A Gamer's Guide 191 (Patreon)

I jolt awake, lungs burning from the fact that I’m miraculously alive. I do a quick inventory check—conscious: yep. Arms: still there: Legs, back. Ribs: in their places. All five senses: up and running.

I’m alive. I think. To ensure that I’m fully operational, I engage all five senses in turn. I can feel a blanket on top of me, and something coarse but bed-like below me. I can hear the creaking of a ship. I can taste the half-hardened tar sludge still coating the inside of my own mouth. I can see nothing because my eyes are closed, but if I open them, I can see a grayish roof. And if I take a deep whiff…

I can smell that I’m not alone.

Jumping up, I instantly form myself into the typical spherical form, becoming invisible at the same time as I retreat from whatever I was on top of, crashing down onto the floor. I’m just about to retreat further away, anywhere, when a sudden keeling of the ship makes me roll helplessly across the room to bash my face into a wall. I splatter and slide down onto the floor in a puddle.

Okay, that could’ve gone better. My neck feels a bit too creaky for comfort, but—

“Impressive ability. Can all humans do that?” a voice says smoothly.

My hair stands on edge and I leap back to my feet, turning around in the same movement to face whoever said that just now. In the middle of the room, sitting on a stool next to the bed I was on top of moments ago, is an odd-looking goblin. His entire body is dark and covered in long-since-healed burns, aside from a few parts that are stained BLACK by… something. One of these unharmed parts is a triangular shape around his right eye, the left being nothing but a skin-covered burn. Oh, and he’s got a metal hand. Which is awesome, but I’m not quick to verbalize such a compliment.

Instead, I remain where I stand, eyes trained on him. He doesn’t have any weapons, but that doesn’t mean he’s docile. He could be a magician or something. Or he’s a mimic, taking the shape of a goblin, waiting for me to let my guard down so he can bite my head off.

Smiling lightly—an expression his scar-covered face seems reluctant to make—he leans closer. “You’re welcome.”

“...What?” I blurt out unwittingly.

His one eye widens and he barks a laugh. “Well, would you look at that? It talks! Not that I had expected anything else from a two-time crownkiller.”

Crownkiller? I feel my fingers twitching. What is this? This isn’t how it usually goes.

As if searching for some sort of explanation, my gaze moves about the room, registering everything I see as a clue of some sort. There’s a bed and a stool next to it, the bed bolted to the floor. There’s also a cupboard, a desk, a chair for said desk, and various writing supplies on the desk. Both the floor and the furniture are made of wood, but seem to be covered in an oily varnish of some sort, giving it a vaguely green sheen. However, ignoring all of that, my eyes fall on a single detail, nailed up above the desk.

Wanted posters. At least a dozen or so. All, save for one, are for goblins. And that single one, with a bounty in a completely different currency, authenticated with the seal of three separate royal families, is for a person I happen to know very well.

Namely, myself.

The goblin in front of me calmly follows my gaze, looks over at the wall, and then looks back to me. He jerks a thumb at my poster. “That is you, right?”

I hesitate to answer. Maybe he wants to turn me in for the reward. Maybe he wants to kill me for it. And if he doesn’t know that it’s actually me, then maybe, we don’t have to…

Before I have time to decide, he confirms it himself, nodding at my chest. “The brand gives it away.” A cold sweat breaks out across my back. Ah. Is that it, then? I click my claws against each other, wondering in what order to do away with him, when he suddenly brings up both hands in quasi-surrender. “Not that I’m going to turn you in, of course! Calm down, won’t you?” He chuckles briefly. “You’ve got to be the jumpiest fellow I’ve ever seen. Not to mention the most selfish.”

What’s that? Why, you—

He looks back at the wall with the wanted posters, turning away from me as though he’s certain I won’t pounce. “Yes, if you were only a little bit less egoistic, you might have noticed the fact that it would be a bit problematic for me to turn you in.” More confused than insulted, I look up at the wall. And right there, as obvious as a clown’s nose, is a wanted poster for the goblin right in front of me. ‘Claw-Hand Malacoda,’ captain of the Evil Claw Pirates. Wanted dead or alive for seven-thousand yill.

He’s… a pirate?

Does that mean I’m on the iron ship that saved me earlier? They saved me twice?

…Why?

“The name’s as-mentioned, but my friends call me Coda. You’ll do the same, won’t you?”

Considering how scrunched-up my face is, I’m surprised he looks so… calm. This is the kind of expression that would make most beasts freeze in place. But he’s casual about it. Is he putting up a front, or is he actually that strong?

<Claw-Hand Malacoda Lv.22>

He’s stronger than most goblins I’ve met, but not to the point where he’s got anything to back any supposed arrogance. No, this is something else.

Crouched where I am, I slowly straighten out until I’m standing properly.

“And why should I call you that?”

“Impressive, a full sentence! Now, assuming you haven’t got the memory of a whitefly, I believe you’ll find my answer in the sentence you’re replying to.”

I cross my arms. I don’t like tricksters, but for now, there’s no reason to kill him straight away. Might as well try to squeeze some information out of him. “...I’m not your friend, though.”

“Ouch!” he exclaims comically, clutching at his chest in mock pain. “And after we saved you and everything! First you’re egoistic, and now you’re cruel? Oh, this is simply too much!” Wiping imaginary tears from his one eye, he takes a deep, shaky breath. “Alright, alright. How about this, then?” He smirks. “My enemies call me Mal. Would you rather use that, human?”

I glance to the left and right. Ugh. What the heck is this guy? I try to distract myself by surveying the room, but it looks the same as it did before, so I’m forced to look back at him. I grit my teeth and bite out, “It’s not like I’m your enemy either.”

He blinks at me. “Is that so? Hmmm…” Rubbing his chin, he hums thoughtfully. “Well, I can’t have you call me ‘A’, now can I?”

Something in me rears up at the opportunity to jab back at him. “Sure you can, Goblin A.”

“Goblin A? Oh, how painful! No, anything but that!” he groans melodramatically. Squirming where he sits, it takes him a few seconds to pull himself together, at which point he suddenly stands up, his leather coat flapping with the movement. “No! So it cannot be. I cannot be a mere Goblin A, and you…” He shakes his head, making it suddenly very obvious that his ears are actually prosthetics of some sort and not normal flesh. “You, my newly-found friend, cannot be ‘human.’ Instead, if you’ll permit, I would love to hear your name.”

My name? Doesn’t it say on my wanted poster?

But when I look down into his eyes, I find no such jest. He’s serious. He’s introduced himself by the name he wants to be called, and he expects me to do the same. He expects me to be respectful.

I sigh. Then, I look away from him. “...Lo Fennrick,” I say, after a few seconds. “But my friends… My friends, they call me…” Curious. Usually, I would feel so ashamed of this name that my ears would go RED. But now, this feels almost normal. Actually, it feels right. It’s the truth, after all, so what’s there to be ashamed of?

“Kitty.” I stand with my back as straight as possible, my eyes meeting his gaze evenly. “My friends call me Kitty.”

“If you’ll permit me, may I call you that as well, friend?”

…Damn it. I grind my teeth, but it doesn’t help the fact that once I part my lips and let myself speak, what I say isn’t ‘why the hell would I call some random green bag of exp like you “friend”?’, it’s, “...Yeah. Sure, Coda.”

He smiles at me, and although he’s so much shorter than me, he feels as tall as any fully-sized man. “That makes me happy to hear, Kitty!”

While I’m still reeling from whatever just happened, he strides past me, fearlessly showing me his vulnerable back, and puts his hand to a strange groove in the wall. He turns back to me again, grinning with obvious and alien excitement. “Well, would you like to meet the rest of the crew, my friend?”

And he waits for me to answer. And against every instinct in my mind, I say, “Yeah. Okay.”

His scarred face wrinkles up in joy and he presses his fingers into a specific groove, letting the door slide open. I duck to pass through it, and we’re suddenly in a hallway. He walks with learned confidence and I stumble after him, a dog off the leash, more confused than anything else, watching his back as though it was a mountain.

He knew. And he still saved me. He gave me a bed, and…

I look down at my body. At what I’m wearing.

Clothes. Stiff, itchy, too-small clothes that restrict my movement and leave my chest mostly uncovered. But it’s clothes. He would give a known criminal clothes and a bed to rest in, for… Why? What reason? He’s a pirate, too. I know I’m hardly better than a pirate by this point, but just because I happen to be somewhat of a wanted criminal doesn’t mean I can go ahead and trust any lawless scoundrel I meet willy-nilly. That’s dumb. Dumb and stupid.

I shake my head as I walk. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anybody, aside from a few people who are exceptions and should not be counted.

I absolutely can’t allow myself to be lulled into some sort of false sense of security. Any time now, a monster could jump out from behind a bend to attack and kill me, or to maul me, or tell me something mean, or…

“We’re here!” Coda says cheerfully, sliding open another door, bringing us out of the darkness and into the light of the ship’s deck.

A little over half a dozen gazes turn to us, and I suddenly feel myself freeze where I stand.

Ah. I forgot I kind of despise having people look at me like this.

This is… somewhat bad.