the end, it all meant preying on dreams. Nowadays, only the strongest or the stupidest stopped to aid those in need while traversing lone paths; calls to action were labeled as cult initiations, sales pitches or traps. And with reason, really. Being on the receiving end of this would be the ultimate poetic justice for him.

Finally, Cérise replied: "Fine, let's make it a test. If it's a sales pitch, don't buy anything. For once. If it's a trap, you'll have to beat the bandit leader on your own. For once. Fail to do either thing, and—"

"Yes!"

"Snail, I'm not—"

"Yes! yes!" She stood up so suddenly she hit her head against the cave's ceiling, but this didn't keep her from jumping in excitement anyway once she rolled out. Debris fell from the roof, and a nearby flock of bats fled.

As for Cérise, he would've smiled if he had been able to.