“Oh. Yeah.”

Why must his dream actions have dream consequences. It’s okay, Z, he’s not a real person and neither are you probably. 

“A little harrowed maybe.”

“Yeah, he fucking would be, I’m pretty sure he took way too much. I’ve never even seen the guy take his pants off before.”

He’s not a real guy!! Probably!!! Wow this sucks. 

“So he’s not really. Having the time of his life. Or anything. Broadly speaking.”

“He’s either really hung over or still up. So, yeah.”

“…Maybe he’ll chill out a little now.”

“…or get worse.”

“…but like in general. You would say that his life fulfillment level is, uh. Low.”

In contrast to, say, Mal. Who apparently was a real guy. 

“—oh, yeah. Pretty sure he’s miserable. Wouldn’t be such an asshole otherwise.”

That’s good, right? Probably the cute alien isn’t giving people nightmares. Hopefully. Fingers crossed. 

“Well. Uh. That sucks. — And you are … not miserable. Broadly speaking.”

“…yea…h? My life’s pretty solid? Why?”

“…just feeling existential. I guess. Weird cup hangover.”

He’s soooooo normal. 

He pats him on the back.

“I warned you, man.”

“You sure did.”

Presumably. It would have been more helpful if he had any memory of it. 

“…so what now?” 

“You take it easy for a day. Because they almost chopped your leg off.”

“My leg is fine. I want to do stuff.”

And meet people and figure out who needs killing and how it definitely isn’t either Z or Anatole. 

“Sure. If you come entertain me I’ll wash your fucked-up pants so you can fix them.”

He’s in a weird viking orgy alien dream and the order of the day is laundry. Fuck his life. 

“You’re the best.” Real Z is the best and this is a pretty solid knockoff. 

“You know it.”

He grabs the fucked-up pants in question with one hand, and slings Camillo over his shoulder again.

“I can walk!!!”

“Nope! This is just how you get places now!”

He walks off with his shoulder companion.

This is so embarrassing. 

“I take it all back. You’re horrible. You’re the worst.”

He laughs, and walks on.

He drops him on a rock by the side of a stream, plunges in fully unnecessarily with Camillo’s pants and comes out shivering and laughing, warms himself back up beating and scrubbing the fabric until it’s clean.

He jokes with him the whole time, talks about nothing. He seems alive, vital, healthy, content.

Oh god he’s going to have to murder his best friend. 

Camillo does his best to act normal and feel out as much information about their situation as he can. He needs to know who’s central to this place — what his expected role is — when he might catch people alone and vulnerable — where he can find a weapon.

Dorothy is, fairly obviously, the village’s most celebrated warrior. There are some elders who make decisions that Z glosses over. Anatole appears to be some kind of cross between a diplomat, an adopted child and a perpetual political hostage. Names of warriors he doesn’t recognize come up.

He was apparently, until he was forcibly removed, some kind of monk or academic in a less raiding-based economy. He was doing assorted labor around town, and then translation work and minding children, and now he’s a part of the war band.

Warriors aren’t really alone often here, as he might have gathered. They sleep in groups, eat in groups, live practically on top of each other. Families have their own homes, and Anatole has somehow arranged for a little house to himself, alongside the chief’s.

In the place he’s living, finding a weapon won’t be hard. And, apparently, he has his own sword, somewhere in the mead hall.

His own sword……