Everybody’s dealing with the same problems. We die. Life is pointless. We suffer and lack control. Other people. Imminent world destruction.

Big Red

Later

I wake up in a kitchen. I don’t know who I am or how I got here - but this is definitely a kitchen. Smells like onions.

I sit up, take stock. The kitchen is cool, quiet, and dim. I hear birds outside. Early morning vibes. Other than my memory loss, I feel pretty good. My limbs are long and strong, clad in rough hemp. I’m a girl. That’s good. Feels natural. My teeth are pointy. Is that new? Hard to say.

Creaky footsteps approach the kitchen. Like someone big is trying to move quietly, but the floorboards betray them.

Hmm. I sense an awkward social interaction in my future. I notice I have a knife in my boot. It’s not a cooking utensil. More of a stabbing people knife. It does not fill me with confidence. Do I need to stab somebody? Should I be hiding behind the door to shank this fool? That seems drastic. I don’t want to give up the element of surprise, but anxiety fueled amnesia murder is a terrible first impression. It’s bound to affect my reputation.

I wish I knew why I ended up here. I also wish I had a ranged weapon. Next time I lose my memory, I’ll have to remember to bring a crossbow. That would give me a lot more options.

The creaky footsteps are close. I’m out of time. I hide under the table. Feels like a nice compromise between ambush murder and dopily doing nothing.

The door opens, and a huge dragonman slinks into the kitchen. Bright green scales, seven feet tall, toned. He picks a log out of the wood bin and casually shreds it with his claws. He stuffs the splintered remains in the firebox of the stove and snaps his fingers. The tortured wood bursts into flame.

Great. Freakishly strong and a magic user. Should have gone with the sneak attack.

I sit quietly while he bustles around. It’s taking him a really long time to make his breakfast. How many people is he cooking for? I feel like a weirdo. Even if I’m not in danger, I’ve been under the table too long to come out. I’d die of embarrassment. Guess I’m an under-table dweller now. This is probably how dark elves started.

The dragonman freezes. I stop breathing.

“Is someone hiding under my table?”

“... yes.”

“Did you teleport in with no memory of how or why?”

“Yes.” I say. “Just a second ago.”

“Cool. If you promise to not murder me, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Okay.”

…

“Do you want me to pass it down?” he asks. “Or, do you want to use the top of the table?”

I pop up on the far side of the table. “Hi!”

“Hello.” He slides me a massive omelette and a huge beer. Pours himself one. “It’s early for drinking, but what the hell. It’s happy hour in Highgarden.”

I nod. Eat and drink. It’s delicious. The dragonman drains his brew, pours us another.

“Thanks. It’s nice on this side of the table. Less awkward than I was expecting.”

“No problem. We’ve had a lot of people porting in lately. You’re less murder-y than most.”

There’s a loud roar from outside.

The dragonman shakes his head. “Case in point.”

The roaring outside is joined by a cacophony of panicked clucking. My host gets himself another beer.

I hear someone running around upstairs, then galloping down the stairs and out the door.

“Hi!” a voice yells outside. “Did you just port in with no memory? We’ll make you breakfast if you promise not to murder anyone! Hey! Put that giant mushroom down! It could house an entire colony of pixies! Don’t you dare throw it at me!”

I hear a loud smushing sound. Pretty sure it’s the sound of a giant mushroom being thrown. A few seconds later, someone knocks on the shutters of the kitchen window.

“Cy! Get out here! We got a murderous ogre problem! Probably. Could be a small giant.”

The dragonman sighs and opens the shutters. “Can’t. We’ve got an orcish incursion in the kitchen.”

“An orcursion? Is it serious?”

“I’m treating it seriously. Can you handle the ogre?”

“Oh sure. I’m a gnome, so I’m slightly smaller than his dick. But I’ll just poke him with a sharp stick until he fucks off.”

“Great.” Cy closes the shutters. Turns to me. “He’s got that. Let’s get you sorted out. How bad is your memory loss?”

“I don’t know who I am, or where I am, or what’s going on.”

“Well, that’s not great, but at least you aren’t trying to crush me with structural fungus.” Cy ponders. “I can answer a few of those questions. You are in the realm of Lowgarden, in the gnomish village of Chipped Tooth, at Presto & Son’s Tavern, in the kitchen just before we open for breakfast. That’s where you are. Presto is outside on ogre duty, I’m his son Cyan.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” We clink glasses. “You got here by an emergency realm shift. Otherwise known as a trauma induced teleport. Otherwise known as oh shit I’m gonna die please take me anywhere but here.

“You were probably getting the crap kicked out of you on another realm - maybe Lighthome - and instinctively ported here. The destructive nature of fear magic caused some memory loss. It’s a fast out, but hard on your brain. Don’t do it too often or you’ll end up like our buddy outside.”

There’s a big whomph as another giant mushroom gets tossed. Faintly, I hear Presto yelling. “Fuck this! Get him Duke!” Then more ogre roaring.

“As for who you are...” continues Cy. “Do you have a sacred text?”

I shrug. “What’s a sacred text?”

“It’s a notebook for important thoughts.” explains Cy. "You may have left yourself a clue.”

I pat myself down, and find a slim notebook in a secret pocket. Before I can open it, there’s another roar and a skeleton crashes through the kitchen shutters.

I’m alarmed. The ogre battle does not seem to be going well. Cy waves away my concerns. “It’s cool. Duke was dead before the fight started.”

“Don’t touch me.” says the skeleton.

“Duke doesn’t like to be touched. How’s it going Duke? Need a hand out there?”

“Don’t touch me.” says Duke.

“Fair enough. I’ll leave you to it.” says Cy.

Duke grabs a large oil lamp and jumps back out the window. Cy doesn’t seem concerned, so I return to my notebook. Most of the pages are torn out, but there is one entry.

If you are reading this you have lost your memory. Again. You dumb jerk.

I have no interest in writing our life story - it’ll come back to you. For now, this is what’s up:

We are looking for a god named Tiger. We want to tell him that he can stop the apocalypse. Apparently he doesn’t know. If the apocalypse is ongoing, we haven’t done this yet.

If our memory is really scrambled, we also believe the following:

Life is absurd. Loving relationships make it worth living. We may as well be our true self.

Love Copycat (that’s our name dummy)

Dang. I’m salty.

“How are we doing, apocalypse-wise?” I ask Cy.

“Not great.” A flaming ogre runs past the window. “It’s getting grim out there.”

“Right.” I pause. “Do you know where to find a god named Tiger?”

“Nope. Never heard of him.” Cy shrugs. “Probably in Godhome, two realms up. Or, fighting in Highgarden. Or, someplace else. I really have no idea.”

“Hmm.” I drink thoughtfully, and reread my sacred text. It’s not super helpful.

A gnome saunters into the kitchen. No beard, thick braid, big grin. He grabs a beer. “I hope everybody’s hungry! We’ve got enough fresh fungus to feed an ogre.”

“Is the ogre still out there?” asks Cy.

“Nah, he ran into the woods. I tried to calm him down, but instead he’s on fire.” Presto drinks, shrugs. “Partial win.”

“How is that a partial win?”

“Well, I hurt him enough that he’s not bothering us, but not so much that he teleported to rampage on the next realm. That’s being a good neighbor.”

“What about our actual neighbors, who live in the woods?” Cy asks.

“They’re wood gnomes.” Presto waves away his concern. “They’re used to adversity.”

“Should we at least send a message?”

“I find a flaming ogre is a pretty clear message.”

Cy rubs his face, looks at me for support.

I shrug. “He’s got a point. What more do they need to know?”

We hear screams in the distance.

“See! They got our message.” Presto claps, rubs his hands. “So! We have a new friend, a ton of mushrooms, and the neighbors will be here soon. Let’s have a party!”