The winds billowed in through rolled-down windows, whistling in their ears, and new leaves burgeoned in the Springtime air, and the sun made that life green and vibrant.

  And pink. On the roadside, some sakura trees were blooming. Petals wafted from the trees upon the vernal winds, splaying along the grass like a bright shadow.

  Huh. Must’ve just blossomed today. Proto recalled seeing some bare sakura trees just yesterday, while sitting at the park with Red. Or maybe they bloom earlier out here.

  In any event, he was glad he’d caught sight of it. They were so fleeting, cherry blossoms—livening the world for a week or so, then falling. Still livening the world afterward, he supposed, but from somewhere unseen.

  “But yeah, that’s why we left early,” Black was explaining. “I want to catch the opening acts. I swear, it’s the only way to hear guys in their twenties at good venues anymore.”

  They were driving up a mountain road now, and Proto’s ears were popping from time to time.

  Wondering how much further they had to go, he looked out the window at the road signs: “Sonic: 0.2 mi.” “Exxon: 0.3 mi.” “Atlean University Greenhouse: 1.7 mi.” “Motel 6: 2.0 mi.” “Atlean University Cryogenics Facility: 2.9 mi.” “Atlean University Equestrian Center: 3.8 mi.” “Summit Exhibition Grounds: 4.4 mi.”

  Ah, good, they were getting close. This was an outdoor concert at the Exhibition Grounds. It had to be, with a dozen bands performing.

  Proto opened his mouth to comment on how close they were, then paused. Something was tickling at his memory. Something about . . . the Atlean University Cryogenics Facility?

  But why? He’d certainly never been there. He’d never even known the university had a cryogenics facility. Which was cool, he supposed, in a sci-fi sort of way.

  He glanced back at the signs, searching for some explanation of that tickling memory. But all he saw was the road behind him, dwindling further by the second.

  Maybe it’ll come back to me later, he supposed.

  But it hadn’t come back by the time they drove into the crumbling parking lot and found a spot in the weedy grass beside it. And by the time they’d left the car, headed toward the sounds of music, and waited a few minutes in the bag check line, he’d forgotten about it entirely.

  That’s because Proto was busy gawking at a security guard near the entrance.

  It was one of the huge guys who’d been guarding the Organizers Only area in Fyrir’s dream of the cosplay convention.

  This, of course, made no sense at all. How was this possible? Had Fyrir dreamt about this guard because he’d encountered him sometime in real life? Did he work as a guard at Atlean University events, maybe? In the dream, he’d been in Dubai! At a consulate!

  In any event, here he was.

  On the way here, Black had described the concert’s music as “basically 60s and 70s bands that were born in the 80s and 90s, call themselves artists instead of bands, and wear hoodies and skinny jeans with Converses.”

  In contrast, this guard’s T-shirt looked decidedly more metal. It showed a battlefield full of steel-wielding warriors bloodily slaughtering one another. Some deific figure was peering down approvingly from above.

  Only when Proto reached the front of the line did he see that this lofty figure closely resembled Somnus. His robe was open, baring his chest, and he was holding forth a leafy wand over the fighters. Mists roved across the flat plane of the battlefield.

  What . . . ? Proto squinted at the shirt and pondered what it meant.

  Then, he decided he was making something of nothing. Half of all metal T-shirts in existence included some robed guy like Somnus.

  “Next,” called the guard.

  Proto advanced with Black. He now noticed that the guard was wearing a Calamity Calamari amulet around his neck, just like in Fyrir’s dream.

  “You looking at something?” the guard asked him.

  Proto blinked and looked up at the huge man, searching for an answer.

  What he wanted to say was, “The last time I saw you, you were wielding a Minecraft sword.”

  Instead, he replied, “That’s an awesome shirt.”

  “Oh. Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” agreed the guard amiably.

  “I might want one. Where’d you get it?” asked Proto.

  “As I said, shitty clothes,” muttered Black, barely audibly.

  “My brother sells ‘em. Buys cool art, sticks it on stuff, sells it online. I’m his partner, actually,” explained the guard. “Say, you know any artists? Ours is in jail again.”

  “Hm. I’ll let you know if I think of any,” said Proto.

  “Cool.” The guard fistbumped Proto, and Proto and Black walked into the Summit Exhibition Grounds.

  “I hope you weren’t serious,” remarked Black, as they wended through the throngs of concertgoers.

  “What, about how I’ll be replacing my entire wardrobe?” asked Proto.

  “You’ll be a walking biker tattoo.” Black eyed a nearby crowd. “Actually, you’d fit in fine over there.”

  Judging by the screaming guitar and growling voice coming from beyond the crowd, it was some sort of metal. Proto couldn’t keep track of the labels—Doom metal? Black metal? Industrial metal?—and he didn’t dare say the wrong one, least of all at a place like this. But this clearly was one of those metals, and not the Ozzy Osbourne kind.

  “Well, let’s get moshing.” Proto gestured toward the metal crowd, where an oversized man in a tight T-shirt was bouncing wildly off a ring of concertgoers like a pinball.

  Black gave Proto a black look. “Let’s move along before someone gets hurt.”

  “This will make the other music more enjoyable! It’s like a palate cleanser!” said Proto. “Unpleasant. Jarring. But the next thing’s better.”

  “No, it’s like starting an evening with Everclear,” replied Black. “You won’t enjoy it, and you’ll have no taste left for anything else.”

  Proto’s lips quirked up. “How many times did you try that?”

  “How many times did I face crippling anxiety before a college party?” Black shrugged. “I don’t remember clearly.”

  “It’s poorly named, huh,” observed Proto.

  “What are we doing here, Helen?” came a voice to his side.

  “I don’t know,” another woman replied. “But I think he’s quoting Macbeth!”

  Indeed, the singer was growling, “Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine.”

  But Proto didn’t really notice that. He was busy gaping at Helen and Himari—the two graduate student instructors, or GSIs—standing nearby and facing the metal concert.

  Again?!

  “Yes, certainly Macbeth!” confirmed Helen excitedly. “Ooh. He really makes it visceral, doesn’t he? All you young theatre majors, nota bene!” she urged the mass of concertgoers all around her.

  “Helen, that was unnecessary,” sighed Himari. “Shakespeare, a foreign phrase, and the word ‘visceral’? At a doom metal concert?”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Ah, doom metal,” murmured Proto.

  “Himari,” replied Helen patiently, “there’s nothing more metal than intellectual pretentiousness and unnecessary allusions.”

  “Touché,” acknowledged Himari.

  “Aha! Foreign phrase! You did it too,” cried the taller GSI triumphantly.

  “Omae-tachi kono osekkai kodomo ga inakereba, umaku ittanoni!” retorted Himari.

  “Two foreign languages! She’s multi-talented, folks! Anybody interested?” called Helen to the crowd again.

  “Actually, Dimitri and I are kind of back together again,” noted Himari.

  “Well, I’m just kind of soliciting bachelors. We’ll be prepared for the next break,” responded Helen cheerily. “Anybody? Any big, strong-bodied metal sorts?” She faced Himari. “I find a sharp contrast is best after a break.”

  “I agree. I get tired of wit and turtlenecks after a while,” the black-haired girl concurred. “Any big strong bodies? Hey, I’m down here!”

  Proto would’ve followed Black away from this by now, but there was a bottleneck in the crowd ahead. Some guy had puked—“Probably Everclear,” Black had noted—and everyone was trying to avoid it. As a result, they’d only succeeded in moving five feet in the last minute.

  This made Proto nervous. He felt he should be moving away from Helen and Himari as soon as possible. After all, he would be visiting Helen’s dream in the future.

  In the dream as he remembered it, she’d only vaguely remembered him as “Porno”—his name as she’d misheard it while drunk at Black’s Rock. That seemed to suggest he was only supposed to meet Helen at the bar, not at this concert today. Otherwise, she would’ve remembered him clearly and known his real name.

  If she did meet him again today, then what would happen when he visited Helen’s dream in the fairy forest? Would she take one look at him and wake up in shock? Then, Proto never would spend the rest of that dream with Fairy Queen Astrid. His ensuing days at Somnus’ Palace would go completely differently. As a result, he’d have a different set of memories when he left Somnus’ Palace and woke up at home, age twenty-seven again. But with those new memories, none of this here would play out the same way either. Including this concert!

  Was Proto on the verge of causing a recursive time loop, forever trapped in a cycle of past-altering futures?

  He tensed, suddenly sure that any moment, he would start disintegrating Marty McFly-style.

  But nothing happened. He just felt giddy from the spinning wheels of vicissitude. He probably should stop spinning his wheels.

  “Earth to Proto,” he absently heard a voice calling. “Ground Control to Major Moo!”

  Blinking and shaking his head, he looked at Black, who was eying him with a raised brow. “Hm?”

  “You enjoying the view or something?” She waved at Helen’s and Himari’s backs. “I won’t ask if it’s Blondie, Loli, or both.”

  Normally, Proto would’ve pleaded innocence. But this was Black. “Takes three to make a band, right?” he shrugged.

  “Mm-hmm. That’s fine, I’ll be busy with my duet.” She waved toward some lanky Kurt Cobain-looking singer on another stage. “And we’ll be making music just fine, thank you.”

  Proto decided to change the subject. “Looks like the barf’s getting cleaned up. Crowd should be moving in a second.”

  “Look at me looking!” Somehow, Black both squinted and widened her eyes at Cobain Lookalike.

  “Anyway,” Himari was saying, “my parents aren’t too fond of Dimitri. They’re wondering why he hasn’t proposed yet. I’m not sure what to tell them.”

  “Would you say yes if he did?” asked Helen.

  “Absolutely not!” declared Himari. “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  “Ah.” Helen frowned.

  “It’ll be years before we know if he’s professor-track!” explained the smaller girl. “Anyway, my mom just keeps smiling and giving him onigiri when he visits, and muttering ‘buta ni shinjuu, buta ni shinjuu,’ and life goes on.”

  Helen planted her hands on her hips. “Do you have one romantic bone in your body, Himari?”

  “You think it, I say it,” waved Himari. “Just wait and see how romantic I’ll be if I meet Dimitri plus six figures and a big strong body!”

  “I daresay, you’re open and notorious about your gold digging,” mused Helen. “You’re a regular Elizabeth Bennet!”

  “I need pounds! Pounds of money and muscle!” exclaimed little Himari.

  “Well, there’s some muscle,” suggested Helen, pointing at the mosher.

  The oversized man had thrashed and wailed his way through the crowd and, by chance, was heading now toward the vomit. Concertgoers were clearing from his path like pins before a bowling ball.

  “Yeah, I’ll have to choose, won’t I?” sighed Himari. “Pounds or pounds? ‘Choose one now or lose both later,’ right?”

  “Never! It’s like that Facebook lady said.” Helen clasped Himari’s hand earnestly. “We can have it all!”

  “Mm. You always know just what to say!” Himari squeezed Helen’s hand.

  “Anyway,” Black said to Proto, “if we’re done with our ogling, maybe we can go hear some music today.”

  “No worries, I’m a good multi-tasker,” he replied.

  Black swatted the back of his head and walked on past him. After a moment, she swayed her hips ostentatiously a few times, showing off her short jean shorts—then flicked him off, all without looking back at him.

  Proto couldn’t help but chuckle as he followed.

  “Someday, we’ll marry into money!” sighed Helen aspirationally. “And I’ll read Shakespeare! And drink tea! And have a garden!” she sang.

  “I never thought I’d be at a doom metal concert discussing big strong bodies and old books, side by side with a fellow gold digger,” mused Himari.

  “What about side by side with a friend, Himari?” cried Helen.

  “Aw!” The two GSIs hugged, then disappeared behind Proto into the multitudinous seas of bodies.

  When he turned to face forward again, he blinked to find another familiar face approaching—a bushy-bearded one with red and black flannel underneath.

  “Ah!” hailed Glen, the whisky-tasting presenter, his gaze fixed on Black. “My best and least favorite customer.”

  “I thought I smelled something,” Black replied calmly.

  “And you, my man!” continued Glen, ignoring her remark and turning to Proto. “Y-side!” He did the hand gesture.

  “Y-side!” Proto returned the gesture.

  Black sniffed, nose wrinkling. “It’s the beard, I think. Like Pine Sol,” she declared. “Also, Proto, don’t ever do that again.” She V’ed her fingers and waggled them. “Not unless you’re re-enacting Fifty Shades of Grey or something. And only if I’m co-starring.”

  “Ignore the haters. Here, have something good.” Glen held toward Proto a large flask. He was carrying it openly, despite signs every twenty yards saying, NO OUTSIDE DRINKS ALLOWED.

  “What’s this?” asked Proto, receiving it. It already was unscrewed, of course.

  “Whisky. Called Mortlach. Sounds like it means Death Lake, right?” noted Glen. “I’m told it means a gently sloping valley—just like my name, Glen—which is disappointing. I prefer Death Lake.”

  Proto took a swig. “Hm. Like roasted meat in a drink.”

  “Well, this is a lake of death we’re talking about,” noted Glen.

  “Hey, share the Death Lake,” demanded Black.

  “For you, there’s a fee,” said Glen. “Gotta recoup all the losses you inflict on me.”

  “Oh, for F’s sake.” Black grabbed the flask and took a swig.

  Glen tsked. “That’s a 5% upcharge on my next shipment.”

  “In that case.” Black tipped the flask back again and took a couple gulps.

  “Ugh, you’re killing me!” Glen grabbed it back. “And probably yourself too.”

  “That’s Death Lake for you,” nodded Proto knowingly. “Killing left and right.”

  “You know I have to make this last all day,” grumbled Glen, peering into his flask. “Now, excuse me, I need an elephant ear.” And off he went toward the concession stands.

  Proto and Black wended through the throngs for a while, eventually finding a spot near the stage with the Cobain lookalike.

  “Ah. Great view,” admired Black, eyes fixed upon the skinny blond singer. “I mean, great acoustics here.” She patted Proto’s hand and continued staring. “I’m looking closely at the acoustics, you see.”

  “Next time, should we skip the concert and watch dirty movies with elevator music?” asked Proto.

  “Proto, I can’t throw my bra onto a T.V. screen,” she replied dismissively. “Ooh. Hell of a body. Excuse me, ‘swell melody,’ is what I meant to say. So smooth and light. Billowy. Blond.” She quirked her lips. “Dirty blond . . . melody.”

  “I’ll be over here, whenever you’re done narrating the female gaze,” noted Proto.

  “Is that what checking out the goods is called these days?” she asked. “I’m sure the narrator in your head says stuff like this all the time. Like about Goldilocks and Loli-pop earlier. You can deal with my narrator for ten seconds.”

  Proto supposed this was fair enough.

  “Meanwhile, you and your ‘male gaze’ can stay busy with skin-and-bones bassist lady over there.” Black waved toward a willowy brunette with hollow cheeks and a maroon-and-cream electric bass, coolly keeping beat with the singer. “Like they say, ‘She’s all bones, but all she wants is more b—’”

  “Yeah, not really my type,” said Proto. This was true. But he likely would’ve said that no matter what. This bassist looked nothing like Black, so saying anything complimentary was a dangerous game.

  “You know what they say about basses,” mused Black. “Usually quiet, but when the time comes, they’ll knock your socks off. Same with bassists. We are our instruments!” She gestured toward the stage. “Long. Skinny. Tightly strung. Ready to let loose, anytime and anywhere. . . . I love 60s Fenders, don’t you?”

  “I have no views on this issue,” Proto replied.

  “Not your type, huh? Too skinny?” Black questioned just a bit too lightly, hand resting on her skinny waist. “You like them a little volumptuous?”

  “Volumptuous?” repeated Proto. It sounded like something Dahlia might call herself.

  “Hey, to each his own!” shrugged Black, holding two palms out. “We can’t all be lean and mean. Someone’s gotta wiggle and jiggle. And when they do, you’ll be there.” She patted him on the back, as he rolled his eyes.

  “Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s black hair. Long, thick, flowing black hair?” suggested Black, gesturing toward a woman ringing a cowbell. Indeed, her black hair was long, if not quite as long as Red’s.

  Proto thought about how to reply, but Black got there first.

  “Probably not quite long enough for you, right?” she mused.

  He looked at her and tried to gauge her expression.

  “Incidentally, my hair’s black, but I’ve been dying it red since high school,” noted Black. “I thought you had a thing for redheads. And then it stuck. The one and only thing that’s not authentic about me. Thanks for that.”

  Proto stared at the hazel-eyed girl. He realized he did have a vague recollection of Black with black hair in high school. Back then, she’d just been some gothy Karen girl he’d never met. By the time she’d first approached him, she’d looked basically the way she did now.

  “So, yeah, give me the 1 through 10,” Black urged. After a pause, her lips curved up. “About her, I mean.” She waved toward the black-haired cowbeller.

  “I feel like I’m being invited onto a minefield,” observed Proto.

  Black scoffed. “What, you think I care that you think someone’s hot? Moo, my life heroes are rock stars who had more lovers than hit songs. Bon Jovi and Tom Petty are hot. Pete Townshend’s not, but he wrote better music. Jimmy Page gives you the best of both worlds. Your turn.”

  Proto was saved from this dilemma by a giant barbarian wielding a greatsword.