“Dude, Todd. Whatever you did, it’s like messing with my brain man.”

Randall’s voice is amused, with a hint of queasy. But he hasn’t crossed the red line, and that puts a response low as hell on Todd’s priority list. See, there are fifty alien strangers a stone’s throw in front of Todd, and that means his field of view belongs to them utterly.

He hadn’t forgotten them, not exactly. That’s the sinister thing about the illusion, it had worked by blocking the connection between perception and memory. It had stolen the context. The Ishiate have long faces, with narrow but squared chins. Todd remembers that, remembers their sharp ears too. The creatures react with a practiced efficiency, one of them barks out a word and they pull into a tight defensive cluster. Hands reach for [Greed Satchels] but none withdraw with weapons yet.

Then two of the deer people butt elbows near the middle of the group, and after a visceral reaction, pull apart from one another. The group clumsily splits into two uneven units, while keeping focus on Todd. It could be the first half of that is important, but right now the last half is still intimidating.

The pixie rises into the air, fuming and fuming, a coronal miasma former and a waylaid plot latter. “The humans!” She cries, her voice pitching upwards in a theatric outrage. “They have come here…” she trails off, then recovers. “To spy on you! Yes!”

Todd takes a step backward.

“They have come, knowing you are weak and vulnerable! Knowing that you have lost precious lives to the monsters!” The floating, glowing woman curls her fingers into a fist and the faces of the aliens harden.

“Whoa, whoa. No I don’t. No we don’t,” Todd waves both hands in a warding negatory.

The Ishiate reshuffle, as a few of the larger, fitter specimens shoulder forward ahead of their peers. Two of them are wearing armor, the lobster red of boiled, treated redburr crab chitin. The interlocking plates bend at their knees and shoulders, and asymmetrically protect one side of their body and their core vitals. The one on the right is taller, lankier, the one on the left is broader, shorter. They will henceforth be known as Beanpole and Dumptruck.

A bulky peripheral blur steps into the corner of Todd’s vision, but he doesn’t risk turning. “RIGHT. There are aliens. Right. Oh my God, I remember that,” Randall exclaims.

The lead warriors split apart, slowly starting to circle around either side, and Todd takes another step back. He holds an arm out, catching Randall in the chest and he takes a step back too. “I’m not here to mess with anyone. Doves and olive branches, guys. I don’t mean anybody harm.” He flits a glance angrily over at Defour. “None of the... you know, ambulatory ones anyway.”

Sinking lower, the pixie’s flat bridged nose wrinkles, her teeth bare, and electro-axial brambles of her body writhe. Meanwhile on either side, Dumptruck and Beanpole whisper bleating, glottal instructions to their peers in their strange language.

Stepping backwards, Todd reaches up to the boundary line of the array, and his heel tingles nauseously like an exposed nerve. “They don’t understand me, do they? How do they understand you?”

The pixie is distracted for a brief moment by something far in the distance behind Todd, and whatever she’d seen dampens her anger. She clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Magic. You don’t think I’m speaking English, do you?”

Todd considers it. He sort of did think that. He shrugs.

”I’m not going to learn your language. Please,” Defour scoffs, “who has time.” She chops her hand forward, pointing a finger spitefully at Todd’s heart. “Kill them!”

“Kill us?” Randall squeaks.

Heart thumping, Todd slowly begins to lower his raised hands. He becomes painfully aware of the inches between his fingers and the [Mercury Rod] stored in his bag. But Dumptruck doesn’t attack. Instead his eyes dart over to the pixie and back to Todd. Whatever thought he’s entertaining weighs heavily on his brows.

The creature speaks clearly and loudly, and the others turn to it. "☁︎☹. ☮︎⚔⚖?"

Whispers ripple through the 50.

“What?” Defour incredulously shrieks. “Obviously, fight!”

Instead of addressing her, the broad-shouldered warrior raises three fingers and tilts them. He smirks.

"✗⚔. ⚠. ☘☤, 🔍💊₦?" Another one of the aliens from the back suggests.

“You’re out of line, and that’s ridiculous,” scoffs the pixie. “Human,” she addresses Todd. “You’re clearly in danger. Draw your weapon and defend yourself!”

“Uh…” Todd raises his open palms again and squints suspiciously at her.

Dumptruck responds in kind. He displays his open palms and straightens up out of his stance. "🐒🔈♔?"

Todd winces. “I don’t know what you’re saying, man. I don’t understand.”

The armored warrior steps forward carefully, and the faction standing behind him moves restlessly to keep pace. An anxious, hushed flurry of questions bounce between members of the group, then one smaller, shorter creature steps forward boldly.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Randall confides. The small creature makes a sweeping gesture with either arm and then slaps himself on the chest. It puts one leg forward and bends its knees slightly. Randall gulps. “I think objectively I know Pipsqueak wants to fight us,” he observes. “But some part of my brain wants to think he’s asking for a dance off.”

Todd scowls in reprisal, but Randall doesn’t have an atom of giggle on his face. He’s not making a joke. He’s realizing that a lifetime of modern instincts and intuition are frightfully ill suited for danger... or for conflict.

What’s Pipsqueak’s relation to Dumptruck? Is it younger, is it female? Or is this species the other way around, dimorphic with a smaller male? Losing a fraction of control of dignity and self-respect, Todd’s gaze flicks a few inches below some collarbones and he finds reason to suspect the Ishiate are not so different from humans in this one regard. He cusses himself silently.

New guess: Pipsqueak is just young and dumb, and that’s nothing Todd can really blame him for. Todd steps forward. “Easy buddy. We’re cool. Are you cool?”

Maybe they don’t understand his words, but his entreaty seems to reassure Dumptruck. Grabbing Pipsqueak by the scruff of his neck, the big one continues to talk down his followers.

“Are we fighting?” Randall asks.

“No I think we’re okay –”

But where the left cluster seems pacified by Dumptruck’s trust, crew right-flank shakes with fury. Just like a boiling pot spills over, the lanky grey furred, knight in seafood armor skips forward in a fighter’s advance and strikes Todd in the shoulder with his palm.

“Dude!” Todd protests, stumbling backwards.

Beanpole hoots furiously, pointing and flipping his finger dismissively across the courtyard. "🐒🔄🏠!" He spits on the ground, he spits towards Dumptruck for good measure, and he tears his [Mercury Rod] out of his bag.

“Shit,” Todd chokes. Struggling with the leather flap of his [Greed Satchel], he flops it open and jams his arm inside. Where is it?

The silver weapon writhes in the hands of his assailant. It stretches, then twists like a serpent. Team Beanpole follows their leader, spreading out to surround Todd and Randall; but not without opposition. Gang Dumptruck objects strenuously, and a dozen voices rise to heated argument.

Randall steps in closer to Todd and his voice apprehensively rattles. “What should I do?” He asks, “should I blast him?”

“Yes!” Defour gleefully chirps.

“No!” Todd hisses. “Are you insane? You could kill someone.” His hand digs around his wooden chest plate, a wheat lump ration, one of his shoes…

The tip of Beanpole’s [Mercury Rod] flares into a wedge, widening into a chopping blade. The S shaped curve positions the cutting edge forward, and the weapon begins to realize its shape as a wicked kind of axe or pick.

Todd looks down at his bag, then back to the hatchet. “Damn,” he murmurs. “That really takes forever, doesn’t it.” Then he grabs the strap of his satchel, whips it overhead up and around his body in a loop and then slams it into the side of Beanpole’s head.

Fur-bag staggers, taken by surprise more than anything. Shouts erupt all around them and Todd retreats a few steps before realizing he’s going the wrong direction. Recovering in a heartbeat, the Ishiate rises to his full height and Todd does not like it. The alien’s fur stands on end, its sharp teeth bare, and the balding tips of its ears flush bright red. Gripping its weapon, it punches at the air; and as it does so the flared blade grows to the size of a proper, menacing hatchet. Even worse, a translucent, faceted energy crystalizes at the edge of the blade, extending its length and width by two inches of both arc and cut. Todd sees the phantom edge refract light, and confidently decides he’d be happier never seeing it in action.

“We gotta go go go,” Todd warns, patting Randall on the chest to redirect him back towards the red line of the array boundary. To their left and right, team jerk is spreading out to surround them, and even though their peers are shouting for them to (presumably) stop; one by one they begin to withdraw their own weapons.

Todd’s having none of it. The cosmic energy stokes in his chest. Twelve primary channels, reaching out to his limbs, to his lungs, his brainstem, light up as their circuits draw current from his center. The shake in his limbs calms, his sight grows clearer, and the skill fractal in his hand pulls against his open channel. The magic reacts with a thirst, a need he can almost taste instead of feel.

He jams his hand forward, opening himself up to the mechanisms of the [Water Spear] as Beanpole closes the distance, raising his axe over his head. For a millisecond, Todd sees the line, the line drawn from his extended hand to the vulnerable body of his attacker, and it’s enough to know this is a line he could never come back from.

So Todd swings his arm down at an angle instead. The azure glow of false water precipitates into his hand, forms a wobbling unstable volume, and then punches out in a shrieking line. The [Water Spear] strikes the floor tile with pummeling force, but the tile is an immovable object while liquid is no unstoppable force.

A high speed spray of needling, cold droplets rebounds off the floor and it goes everywhere. It pelts Beanpole in the face, in his open mouth and eyes. It soaks his friends, it spritzes the ones further away, it even spatters back onto Todd’s leggings.

Fully disinterested in waiting to see if his distraction was effective, Todd turns and runs. As he does, Randall lowers his own drawn weapon and joins him. Ignoring the shouts of the Ishiate behind them, they cross the red line. Feeling the energy of the Array crossing through his body, Todd is aware of the mind numbing effect it’s having on him. But overcoming the illusion once seems to have diminished its effect. From a safe distance Todd watches the Ishiate through the blurry sensation, sees them halt in confusion as the array strips him from their awareness. The blue fluid lingering from the [Water Spear] evaporates off of clothing and fur, as the energy lets go of the lie that made it water. Todd and Randall stop to catch their breath.

“What are they, man,” Randall mutters.

Todd looks at his friend. “I dunno, Greek elf flute goat people,” he replies.

“Satyrs? Like a satyr?” Randall asks, becoming a little incredulous. “How do you not know what a satyr is?”

“Satyr, right. Randall, I gotcha, I forgot. But you gotta know that no normal people know what a satyr is.”

Randall huffs. “We need to tell everybody.”

Todd looks back at the Ishiate. While most of them have turned away, he sees a single older creature looking straight back at him. They lock eyes, and Todd gives it a slow deliberate nod.

“Yea, maybe.” Todd gives his friend a weak smile. “Let’s think about it.”

As the two young men cross back towards their people, Todd listens with equal parts curiosity and concern as the topic of their alien neighbors falls out of conversation, then out of context, then out of mind.

“What do you think we’re gonna do today?” Randall asks conversationally.

It takes a moment for Todd to answer. “Satyr. Alien. Freaky deer people.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Todd raises his hand to greet Joe and Candra.

But before he can reach them, a wiry short haired woman with a droopy chin intercepts him. A few inches shorter and a few years older, Anninka “Soup Nina” Golubeva steps into Todd’s path and looks far out behind him.

“Uh hi, can I help you?”

Nina crosses her arms across her belly, then raises up one thumb to rub her lower lip. “You talk to the Leshy?”

Todd squints.

She points her chin over his shoulder. “The monster people.”

“You can see them? Yea, I mean I tried.” Todd experiences that sudden unpleasant sensation of being aware of what he’s doing with his hands in conversation. There’s simply no natural place to put them, is there? “It… went okay.” He grimaces.

Nina leans insistently closer. “Should we be worried about them?” She asks.

There’s only one right answer to that question. Todd tips his head to point her the other way. The three human-ish pixie administrators swoop down in a triple colored ribbon. Splitting up, they engage nearby mortals: answering questions, deflecting questions. Plotting. “I’d say I’m more worried about them.”

“Ah,” Anninka replies gravely. “I think you may be right.”