Chapter 16.3: The Wheel of Change (3)

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***

It was somewhere along the halfway point when Craft spotted a rock sticking out of the road. It was a pretty big rock, enough that it might pop off a wheel. He thought Dane would swerve out of the way…but the rock approached.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey!” — Craft shouted, yet the rock came closer — “Break right! Right!”

“I-I see it!” Dane swerved left…at the same time that Craft had told him to swerve right. The two impulses collided, and after swerving left, he swerved right — “Heck!” — and a split second later, he realized his mistake and swerved left again.

Everyone was yelling and triple corrections turned into quadruple corrections turned into pentuple corrections; the madness of it all occurred at a breakneck speed of 3 kph, and they were covering more distance swerving left and right than just going straight ahead.

Fortune favors the clumsy. Despite the chaos, Craft had projected their sine wave path in his mind, and he was confident that they would manage to avoid the rock. Even if he and Dane kept screaming, it would all turn out fine.

Alas, just a second away from the safe line, the rock wobbled. Just like a magnetic mine, huh?

He thought he’d heard a woman’s foul mouth in the distance, but he couldn’t spare any time to process it.

The rock skidded across the ground and lodged itself in the wheel. Crumble, splinter, crack, SNAP! — the mannequins all tripped at the same time. He felt the carriage itself slam against his back, sending him sailing through the air.

Time went slow, and he watched an upside-down picture of the mannequins below them scattering and the carriage above them sailing through the air. Oh, Dane was right beside him, too, swimming through the air with a pliable face.

Craft rolled across the ground, getting to his feet and skidding to a stop. The carriage flew right over his head, hitting a buil-tree and exploding right behind him.

Huh? It exploded? It’s a carriage! How do they explode! He wanted to turn around and confirm the bullshittery that just happened, but somehow, he couldn’t.

He was partially paralyzed, only able to look left and right, but not behind.

Dane was lying down beside him. He looked down at the guy. “Hey, what was in there?”

“Darn it, that was expensive.” Dane grumbled as he pushed himself up. He sat up facing the carriage, but some inexplicable force twisted him around to face the other way instead. “You’re already standing, huh? So you’re a combat type after all?”

Craft shifted away. “Hey, you know you just got rotated, right?”

“Ah, sorry, that’s a Potion of Cool.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dang it, it must’ve broke when we hit the rock.” He sighed. “We can’t look at the explosion for another 30 seconds.”

It clicked for Craft. Oh, one of these? He used to deal with artifacts; anything went for them, from spatial distortions to madness-inducing hallucinations, altogether called ‘abnormal effects.’ … That said, 30 seconds was an awfully long time to look cool after an explosion.

“That’s long enough for a conversation,” he replied. “Whoever made that thing ought to take it down a notch. Maybe 10 seconds.”

Dane stood up and patted himself down. “Well, if you don’t like it, you can walk away from it — and I gotta, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be retrieving my merch before someone decides it has good resale value.”

“Alright,” Craft said. He watched the man walk away in slow-motion and with his hands stuck in his pockets. He seemed oddly impatient, though. He probably wasn’t allowed to go any faster.

Now to take care of this other problem. He sighed and looked to his left. Beside him, a woman who looked to be a shrine maiden winced at the situation she found herself in. She had a white top and a red skirt, black hair, and twin Japanese blades hanging from her left hip. Tucked under her arm was something the size of a basketball, wrapped in cloth.

“And you? Got anything to say?” he said.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m in a pinch here just like you.”

He couldn’t be convinced. She was the same height as the imposter and stood with one leg slightly shorter.

“Figures you’d sabotage the carriage but got caught up in the effect field. That’s an attack you just did, right?” His muscles tensed. “I’m allowed to fight back, aren’t I?”

The woman had broken her own rules. The moment the abnormal effect went away, he would spring into action and nip the problem right in the bud. … People didn’t really die here, though, so the best he could do was severely inconvenience the problem…in the bud.

“Hey — whoa, wait, swear, I didn’t mean it.”

So it really was her — but he didn’t expect to hear that. Was she stalling for time? But she seemed genuinely taken aback.

“Explain.”

She didn’t reply.

“See you at the respawn point” —

“I dropped my rock along the way, okay!” She stomped while saying it. How desperate was she for him to believe her?

“That’s the most amazing excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“No, look!” She unfurled part of the cloth, revealing the rough face of, indeed, a rock.

O-okay. The way she’d spoken was just like some spoiled girl. … And for a rock? There’s no way this was the same lady in the temple.

“I doubled back and saw the carriage swerving out of the way so I cast a spell to pull it back” — inhale — “but why did the driver swerve right into it, huh? And you! The two of — fighting!” — she groaned. “Look, I didn’t even know you were there! I’ll even reimburse the driver!” She put her hand to her forehead and shook. “What a crap day…”

He had this odd feeling that she was actually a decent and normal person in front of everyone else. I didn’t even do anything to you. Why are you like this towards me?

She sighed. “Agent Bowen, if I had wanted to sabotage you, I simply wouldn’t have done anything. You’ll just do that on your own anyway.”

“You’re really dissing me, huh?”

“Oh, please do prove me wrong. After all, the first thing you did was suspect me of ambushing a civilian transport vehicle.” She spat on the ground. “What am I, a terrorist?”

“Kinda.”

She spat again. “Aren’t you more of a terrorist than me? I would gamble both my thumbs that you’ve only been depressing and disappointing the people around you.” She glanced away for a moment. “We’ll leave it at that. The status effect is gone. See you again soon.”

She dissolved into mist just like that time, leaving him with a hurt in his chest. Depressing and disappointing others, huh? Yeah, that’s right. He couldn’t disprove her. He couldn’t even help himself.

He knew he was building up walls between himself and everyone by sheer force of habit, and now she’d dragged a bag over his head, choking him whenever he breathed. Every mote of progress seemed tiny before the fact that he hadn’t made anyone happy.

Was there really no way for him to change?

Despair was an emotion he had shaken hands with a long time ago. It agreed that he was allowed to keep moving forward, all the while he agreed to allow it to make him feel like shit the whole way. Such an agreement had gotten him out of tough places before — and he’d bank on it again now.

***

It turned out that the carriage was mostly fine and the explosion was just a visual effect. After some help from the neighbors to flip the thing right-side-up, a man in green robes smirked and approached from down the road.

Craft waited for him with Dane on the side of the road. “Speak of the devil” — Dane rubbed his forehead — “here he comes.”

- The Arrogant Young Master, Freewheeler of the North, approaches! -

The man walked with a permanent smirk and one eye closed, his hands clasped together and hidden under his robes’ sleeves. His hair was silken black, as if staring into a galaxy of the heavens themselves, flowing with an invisible wind in permanent bullet-time — after all, the winds howl among the highest peaks, of which he is one.

He stopped before them and took one look at the carriage. “Fuh, you dare break one of my precious wheels?”

Craft leaned in. “Are we going to be okay?”

“He’s the real deal.” Dane rubbed his forehead.

“The catch?”

“He darn well always does something you never asked for!” Dane threw his arms up in surrender. “Just take one look at ’im!” —

When they looked, the man was gone.

“Junior! What is this undersized bearing? It is two háo smaller than it should be! Are you courting death?! No, you almost certainly died! You have kissed death in the lips! Take responsibility! Death cannot get married anymore!”

The man’s voice pulled their attention towards the carriage. He was crouching down, examining the stump where there used to be a wheel. A targeting reticule was holographically projected out of his now-opened eye, various kinds of terminal readouts scrolling past his face at an inhuman rate.

“Hey, you’re the one who put it there!” Dane complained.

The man squinted at him, then back at the axle. His face twisted in rage, and he pointed back at Dane with a trembling finger. “Fool! You have neglected to replace the oil, and it has become like snakeskin dried in the sun! Just as mountain stones can be used to grind jade, 1055 carbon steel can be used to grind 304 stainless — and now you are two háo undersized! Kill yourself with a block of tofu! I hope you respawn face-first into an iron plate!” —

Never before had Craft witnessed such relentless verbal assault. Out of concern, he looked at Dane. The guy had been shaking his head the entire time. “Just let ’im run outta steam,” he said with a surrendered nod.

He eventually did run out of steam…but not without a parting shot. “Fuh, are you underestimating me, the Carriage Fixer Upper?”

“Don’chya put it like that,” Dane sighed.

The young master stood up and cast his hand over the ground. “Destroy my wheels as much as you want.” Thin roots grew upwards, forming a scaffold in the shape of a wheel. “But you can never destroy my ability to make more.”

Those last words struck Craft in a deep place. He had dreaded the idea of only being able to grow out of hardship. He’d suffered enough, yet did he have to suffer more to get out of this hole he’d found himself in? Wasn’t that unreasonable? Yet, if he didn’t suffer at all, then he wouldn’t be able to move forward, adn all that had already come to pass would, in the end, come to nothing.

This should have been the end of a life. This should have been the final version of him…but the young master’s words had illuminated a third answer.

“Now, give me your money, cripple yourself, kowtow three times, and scram!”

To be clear, it wasn’t that.

***

The rest of the journey was spent tilted — physically, as the young master had attached a wheel one size larger than the rest. Being larger, however, the ride felt a little less bumpier and more relaxing, enough for Craft to sign off on his indecision.

In his mind, there had been ‘hardship’ and ‘growth.’ One could not occur without the other; if he wanted to grow, he had to go through a tough time; if he successfully grew, then he’d be faced with a whole slew of new challenges, perpetuating the cycle.

He hated that cycle. If he were only dealing with himself, then there would have been an end point — his ideal self — and it’d be easier to stomach, but the world tossed problems at him with ridiculous frequency. Each time it did, he’d have to adapt, tossing away previous adaptations without any space for mercy.

Repeat ad infinitum. It was like some sort of Sisyphus X Ship of Theseus crossover.

“Android Sisyphus is infected by a logic virus yet must still push a boulder up a hill every day. If the virus completes its takeover, Android Sisyphus will never be allowed to imagine himself happy. If he comes in for maintenance and has one of his parts replaced, it will remove the virus from there, though it will eventually spread in from other parts. Consequently, if all of his parts are replaced at once, the virus will be completely destroyed. Should Android Sisyphus: 1) do nothing and fall into despair; 2) eternally fight the virus, replacing his parts save for one to ensure the continuation of some part of his identity; or 3) risk the complete destruction of his self just to imagine himself happy?”

Cruel, wasn’t it? But it was his reality, and he couldn’t postpone making the choice any longer.

At least, that was what he used to think.

What if Android Sisyphus could be assured that there would always be a part of him that would persist? What if there was no risk — even after rebuilding his entire mind and body, changing his name, and being reborn — that he would lose himself? That even after all of that, he could still look himself in a mirror and say “that’s me”?

As the young master had said: the world could take everything, but never his ability to remake it all and more.

In this case, the thing being remade was Craft himself.

Every notion of identity had to go. His parts were memories, beliefs, and long-held dear wishes; if he continued to fanatically hold onto them, no amount of hardship would become his pride, and no amount of growth would fill a cup that was already full.

One day, even his memories of Rafflesia might ask to be seen out the door. Should that moment ever come, and should his resistance come to nothing, he just had to accept it with all the grace he could muster no matter how much he dreaded it.

Let it all come at him, because today, he was alive. Today, he could breathe and see the trees and wave hello to the kids flying their kites. Tomorrow, he had someone to apologize to, and when all was said and done, and he’d burned away everything he used to be, he didn’t need to fear what he saw in a mirror; he would still and ever be the same will to change.

The carriage came to a stop. We’re already here, huh. He looked up, and they were in front of a buil-tree much larger than all the others around it. There was a broken, headless statue between them and the entrance.

Rather than ‘broken,’ maybe he should he think of that neck-stump as a convenient attachment point instead.