My First Friend
Even through the paper, I could faintly feel the ticking gears with my fingertips as I slipped the card into my wallet. While doing so, I spotted the business card I'd received earlier. It was stark white with nothing but text: the job title of transporter, the name Dobell, and just the drivable regions and contact info. A bare-bones card packed with pure function.
I tucked Lambda Lilion's card in beside it and pulled out my pad. Of course, I didn't forget the manual sitting next to it. But the manual quickly lost its purpose and went back into my bag. The internal user interface wasn't all that different from the pad I'd used as a bookstand at home—no need to study it closely.
And finally, internet access. I'd worried it might not connect inside a moving train, but that turned out to be needless. The pad guided me straight into this world's online realm.
For starters, no typing anything. I tamped down my itchy fingers itching to search everything and just tapped around. They'd said at the station to wait at least a day. Best to honor that promise faithfully.
Heart pounding, I dove into the section labeled "Web."
Hmm. No "World Wide Web" here? Guess it's just "Web," not internet or WWW. Aside from that minor naming quirk, what appeared was the familiar sight of text and images crammed everywhere—no real difference.
So no need to get acclimated; I jumped right into search engines, hunting for cafes or blogs where specific folks gathered, checking which engines were popular to gauge the majors. Crowded spots tell the raw truth. Best way to see how things flow here.
Hmm. Swiping the screen around, the density seemed lower than expected, users scattered. Then again, considering this country's history, maybe obvious? Used to be multiple nations until a massive monster outbreak wiped them out, leaving just one survivor group. About 80 years ago—that's this nation's origin.
Can't all unite as one, right? I flicked my fingers across the pad, scanning posts. Some boards were free-for-alls dumping random text; others required sign-ups. Tech-wise, no dedicated video sites—images and vids were just embedded in regular posts. Some places even favored voice recordings over text. Natural speech-to-text extraction, of course...
"What're you looking at so intently?"
A thin voice piped up. Seemed aimed at me, so I looked up—and my view filled with deep green. Focus sharpened, and I met pale green eyes. The surrounding dark green was apparently unkempt hair. The clothes peeking below were mottled and ragged in spots, looking grimy. Not casually dressed like me—must've had a rough journey here.
"The locals around here."
She sat down, so probably a fellow passenger. I'd been so absorbed in the pad, I hadn't noticed.
"I'm Abelian Anion. Heading to Pristine Comprehensive University Affiliated School for enrollment. You too, right?"
I did the usual meet-and-greet. Greetings matter. Glancing around, seated folks wore similar outfits—likely uniforms—but a few kids like me or older ones sported mismatched clothes. Could just be streetwear, but given the school, they'd probably flaunt it. Those late-teens types? Probably direct admits to the actual university—way harder entry. Scary crowd.
Anyway.
"Yeah."
The green blob replied. I'd introduced myself, so now for her name. Silence stretched.
No intro forthcoming. Only I spilled mine—smart move, kid. Oh well. I dug out the snack box from last time, popped the lid, revealing the still-plentiful Eritros candies. I handed it over.
"Poor thing. Here's a sweet sugar lump."
She hesitated, then picked one with only two petals—must've split. Her hands were wrapped in bandages hiding calluses and scars. What the hell happened?
"This is valuable, right?"
"Nah, it's scraps from the rejects they were gonna toss anyway. Don't sweat it."
Our village was remote, but we had enough to buy what we needed. No clue why they stamped the one-day bloom pattern instead of the calyx, though.
I watched her eat, then stowed the box. Too much at once is bad for you—better follow that. If it'd been "don't pig out on snacks" vibes, I'd have ignored it, but "it's medicine, overdose risks" was legit.
"Pity?"
My seatmate asked after finishing.
I silently pulled out the pad, switched to front camera like a mirror, and angled it for her.
"Fluffball right here."
Her eyes narrowed. But no kid-like freakout—calm one. I reclaimed the pad. No more attention for nameless folks; back to the web.
I found a popular southern search engine and queried Rubella.
Ugh. Village pops up, but mostly news on poor yields disrupting high-grade Eritros supply. Real backwater, huh. Dug into the linked boards—same as any: folks venting daily gripes. Post-incident mood? Job-wanting posts jumped out. Otherwise, market schedules, monster sightings—routine stuff. Switched to saved sites, searched Pristine Comprehensive University.
Full homepage. Inside, announcements crammed the screen. All university-related—no affiliated school mentions. Sub-site? Rifling like in my past life, hit the school-specific page quick.
Liked the UI: not stiff, game-like sleek but not bland. Some matched the paper info from Salt Hub exam. And there—student board.
Active? Jackpot. Dove in.
Ugh. Sparse posts. Two or three weekly, all squeaky-clean "we're doing this wholesome thing" or "experiment contest held"—model behavior. Kids don't post that pretty. Real board's elsewhere.
Searched including affiliated school. No dice externally, even on homepage. Actually, couldn't access student boards. Found backtalk posts confirming intranet-only. Gotta enroll first.
Nothing doable now. Closed the pad. Wanted more, but head spinning...
Leaned back—chair swallowed me. Window caught my eye naturally. Outside: vast plains, highway paralleling tracks. Minus highway lights, all shadows. Sunset gone; faint glow lit the last horizon.
Arrival at midnight, then. Bored, scanned the car. Less chaos than departure. Younger kids slumped asleep or pad-glued like me. Quiet now, spotlighted older folks—most pad-staring. Some grim-faced, sighing. Frayed uniform hems screamed long-time students. Adults seeing off kids fiddled bored; teens tapped happily. Cutest: young couple beaming, surroundings desaturated like bad Photoshop.
Locked eyes with the lime-green gaze.
"Fluffball."
Held onto my jab, huh.
"Cowardly protest. What do you want? Let's negotiate."
Recalled protesting sis—offer terms quick. Refuse, and weird shit ensues. Learned that.
But nameless seatmate eyed me like I was the oddity. Frowned.
"Why 'negotiate' out of nowhere?"
Eyes squinted, but no hostility. More "failed to parse nonsense" than dislike.
"Wasn't 'fluffball' your roundabout complaint?"
She stared, drumming armrest, then spoke.
"You're a really weird person."
Shocking, but no rebuttal. Reincarnators are baseline weirdos. Defeat admitted—I looked away.
"You saw my actions, recalled someone else's—wrong example. Like me."
She faced me squarely.
"So, guess right this time. Hi, I'm Phaenax Conrad. What's your name?"
The lime-green eyes tinged faintly yellow—steady. Thought her timid before. Nope.