“What the F, Proto, come on!” Red grabbed his arm and tugged him onto the downward trail.

  They’d gone three steps when they heard the voice.

  “Hagh!” came the being’s raspy call. It stretched an arm toward them.

  Red froze a moment, wide-eyed.

  Then, she squeezed Proto’s arm tighter and yanked him into a run.

  The impending thing made a disgusting coughing noise, retching up what sounded like a mouthful of fluid, and it spat.

  Red eeped as they scurried away from it.

  “Hey!” the approacher repeated hoarsely, this time in a man’s voice. “Hey there, just a sec!”

  Proto frowned and slowed, looking back, as Red kept pulling at his wrist.

  The figure had stepped past the choppy shadows obscuring it into a patch of light, revealing a man in his forties. He was sweaty and red-faced, and his short hair was disheveled. He was holding a floppy fisherman’s hat. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Red’s tugging finally stopped at this point.

  “Hi there. Uh, what do you need?” Proto tried to sound calm and collected, and not like a guy who’d just been fleeing a zombie.

  “Well.” The man winced and shuffled toward them, heavily favoring one leg. “Some friends and I were at a cookout, and I left to use the men’s room. Or what have you.” He waved toward the brush. “I went a little too far away, maybe, and I took a wrong turn on the way back.”

  “Figured I’d jog around a while, and I’d find the cookout soon enough,” he recalled. “But then I tripped on a root and sprained my ankle. Had to lie awhile, it hurt so bad, and even now I can barely walk.” He lifted his injured leg demonstratively, then cringed. “So, here I am.”

  “Which cookout place?” asked Red. “The one with the fire pits, the one with the rusty old grills, or the scenic one where you’re not supposed to have cookouts?”

  “The scenic one.” The man winced out a grin.

  “Isn’t it always?” nodded Red knowingly. “So, you just have to follow this trail”—she pointed—“until you get to the third fork, and then you turn left, and then right—I mean, middle-right at the next intersection. And then right again at the next fork, and then . . . hm.” Her brow furrowed, and she turned to Proto. “We should probably walk him there, don’t you think? We have time, right?”

  Proto stared at her and wondered what to say. The answer to her question, of course, was, No, we don’t have time.

  To be sure, helping a lost man with a sprained ankle would take precedence over making it to a gaming tournament, ordinarily. But when the fate of the world hung on winning that tournament, things were no longer ordinary.

  This, finally, was his chance to steer history back onto its proper Fate Road—the one where Ausrine and Mannus rode together to the cosplay convention, setting in motion a series of events that saved life itself from being annihilated by an orkish horde in a few centuries. The butterfly effect to end all butterfly effects.

  Part of Proto wished that he and Red hadn’t taken this shortcut. Or even that he’d never stopped at Starbucks on the way here.

  Yet something felt weird about all this. Déjà vu had been haunting him throughout their woodland walk. Something was going on here. And if they left right now, he felt sure he’d never learn what it was. He felt like he were on a pointless side quest that, ultimately, couldn’t be pointless.

  And that look on Red’s face! What would she do if he said no? What would she think of him? Would that change the future . . . ?

  “We’ll make time,” he found himself declaring.

  And that was that. “Here, give me your arm. I’ll help you walk,” he entreated the man. “Blue, lead the way!”

  “Will do!” Red beamed at him, then sipped her giant gingerbread latte.

  “Thanks. Really appreciate it. Name’s Erick.” The injured man accepted the arm lent by Proto—then squinted at his eyes, followed by his tracksuit. “By the way, do I know you? I feel like I’ve seen you here before.”

  Proto had no idea what the man was talking about, and he was in a rush, but he tried to be polite. “Hm, maybe?”

  “Hm.” Erick stared at Proto for a moment, then shrugged.

  They helped him along the forest trail. “We’re about halfway there. Longer walk than I remembered!” observed Red, several minutes later.

  Clearly, they weren’t going to make the tournament. Even if they dropped Erick right now and sprinted through the brush, they likely wouldn’t make it.

  But Proto didn’t feel angry or frustrated; mostly just resigned. It felt like his life lately was one long string of choices between having a heart and doing something useful. And, so far, Proto had been heartily useless.

  The trio reached the cookout and found some forty-somethings wearing Atlean University gear eating bunless hot dogs on skewers and playing cards.

  “Oh, Erick. Was wondering where you went. You alright?” one called.

  The injured man got settled and got his leg propped up on a bag of ice from the beer cooler.

  Upon arrival, Proto had felt that déjà vu swelling up inside him, but it took him a minute to realize why. The answer came while he was watching the card players: the whole layout of this cookout looked strangely similar to the camp in Emil’s dream.

  But why . . . ? He couldn’t think of any good explanation. Emil wouldn’t remember this event in his dream. It’s not like Emil the college student was here, chilling with the forty-something alumni.

  “Hope you recover in time for Kerri’s cosplay convention. I know you can’t wait,” a beerbellied man gibed to Erick, gesturing at his sprained ankle. “Mister VIP Pass.”

  Proto’s gaze swerved to their exchange. Could it be? Was this why he was meant to be here?

  “Good point,” replied Erick. “Think I can bow out?”

  “Sure. But good luck breaking that to Kerri,” said Beerbelly.

  “Good luck breaking what to Kerri?” questioned a female voice with exaggerated sweetness.

  Emerging from the brush was a woman with auburn hair, pale brown eyes, a trim build, and fairy wings.

  What the F . . . ?

  “Oh no!” exclaimed Kerri, seeing Erick’s plight, and hurried up to him. She tended to him gingerly, scrutinizing his ankle.

  “Yeah, anyway, what we were just talking about,” Erick began delicately after a minute, “was that convention. Which, um, we were so eager to go to. But with me injured . . . ”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll feel fantastic by then!” Kerri reassured him. “And if you don’t, well, we’re lucky we have VIP passes. Our section is handicap-accessible!” She reached into her fairy garb and held two tickets up, pointing at a little picture of a guy in a wheelchair wielding a sword.

  “Ah. Whew, lucky.” Erick struggled visibly to smile.

  “By the way, I love your look!” Red complimented Fairy Kerri.

  “Right?!” agreed the forty-something woman. “I went with forest colors. I think it works.”

  “So, was there another cosplay convention today?” asked Red, admiring the woman’s wings.

  Kerri tilted her head. “No, why?”

  “Oh. Um, no reason!” replied Red.

  Having assured themselves that all was well here, Proto and Red began to head out.

  “Here, wait. Let me give you something,” Erick called to them. “I owe you one.”

  As Proto turned to face the injured man, excitement thrilled through him. Here it comes! Good deeds pay off in the end! No pointless side quest is ever pointless! This is why I had to miss the Rump Romp!

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Erick rose and hobbled across the cookout, waving off a couple arms extended to help. He bent down and grabbed his backpack, then shuffle-stepped back to them. He rummaged inside. “This,” he said, “is something special.”

  Eagerly, Proto watched him dig deep within the bag and slide out—a bottle.

  “Mezcal,” the man said. “You ever had it?”

  Proto felt like the butt of some cosmic joke, but tried to look grateful. “Great stuff. Many thanks!”

  Erick nodded stoutly. “Mm-hmm! You two go enjoy.” He double-gunned them.

  Waving and turning around, Proto hoped his sigh passed as a sigh of contentment.

  “You thought you’d show us all up, buy a fancy drink,” accused Beerbelly. “No beer and two-buck chuck for Erick!”

  “Yeah, well, I got what I deserved.” The wounded man rubbed his ankle.

  “You know it’s three-buck chuck now?” noted Kerri grimly. “We’re getting old!”

  “Nah. Runaway inflation!” dismissed Erick. “And your wings look ravishing, Dear.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked demurely, her delight audible in her voice.

  Proto and Red didn’t end up going to the Rump Romp. By the time they emerged from the University Arboretum, they were fifteen minutes past the signup cutoff, and the first matches were scheduled to have started already. Plus, they were still five minutes from the store.

  “Think we should go to the store still? See if they let us in for Round Two? Bribe ‘em with some mezcal?” suggested Red.

  Proto smiled, trying not to look wistful. “Nah. Let’s leave them be.” He struggled to muster up some witty banter to convey that he was utterly unbothered by this turn of events. But he had nothing.

  Instead, he just walked awhile at her side. They weren’t headed anywhere. But then, maybe they never had been.

  “Hey,” Red’s soft voice intruded on his brooding. Stepping in front of him, she clasped both his hands and held them together inside of hers. “You’re a great guy, Proto.”

  Proto didn’t feel like a great guy. He felt like a mediocre twenty-seven year old who’d mistakenly been selected by Fate to Do Great Things, but instead just went on some dates, made mildly amusing remarks, was repeatedly saved by others’ competence, and still ultimately failed.

  Red squeezed his hands, putting her whole heart into a smile. “You’re a great guy,” she repeated. “Let’s go to lots of card tournaments, okay? And, if you really want a Rump Romp, that too can be arranged!” The noon sun lit her hopeful face and shimmered along her hair, falling loose-bound around one shoulder past her waist.

  Proto couldn’t help but grin. He might be fated for a body-breaking car crash, and civilization soon might be collapsing, but he felt some fine spirits returning.

  “Exactly right, Blue!” he affirmed. “It’s not often you get accosted in a dark forest by a man resembling a shadow zombie, only to end up aiding him with his grievous wounds and being gifted with a bottle of fine spirits. Who needs a Rump Romp! We can do that any day.”

  “Or every day! Or . . . twice a day!” As Red giggled, her face briefly matched her name. “We have all the time in the world.”

  That last bit, unfortunately, wasn’t true. Universal collapse was nigh. Even if the world survived, Proto would be long gone.

  But he wasn’t out to be the shadow on her bright-eyed gaze. “There’s always next time,” he agreed.

  “Next time?” she questioned lightly. “We’re still playing hooky, right? And we have till 3:00? And”—she tapped the bottle—“we have some ‘fine spirits,’ right?”

  “Fine spirits,” agreed Proto, studying the mezcal. It wasn’t exactly Somnus’ style, but Lilac would’ve approved. “And that’s what counts.”

  “Well said!” Red took his hand and eyed the shining skyline. “Now, there’s only one thing missing.”

  “Soap?” questioned Proto, eying his hand.

  “Ugh!” Red cast his hand aside—then smiled and clasped it again. “Nope. Rump!”

  Proto blinked twice. Then, he let himself be tugged along the street, hand-in-hand, wondering where this was leading.

  She stopped five minutes later in front of a butcher shop. “Rump!” she repeated happily.

  Ah. “Rump,” he affirmed.

  She beamed. “Well, onward!”

  They entered and placed their rump roast orders.

  “I don’t recall putting that on the menu,” mused the butcher. “But it’s your lucky day. I made some extra for a nerdcon this morning.” He waddled into the back room and returned with some very red meat on a cutting board. “How many ounces?”

  “I’m too hungry to think in ounces!” replied Red.

  The butcher eyed the lithe girl up and down, then cut a heavy slab.

  Proto’s lips quirked up. “Same.”

  Having cut Proto’s portion, the butcher threw in some bread and aioli, and they paid. “Happy meating,” he called as they departed.

  They headed back to the University Arboretum.

  “Won’t we get in trouble for this?” Proto held up the mezcal. “With those forest rangers?”

  Red waved dismissively. “They can’t do anything to us. We’re not students.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  “Hm. Where to sit . . . ?” Red scanned the field.

  “On our rumps?” suggested Proto.

  “Where else?!” she agreed. “The grass will only make me greener.” She patted her Starbucks uniform.

  They sat not on the grass, though, but a rock in the sun. There, they ate rump, drank mezcal, and savored the moment. A cherry blossom tree swayed in the wind nearby, but it wasn’t quite warm enough to have flowered yet.

  Looks like Lilac’s sakura tree, minus the pink petals, Proto mused wistfully, recalling her sandy nook beside the Sea of Dreams.

  He’d felt so clever and hopeful and lucky this morning, with his grand scheme to win a VIP pass and restore the future. So much for that. He sipped some mezcal from the bottle.

  “Ahh.” Red had been sipping too and, by now, had gone a little loopy. “Do your clothes fit?”

  Proto blinked and eyed his Saturn-emblemed tracksuit. “I hope so. Or I’ve made some very bad fashion decisions this last decade.”

  “Well, that’s the case regardless.” She rubbed his yellow elastic cuff between her fingers. “Don’t blame me, you invited that!” She tittered at his grim nod. “Anyway, what I meant was, I feel like I’m bulging out of my uniform right now!” She rubbed her belly.

  “Worth it,” shrugged Proto, waving at the remaining rump roast. “Delicious.”

  “Scrumptious,” she one-upped.

  “Succulent.”

  “Delectable.”

  “Toothsome.”

  She pointed at him. “Tubular!”

  And Proto found himself laughing, despite everything—like a sandcastle-building child whose day’s work was swept away in one crashing blue wave, but could only marvel helplessly at the ocean’s grandeur. “You win. A decisive victory for Blue.”

  “And don’t forget it!” she retorted. “I’ll one-up you like Mario one-ups in Top Secret Area!”

  Proto’s brow rose, and Red went pink. “Or something like that,” she mumbled.

  He smiled. “I had no idea you were such a 16-bit afficionado.”

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s what they call me, 16-Bit Princess! Or Two-Bit Chump. A bit of both!”

  “I’m not quite at Princess-level yet,” replied Proto, “but I am playing Illusion of Gaia. It’s an old gem.”

  “Being Princess, I love old gems! I’ll have to get it,” replied Red. “And, um, a Super Nintendo.”

  “How’d you lose yours?” he asked.

  “It’s a tale as old as time!” she lamented. “Go to college and trade the old love for a shiny new one. In my case, an N64.”

  “It’s never too late,” urged Proto. “Once a 16-Bit Princess, always a 16-Bit Princess!”

  “Yes!” Red enthused. “Once you go sixteen, you never go back!”

  Proto blinked, then his lips quirked up.

  Red frowned. “Hrm. That . . . didn’t quite come out the way I hoped it would.”

  Proto studiously had kept his laughter in, but now it slipped out all at once.

  “Um, am I on camera?” Red peered at the trees. “It’s not what it sounds like, Mister Park Ranger! I was a student here, don’t arrest me! Also, I’m not a student here, so you can’t arrest me!”

  She thumbed at Proto. “Him? No, he’s not sixteen, despite what his tracksuit might suggest. He’s twenty-seven! Even older than me! I checked his public records myself. Take him, spare me! I’ll give you rump!”

  Proto, lost in his laughter and his mezcal, suddenly found himself with his arm around Red.

  “Look at him now! Making a move . . . on . . . mm.” Somewhere in there, Red must’ve looked at Proto’s face and, rather than finding the playful irony she’d expected, discovered the utter warmth he felt at that moment.

  Suddenly, she seemed as lost for words as he felt.

  They both blinked at each other.

  “Mm. Well.” She was all blue eyes and pink cheeks. “Partner in crime. May I be sixteen with you?” She leaned her head on his shoulder and clasped his fingers questioningly.

  Proto nodded agreeably. “Once you go sixteen, you never—”

  “Don’t spoil this moment, please!” she chided.

  He laughed and held her tighter, and her black hair spilled about his side. “Better?”

  “Mm,” she repeated, grinning, her face about as red as her name. “Much.”

  They sat and talked till Time had stolen away the early afternoon. But all good things must pass, from a few months of happy dreaming to a few hours of playing hooky.

  And so, they went back to Starbucks, where Red had to pick up her bag before heading home.

  Fortunately, she’d walked to work today. Driving would’ve been a questionable decision at this point.

  “I’ll get a ride home with Chub Chub. I’m on the way,” she spontaneously announced. “Well, not really. But he’s nice.”

  “Sounds good, Your Redness,” Proto nodded.

  Red’s lips quirked up, and she halted to face him. They’d reached the doorway.

  “Alright, Slick!” she declared brusquely. “Good times. Good rump. Good mezcal. And”—she tapped two fingers to her lips. “Great company.” She tapped the fingers to his nose, beaming.

  Warmth tingled through him at her touch. He opened his mouth to reply—then cut off, brow furrowing, as her smile choked into a laugh.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried. “I forgot I was wearing lipstick today!”

  Proto tried in vain to study his nose, then sighed.

  “You have a hickey on your nose, Proto!” She cracked up.

  He nodded grimly. “I hadn’t realized that was possible.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, right?” she exclaimed gleefully. “Something to commemorate the day!”

  “Alas, I think this memory’s going to wash off,” noted Proto.

  “Well, next time, I’ll do better,” she softly murmured.

  He blinked and met her dazzling gaze.

  Red squeezed his hand, then scurried into Starbucks, her long and loose-bound ponytail of black swishing in her wake. He admired her with a dumb smile on his face.

  It was only after a good ten seconds that he saw movement from a shape in the corner of his eye. He glanced over.

  It was Black, taking out the trash from her bar upstairs. She was wearing a worn-out Muse T-shirt—in fact, the very one she’d worn to that concert eight years ago. It still fit her as it had back then.

  For an instant, he seemed to see her hazel gaze upon him.

  But maybe he was just imagining things, because she now was smoothly stepping around the corner, trash bags in hand. It was entirely feasible that she’d stepped out of the building, briskly turned left, and never seen him standing there.

  It was also entirely possible that she’d been staring from the doorway, half-concealed, for the last two minutes.

  Proto felt like he had after waking up from general anaesthesia—like he should be queasy but was still too warm, numb and giddy to realize it.

  He quickly strode away before Black could return from around the corner. Whatever conversation would’ve ensued, he didn’t feel ready for it.

  Maybe she saw him, maybe she didn’t. Either way, no call came from behind Proto, and he soon was disappearing down another road.

  Sleepiness seeped amid his thoughts like mist. He felt like the sun should be going red right now, but it was mid-Spring and not even 3:00. Much time was left in the day.

  Well, off to do some A/B testing while struggling to stay awake, he mused. Then, back home to do more in my sleep.

  A bit of darkness had fallen upon his bright-eyed satisfaction. And yet, surveying the day’s lows and highs in recollection, like a shadow-fraught valley kissed with sunlight, he didn’t feel too dim.

  Absently rubbing at his nose-hickey—then, smiling slightly and deciding to leave it for now—he ambled back toward where he’d come from. He always did in the end.