And then…
What a…! He had fallen asleep! Apparently, that was a family trait he shared with Grandpa.
SeaAsia ground her teeth at the thought that she might have missed something incredibly important — something she would now never be able to reclaim. And at the same time, she was filled with warmth as she glanced at the mysterious stranger frozen in sleep (for now, he still was a stranger to her).
So imagine her surprise when she heard a quiet question:
— Tell me, where would you like to go first?
A thousand options rushed through her mind. And once again, that voice sounded in her head — not the usual inner one, but the other, the one that came from the outside:
"To avoid copying The Marabou Stork and wandering through a fairy-tale world, you'll take a walk through ours. With a few modifications and additions. Enjoy."
— I don't know yet. We'll decide on the spot.
Was all the not-so-great guide could come up with. And to change the subject, she decided to start a bit of small talk:
— Tell me, Denzel… what nationality are you?
"Wow. That was maximally strange, my friend."
SeaAsia even twitched at this new caustic remark and began considering whether she should later see a doctor to check for developing schizophrenia.
However, her cringe didn't bother the guy at all, and he replied:
— That topic only worries the participants of Grandpa's political shows. I don't care about conventions. I'm not even interested in whether people are people. I just want them to give emotion. So… do you like my hairstyle?
SeaAsia flinched and looked at the guy in confusion. It turned out he was joking — again bending the corners of his refined mouth.
— And here we are!
She announced their arrival in the big city, surprising herself with the fact that they were already there, even though they had only just merged onto the autobahn.
"I don't like drawn-out, boring road movies and all that tedious nonsense. Girl, give us some action. And Denzel will help you with that. Besides, all those endless car dialogues have long been reserved by ancient Mesozoic Dean and Sam."
SeaAsia waved off the text sounding in her head and decided to pay less attention to it going forward.
Because otherwise, you really could go crazy.
Along the streets of Little Apple ("let it be such a dumb reworking. I'm still here, baby. Lol") flowed an endless stream of NPCs, none of whom deserved even the slightest attention. Because this city was created for two — not for these masses of people no one cared about.
"The point is the top-tier location! And here it is! Or… damn it, did I mess something up?!"
Denzel slammed the door shut and stared intently at the place he had been brought to.
— It looks… tempting. You chose a saloon as our first stop? Intriguing.
Straightening the folds of her vest so as not to reveal her embarrassment, SeaAsia approached the saloon doors first — doors that were, technically, meant to be kicked open.
But that seemed unethical to her. Different times, after all. Besides, one of the swinging doors was already in a pitiful state, wobbling on a couple of nails.
Denzel studied the sign above the establishment for a long moment. It read: "Chief Bromden." Without saying a word, he followed his companion inside.
The little bells hanging above the entrance produced a sound reminiscent of a seasoned alcoholic's cough, and the two of them found themselves in a place ruled by wood.
No, not quite.
By a Tree.
It was everywhere, and every tiny detail was made of it.
Even the bar counter itself — the very backbone of any such establishment's symbolism — had no unnecessary elements. Spilled beer was present. A few clean bullet holes were there as well.
But metal or plastic? No. Absolutely not.
Carved right into the middle of the counter were the words: "Your Mom." Leaning against it from the outside was a lively-looking girl in a fully upgraded cowboy loadout: the classic hat, boots, and the whole look — either ordered from marketplaces or taken off a defeated enemy.
— Hello, hello!
Her melodic, thin voice clashed amusingly with her lethal appearance.
— I'm YourMom, the owner of the finest saloon in this entire multiverse! You're here for our signature photo session, right?
The warped, shaky floorboards under Denzel's feet had just stopped creaking when he replied:
— Possibly for that as well. If, in old photography, the dead were captured and their souls came alive in the images — could you make it so that our essences remain forever in this joyful moment?
A blush spread over SeaAsia from head to toe, and she couldn't quite tell what caused it more — shame, embarrassment, or the fact that she genuinely liked the words of this eccentric man.
YourMom, however, didn't flinch in the slightest and cheerfully rattled off in full advertising mode:
— I can't promise free souls — those are priced separately — but a photo set with you posing on the bar counter? Absolutely. Complimentary cocktails included!
She pressed a small remote, and a Bluetooth speaker in the corner came to life, filling the saloon with surprisingly appropriate Tuvan throat singing for such a romantic moment.
To this accompaniment, the visitors climbed onto the counter, and the clucking owner asked them to wait a moment while she adjusted the interior.
The deer head (artificial. Relax, animal-rights activists, and grab a complimentary cocktail) she turned so it would also face the future shot.
She also ran glue over the posters depicting grotesque wanted criminals with the word "Wanted" above them
(Billy the Kid's eyelashes came out the best),
then lingered briefly near a hook where a punching bag had clearly once hung. The bag itself was gone, of course, and it was already too late to call delivery.
Denzel and SeaAsia remained silent, watching the intricate preparation process, listening to the music and…
…a sudden voice coming from her left arm.
— Ow!
The girl flinched, and Denzel caught her with his strong hand, keeping her from falling. For a moment, she froze in his embrace…
"Too early. I'm rushing this kind of content."
It was the voice in SeaAsia's head — but it spoke not only inside her, but somehow… outside as well.
The voice came from a tattoo.
Yes. That very tattoo depicting her beloved older brother, who was currently touring the world with his theater troupe. The tattoo artist had done a masterful job, spreading Pixie Luchador across the entire surface of her arm — detailed, vivid, and startlingly realistic.
Just smaller.
Right now, he was rubbing his earlobes and speaking loudly:
— It's time for me to break in before things get too stale. Art doesn't tolerate sagging. It craves novelty, and its humble servant bows to its patron. How are you doing here, sis? All good?