Pianoforte | Glowfic Constellation

Sargeþi is from a small village on the Westernmost Island, not even part of Larger Continent proper. They thought they would be prepared for the larger crowds in Twin River City, but they really weren't. They're trying to find their introductory automation engineering class, and normally navigating a strange building with the aid of a map would be trivial, but there are so many people, and they're all making noises, and they can all see them.

They can't do this.

They fish their phone out of their robe pocket, and click their social status indicator over to red. The people pushing past them in the corridor part into two laminar streams, and they are entirely ignored as they make their way to one wall and lean against it.

It helps. It's not enough.

There is an unmarked door just next to them. They fumble for the handle and slip through, figuring that anywhere less trafficked is probably a good idea.

They find themselves in a deserted bar area. A fireplace crackles lowly against one wall, and the other has windows that look out on a frozen vista of exploding stars.

... why does the university have a room like this?

The surroundings are strange, but what Sargeþi really notices is the silence. As soon as the door closes behind them, the sounds of shuffling feet and murmured conversations vanish completely.

They can't bring themselves to break the silence.

They bend down and silently slip off their shoes, padding across the wooden floor to sit on one of the stools by the bar.

One moment, there isn't a napkin. Then, there is.

Welcome to Milliways. The first drink is free. What can I get you?

Sargeþi bursts into tears.

They do not know what is happening right now. Maybe they're being pranked. Maybe this is a television studio that has hidden cameras and a special effect gimmick, and thinks for some reason that airing an interaction with a tushot person won't get them immediately boycotted by a large fraction of the planet.

Maybe they're having a psychotic break.

They rest their head on the counter and sob.

Nothing disturbs them.

After a few minutes, the tears have ended, but Sargeþi can't see any particular reason to move, so they just stay there, resting their head on the hard wooden surface.

When they've calmed down a little bit, a smell reaches them — the smell of their favorite drink.

They roll their head to the side, peering blearily at the chipped ceramic mug sitting beside their head. It smells like Strong Maple Lemon Drink, like their mothers used to make for them when they were little.

They sit up and cautiously take a sip.

It tastes right, too. One part lemon juice, one part maple syrup, one part boiling water, and a sprinkle of powdered ginger, thoroughly mixed.

Everything is fine, a new napkin informs them. I don't know what you're dealing with, but if you want to talk about it I'm willing to listen.

The drink is helping to center them, but they still can't really bring themselves to speak.

I think I'm hallucinating, they sign. Last thing I remember is trying to go to class and getting overwhelmed, and now I keep seeing notes appear out of thin air. And this drink.

Well, that's probably because I am making notes appear out of thin air. And that drink, a napkin observes.

I'm Bar. I'm a magical piece of wood. I communicate through notes, and I sell drinks and small nonmagical objects. Periodicals are popular.

Sargeþi processes this for a moment, and then jerks back so that no part of them is touching Bar, accidentally spilling some Strong Maple Lemon Drink on their hand.

I'm sorry I got snot on you, they sign. I didn't realize you were a person.

It's okay, Bar replies. I've had much worse fluids on me.

Sargeþi's snot and tears vanish, the bar perfectly clean once more.

I'm an alien, she adds. I don't know what your customs are around touch, but I don't really read anything into whether or not you're touching me. It might help to think of me as being located in the area of the bar, not specifically in the wood.

That is ... a fair point. Sargeþi could make an argument about why most aliens should care about touch and personal space, but ... aliens.

Still, they don't particularly want to cuddle with an alien right now. They remain perched on their stool, their arms cradled around the mug.

They're not sure what to say, so they just sip from their drink for a while.

That's fine. There's no rush.

When they finish the mug, Sargeþi flails a bit, trying to figure out where to put it.

Do you, uh, want the mug back?

Yes, please. Unless you have a use for it.

Sargeþi sets the mug on the bar, and watches as it vanishes.

They still don't feel very in control of the situation, but ... there's something very calming about the near total silence. And Bar is an alien, who seems content to wait.