It was only some time after they became comrades in the brigade that Rick realized that Dill Steel-Link was in fact that Dill West. Twenty years ago, in a small theater in the Imperial Capital, they had performed together onstage, and Dill’s performance had been burned into his memory. Out of all of the players onstage, only Dill had belonged in another league. A silent song seemed to accompany his every gesture. He drew every gaze toward him. Rick, a roving musician at the time, had felt overwhelmed.
Today, Dill no longer had the fresh brilliance he had possessed back then. Those unconscious gestures that could only be ascribed to talent had been lost to him in his maturity.
However, the man whose wellspring of natural ability had dried up had dedicated many years to compensate, applying theory and rigorous training, and he had finally once again filled up that empty vessel. The manner that had come naturally to him in his youth was now enacted intentionally, once again gaining him the favor of the gods of the arts.
Dill Steel-Link had leaped down from the stage, holding a real sword, and now fought against real-life heroes.
“Blusterer, my chum. Hey. You saw that, right? Right?! Do you get it now?” said Rick the mail-cloak, headed toward death and glowing with a feeling of hope that seemed out of place for a man in his final moments. The bard’s voice was raised in jubilation. “Our heroes are immortal. They don’t require a script. In the distant future, the very thing Dill’s doing right now will go down in history as a script for future plays. To pass that story down, I must... But damn it all, don’t tell me I won’t be able to see that through... Seriously...that can’t be right...!”
“Rick, try to stay still...” The Reincarnator Blusterer tried to hold Rick down. The bard brushed his hands away.
“Either way, I’m gonna die! Sooner or later, we humans all do! If we distinguish ourselves in our short lives, we may be called heroes and live on for eternity as our names are passed down! So why are we just scattered on the ground here like potatoes?! Get a clue already—use my body!”
Blusterer didn’t speak; he only shook his head. Rick drew closer to him. Pointing at Dill, who fought all by himself against the hero Prodotis, legend of Redguard, he said, “Look. Steel-Link is waiting for you. I can’t imagine that even he will be able to stand victorious over a hero—not by himself. By now you must at least have learned that the heroes of the distant past are made of different stuff than the people of today. That’s why Steel-Link rallied us to action, waiting for the support of his comrades, and to buy time, he drew the attention of Prodotis all by himself. We have to go and help him!”
“But...I can’t do it. I can’t just take a friend’s body...”
“We ain’t friends.” Rick smiled. It was a tender smile. “You’re too simple. You’re foolish, you talk too much, and you give answers to questions no one asked, making it way too easy to gather information... You might as well. Everything you’ve told me, I’ve passed on to Halberd and Steel-Link.”
“You’re kidding...” Blusterer looked like he was about to cry.
“I’m serious. The information I was most grateful for was the truth about the Liquid Computers, the factions within Panopticon, and the geographical data you gave me when I asked for the names of sightseeing spots in the Tower Capital... I also enjoyed hearing about popular music, the instruments of your world, your favorite shops...and that totally lame, hilarious story about the time you were dumped by your first girlfriend... As well as...as well as...” The two men laughed heartily. At the same time, Blusterer wept.
“...All right, then.”
“I’m counting on you. To help Steel-Link. He’s my pal too...although I really didn’t measure up to him.”
✦ ✦ ✦
The man who stood back up twirled his crossbow flawlessly. It was different from performing the same flourish with a pistol. This weapon was heavier and bulkier by far. Although spinning a mechanical crossbow was merely a useless trick, it did take some finesse. Blusterer had never executed this maneuver before in his life, but his body remembered it. The crossbow he held in his hand fitted it well, as if it were an extension of his body.
Two men had fallen. One got to his feet. Blusterer started walking. The chain mail cloak hanging from his shoulders rang fearsomely. The Liquid Computer he had injected was starting to repair his body.
“Rick! Can you still fight? Have your wounds from earlier...” Evading the hero’s arrows that pursued him, the mail-cloak Whitehead came running over, but halted in the middle of asking his question. “Who are you?”
“I’m that asshole archer’s enemy... Could you make an opening for me? I’ll be the one to take revenge for Rick.”
Anger and hatred, sadness and grief, passed through Whitehead’s eyes with dizzying speed, then disappeared. The old veteran took in the circumstances.
“All right. But take off that cloak.” Whitehead advanced on Diros, the archer-saint. The hero noticed the man’s approach immediately and nocked another homing arrow of flames. Blusterer removed his chain mail cloak and concentrated; his body followed his command and readied the crossbow. Without thinking, he loaded it and took aim. Muscle memory compensated for his own lack of experience. All that was left was to pull the trigger.